Marriage lessons from a chronic illness diagnosis

My husband does all of the cooking, because he loves it so much more than me. And he feeds the cat, because the cat is his. Everything else in our life is a joint effort, which started because he used to be a corporate pilot. Sometimes he’d be called away with only hours notice and could be gone for several days at a time. Our zoo of a home – dogs, fish, a cat – couldn’t come to a screeching halt every time it was left in my care.

Even though being a corporate pilot is no longer his full-time job, our sharing of duties hasn’t changed. We’ve only been married for four years, but we’ve gotten used to sharing everything. So when I was diagnosed with ITP, things got a little weird.

You can’t share a diagnosis. As much as he’d probably like to share the physical burden, that’s all on me, too. What I feel about it is definitely not what he feels. So we’ve been talking about how we’ve learned to be partners to fight for healing when it feels like the fight is singularly mine.

You’re allowed to have differing opinions. This is perhaps the most important lesson we’ve learned in the 18 months since my diagnosis. I don’t mean you can differ in opinion from your care team – although that is also possible and totally acceptable. I’m saying you don’t have put on the front that you’re telepathic, answer every question exactly the same, and have a near identical vision for the future. Just yesterday someone asked what we want, and we both answered completely differently. Marriage didn’t and won’t make us the same person. But it did help us acknowledge and make space for the other person’s needs and wants. If he wants to go fishing and I’m not feeling super great, sometimes I pack up and go anyway. If I need an evening on the couch with a movie, he makes space in the schedule for me to get some rest. We don’t even have the same exact opinion on how to proceed with my treatment, but that’s okay. A difference of opinion isn’t going to change the amount of support in our relationship.

SIDE NOTE – Some people would instead call part of this lesson “making sacrifices,” which I completely detest. It implies that there is a winning and losing side, and a sacrifice may help you win or gain an advantage. As a patient, it’s really difficult to look at my health or my marriage as a win/lose situation. I’d be setting myself up for a huge disappointment to think of the outcome as strictly win or lose. It is what it is. There is nothing inherently good or evil about my illness. And his decision to set aside his schedule to care for me doesn’t mean he has lost.

It’s important to set aside plenty of “space.” This goes back to the spoon theory and making sure you and your spouse have enough time to recharge and recuperate. Caregivers need rest, too. While I’ve noticed that physical space dedicated to rest is really helpful, we’ve both recognized how valuable it is to have free weeknights. It gives us the flexibility to take care of things as we are able without feeling pressured by outside commitments. Home is a sacred space for us, and we are cautious about opening our doors and our time to others out of respect to each other and the rest we need.

Planning for the worst-case scenario eliminates worst-case scenarios. Someone actually said to me, “Oh, honey, you can’t think like that. You have to be positive!” Maybe she was some kind of yogi and believed positive thoughts have magical healing powers. We aren’t encouraging anyone to be pessimistic about chronic illness outcomes, just to be clear. As an example, last year, I had multiple infusions that each cost thousands of dollars. Once we realized just how strenuous this could be on our finances, possibly for the rest of my life, we immediately took measures to ensure we were prepared to handle the worst case financial and health-related situation. Chronic illness is hard enough. Planning ahead eases some of the stress should things take a turn for the worse.

Talk about it all, not for the purpose of dumping on your spouse but for the purpose of complete care. This goes both ways. We talk about my health, his health, what we’re feeling, what we’re learning, what we desire, what we know. We commit to helping the other be the best person in the middle of all this hard stuff. We hold each other accountable to shine the light of Jesus even when we feel like crap and would rather not deal with people. We help each other fulfill the commitments and promises we make to the other people who need us. We try to live as openly as possible to each other, which I’ll readily admit I’m always needing to improve.

Finally, sometimes we just have really bad days. I cry. We argue. I feel the full range of emotions: fear, loneliness, anger, self-pity, sadness, frustration. We talk it out, and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we just move on. When I asked him if he worries about what’s coming next, he said, “I can’t, because I just look at each day as it comes. I can’t control any of that, so I don’t worry about it.”

Rachel_Jordan063Photo credit: Miranda Fuchs Photography

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Making space for the unexpected

For the first time in days, I’ve had time (or made time) to sit down and write. Somehow I’ve become preoccupied with things that can’t be saved for later. Finishing grad school one year ago should have lifted that burden of busyness for me, but I just exchanged one kind of busy for another.

One evening before the rain last week, I took a walk through our garden, the same garden that seems to fail year after year. We have too many trees. The shade is cool and pleasant, and the plants grow green and blossom. But they never get enough direct light to bear any fruit. That’s where I live, and, ironically, that’s also my life. There’s not enough light, and all the things I want to grow and bear fruit – all the things I’m passionate about – it all looks great, but when harvest comes each year, all I’ve got is tiny green tomatoes.

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A few weeks ago, I stopped my current treatment. After 15 months of steroid treatment and no lasting positive results, I decided enough was enough. With my doctor’s blessing, I stopped. And I am paying for it. My body is trying to figure out how to be “normal” again. The unrelenting fatigue has returned, and I haven’t had a pain-free day for four weeks. I’m preparing to start an elimination diet in hopes it will relieve some of my symptoms, but I’m simply empty. I barely have enough go to clean my bathroom. And now I have to food prep so I don’t stray from the list of foods I temporarily can’t eat?

That same evening last week when I walked through the garden, I found one oversized melon with perfect striping all around hidden in the watermelon vines. It probably weighed seven or eight pounds already. Somehow it was thriving, even in the shade, even though we’ve never grown watermelon before, even though it’s been a cool summer.

I realized that you have to make space in your life for things to grow, even if you don’t expect them to, even if all the good things seem held back. The truth is this: unexpected things happen all the time. But if you act upon your doubt and till the garden under early, you can prevent the miracle.

It’s hard to imagine what things might look like if the unexpected happened, but I’m certainly going to try to make room and hold a space for it, you know, just in case it appears.

 

P.S. Happy ITP awareness month!

Managing post-diagnosis grief

Since 2012, my health has been in a downward spiral. And really, if I start at the absolute beginning, it was in 2009, when I had mono. When I talk to my medical team, I always refer to this as the beginning, because I haven’t felt 100% since then.

One November night in 2012, in my first apartment after college graduation, I woke up with horrible pain and pressure in my abdomen. I was shaking – or shivering – and I spent the night on the bathroom floor next to the baseboard heater trying to keep warm and wishing I could throw up and feel better. My job at the time was pretty unforgiving with only a few sick days for the year and no one to fill in for me if I was absent. I went to work and suffered through the next couple of days until the weekend.

I slept all the time, which I attributed to a busy and stressful job. I thought if I exercised more, I’d have more energy. That’s what they say, right? I started and finished the P90X program but developed a hernia in the process, and it still didn’t solve my fatigue problem. Lunch breaks were designated for naps in my car in the parking lot. My fairly active routine deteriorated into survival mode.

And then there was anxiety. Lots of it, building up and piling on until I had moments when leaving the house for anything but work could send me into tears. I hated eating out – I still kind of do – because I never know when my stomach pain and digestive issues will appear in a fury. I didn’t want to fly with my husband, a pilot, because I knew I’d be trapped in an airborne tin can and it would be many minutes before I could get relief if I needed it. I still feel that way. I am convinced anxiety is the one of the toughest enemies.

I saw my nurse practitioner shortly after we got married because I thought I was depressed. I told her about my sleeping, my apathy, my inability to feel anything except irritation and anxiety. She asked if it was interfering with my ability to function normally. In that moment, I dismissed it all, because I was still going to work, still eating, still sleeping. I wasn’t sick. I had months where I felt better than others, so it had to be my fault when I felt sicker. And she didn’t know how to help me. She ordered a blood draw that day, but they lost either my blood or my results, and no one ever admitted to me that they needed to test again. I may have had an ITP diagnosis in 2013. I could have been in treatment that much sooner.

Last year, when finally I was diagnosed, I felt so much relief. Fear, yes, but more relief. Because I didn’t have to pretend I was feeling okay anymore. I didn’t have to listen to people dismiss my symptoms. It wasn’t all made up in my head. I didn’t have to “just suck it up and deal with it.”

Often the initial reaction [to a diagnosis] is one of relief; you may feel grateful to know the cause of previously unexplained symptoms. This is especially true with an autoimmune diagnosis, since the disease may have been progressing for years with confusing periods of illness and remission that are often dismissed by family, friends, and even physicians. A diagnosis can offer you much-needed validation. It is not uncommon for your relief to quickly fade, though…

From The Autoimmune Wellness Handbook by Mickey Trescott, NTP and Angie Alt, NTC, CHC

Relief lasted a long time – four or five months, maybe. But then there was grief. In the past year I’ve been in all five stages of it, not necessarily in linear order.

I have felt guilty for grieving after my diagnosis. I mean, I was grieving, in some form, a loss of my own life. This is not to discount other forms of grief and loss. It’s just to acknowledge what a diagnosis can do to a person. Deconstruction starts. You realize you can no longer live life the same way again. Priorities change. Life seems a little shorter, more urgent, more uncertain. When everyone else has a myriad of choices, you may only have a few. The current takes you where it’s going, and you grieve over loss of choice, loss of relationships, loss of a time when health didn’t dictate your days.

Grief isn’t like a round of antibiotics. You don’t cycle through it once and problem solved. Grief is like an autoimmune disease. Good days come unexpectedly. You enjoy them and try not to focus on the loss. Bad days immobilize. No one knows a cure. Remission. Relapse. Remission. Relapse. Your body doesn’t care when – whether it’s Christmas or you’re on vacation or you have an important meeting.

I have no control. No medicine to make it better. I just let the current take me, live with purpose, and wait for a better day.

And I want to note – no one knows if there is a connection between anxiety and digestive symptoms and my one autoimmune diagnosis. From my research, it looks like many autoimmune patients eventually receive diagnoses of multiple autoimmune diseases. Maybe we’re headed in that direction. I’m not sure. The trouble is our healthcare system isn’t really that great at tackling autoimmune disease and chronic illness. It likes the patients it can treat and kick out. But I’ll talk about that in a future post.

It’s hard to be a childless Christian

I know, I know. I hear you already. It’s hard to be childless no matter who you are. It’s hard to be a Christian. It’s hard to want things your peers don’t want. It’s hard to be single, to be married, to be different. Life is hard, period.

Our four year wedding anniversary is coming up, and we’ve been reflecting on how our relationship has changed in the six years we’ve known each other. Our decision not to have children – yep, we decided that before my diagnosis, and it was a good thing we did – has been questioned, praised, shamed. We knew it was the right thing for us to do. We didn’t know why, but some circumstances have led us to follow instincts the Holy Spirit has anchored in our hearts even though we can’t clearly see why.

Fear of disappointment
As a kid, I was driven to excel by the desire to avoid disappointment, and to fulfill the expectations of my peers and family. I enjoyed school and most of the tasks to which I set my mind. But disappointment chased me down, and being the one left behind – that was my deepest fear.

So here, at 28, finally embedded in both a career and church I love, I can safely name everyone’s primary expectation for me. According to the way of all things, I have checked off all the other things I should do first, and now, pushing 30, we should probably hurry up and have some kids.

I feel a little bit naked writing this, letting all these strangers into our lives and our marriage. Please share a little grace with me as you read the rest.

Fighting the narrative
At first, I felt angry. The Christian narrative about being “fruitful” made me feel sinful and selfish, and more than anything, I didn’t want to disappoint people. The conflicting forces resulted in someone who felt really quite hostile about the topic. (If you were the recipient of this hostility, I apologize. I wish I understood then what I do now.) I felt helpless to fight back when people were quoting a “commandment” to “be fruitful” from Genesis. I didn’t have a Bible verse. I just had an instinct, a feeling.

Then I remembered a time when some “wiser” person quoted scripture to prove me wrong. As a teenager, I gave all the money I raised to another kid in youth group who couldn’t afford to go to camp, and I stayed home. The youth pastor asked me why God would lead me to stay home from such a wonderful experience, and I told him I felt this was the Holy Spirit’s direction. He interrogated me, as if I’d have some irrefutable scripture to quote, but I had nothing. All I knew was someone needed money, and I had it, so I gave it away. I acted on nothing but an urging from the Spirit.

The “ah-ha” moment
When I was diagnosed with ITP (chronically low platelets), we had this ah-ha moment when everything made sense. Our desire to wait for children, or maybe never have children, possibly saved my life. (In case you were wondering, low platelet counts are pretty dangerous for pregnant women. You can read more about my ITP story here.) The diagnosis, as scary as it is, brought me relief I can’t explain. It freed me from these scripture-mongers trying to run my life with their literal interpretations. And it freed me to start fighting against the narrative that childless Christians by choice are sinful and selfish.

I read this terrific article by Raymond Van Leeuwen in Christianity Today, written from the perspective of a parent with adult children, who explains this “be fruitful” phrase is not a commandment but a blessing. Children are a gift from God, and choosing not to have children can also be a blessing. God does not call us all to the same end.

Different, but okay
Here’s the gist of our experience: we feel our decision not to have children has been God-ordained, but we also understand that with this blessing comes other work God has asked us to do. This blessing has allowed us the privilege to follow God’s call to places and commitments that would be difficult with children.

None of this is to discount the blessing and extraordinary call to parenthood. I admire my peers who parent so gracefully, who have such lovely children. At times, I feel left behind when I look at them and realize how different our lives would look had we chosen that route. Either way, God would have seen us through. We just look different from most of our peers, and that’s okay.

A conversation about my health

I knew we needed to discuss the 2017 plan for my health again after some disheartening lab results. But I was really dreading it. Why? Because treatment is expensive, and it could undermine our financial plans for this year.

I’ve noticed some unrest on social media about pending healthcare changes in the U.S. I want to say only this: the conversation changes when you are diagnosed with a chronic illness. Not just the political conversation but family conversation. Money conversation. Employment conversation.

When you’re sick, you live in a world where hardly anyone understands you and your condition, not everyone wants to hire you, and no one wants to insure you. So when you’re an atypical patient like me, it makes the conversation even more difficult. My condition isn’t emergent, so we find ourselves asking, where are the boundaries of treatment? What do I really need? What can we afford to do? And how often?

When your healthcare isn’t superb – mine is probably mediocre at best – you stop talking about getting better and start talking about what’s absolutely necessary. I can’t imagine not having a job with decent benefits. My husband and I are probably two of the hardest people to insure: a pilot and someone with a dangerous blood disorder.

I have become numb to the healthcare conversation, but it used to feel emotionally charged. Sometimes I can muster up energy for it, but truth be told, I need that energy for my health, for conversations with my medical team, for conversations about paying our bills. That’s why we need people on the other side of the fence – people who are well and who care about us – to stand up for us. We’re already fighting a fight, some of us for our lives. Among all of the other things you care about fervently, please consider us, too. When you make decisions about our politicians, when you help choose a healthcare plan for your company, when you join the healthcare conversation, think of us.

We had the conversation, although reluctantly. To be perfectly and painfully honest, my health is already altering our lives without considering how expensive it is. I don’t want to be afraid to talk about treatment options because of their cost. Bills shouldn’t be scarier than treatments.

And listen – before you tell me about all the “helpful” options out there – I know about payment plans and support groups and double checking hospital bills. But none of that alone will change the conversation. We have to change the healthcare conversation about chronic illness. We have to advocate.

“Words kill, words give life;
they’re either poison or fruit—you choose.” Proverbs 18:21 (MSG)

 

 

A year on prednisone: what the cyberbullies don’t know

I’ve been trying for a week to reconcile an online stranger’s argument that physical symptoms have spiritual causes. And not just any physical symptoms – he’s saying that anger and irritability from steroid treatments are only spiritual issues, completely unrelated to the drugs.

His view is understandable. It would be easier, in my opinion, to resolve a spiritual issue than to fix a problem with the body. You don’t need a Ph.D. to transform your mind. But living like that – believing the physical struggles of others are all caused by the “evil” inside them – that outlook has no room for grace. Or science.

I’m a week away from being on prednisone for a year, and I know you simply cannot speak about the side effects of this drug until you’ve taken it. And I don’t mean you took it for a few days when you had a poison ivy rash. I mean months of this, sometimes years. There’s a reason people call it Satan’s candy. You can read about the side effects online, but those lists don’t adequately capture the experience.

Imagine you’re already a self-conscious person, a perfectionist, a worrier. So let’s give you a drug that not only makes you feel anxious about everything, but now you don’t even look like yourself. Your face is twice its size and you feel like a balloon about to pop all day every day.

I can only equate it to the fat kid eating chocolate cake in the movie Matilda. Imagine being that kid all day every day. Always hungry, always eating, feeling like you’re about to bust the button off of your pants, sweating constantly. When you lie down to try and get some relief, your heart starts racing. Somehow you’re both exhausted and tingling with nervous energy. And that nauseous-anxious feeling you get before you’re about to speak to a crowd of people? You have that all the time.

Imagine what that does to your mind. That’s just a small peek into the side effects I experience on prednisone. It doesn’t even address the more concerning ones, such as feeling like I don’t have a conscience. (Don’t worry – that was only on the higher dose.)

So, dear stranger on the internet, please stop trying to be a theologian. Instead, be someone’s friend. Be understanding. Be gracious. People are not as evil as you think.

A brief health update, since it has been a few weeks since I’ve given one of those:

After a failed attempt to wean off the prednisone in January, things stalled. My platelet counts fell from their very optimistic numbers and haven’t come back up. At this point, they really need to go one way or another. I’m praying my body will decide soon. I had another appointment with my hematologist, and we discussed some other possibilities for treatment, none of which can be explored until at least July for a number of reasons. The next month is going to be very busy for us. I’ve blocked off every bit of free time I can get for myself so I can try to stay healthy. You do what you have to do.

A Closing of Eyes

When I got out of the shower a few minutes ago, Ernie, my cattle dog, was lying on the rug outside the tub. I can’t be sure, but he seems to feel the sudden emptiness that has come to our house. It’s different from a dog being adopted—that has happened many times before. He must have known those last few weeks what was inevitably coming.

Somewhere in the final weeks, it seems like we closed our eyes to the sacredness of life – of a beating heart or a new shoot on my spider plant. Even the bamboo grew frustrated and developed a brown leaf, and I felt nothing.

I had lost the urgency of my job as a foster parent, forgotten my duty to protect and fight for this long-time four-legged resident of our home. In between the 2 AM vomiting and the labor-intensive trips outside to potty, the sacredness had dissolved into a schedule of hospice care, which I hadn’t yet acknowledged.

Knowing what I know now, it’s hard to reconcile how we spent Duey’s last weeks. His suffering was more than I could see or understand. That’s the hardest part – knowing the little life he had at the end seemed to swallow him up, that his brightest moments came in sliced deli turkey and bits of chicken sausage.

When I assess Duey’s short time with us, I’m almost equally torn between seeing a spoiled, well-loved beagle and one who had to suffer a foster mother who couldn’t see the full extent of his struggle. Maybe I couldn’t have changed anything. Maybe even if he could’ve told me how he felt, I still would have been powerless to change it.

When humans suffer, most of the time, we tell each other. Sickness stands in the way of our lives, and we seek care. After Duey came to us, he broke a tooth. It’s hard to say if that was the beginning of his spiral downward or if that little incident gave him a few extra months with us. He endured an extensive dental, ultrasounds, a splenectomy, bloodwork, and x-rays. After all that we shipped him off to endure without us, he still beagle-smiled every time he came home to us. His love didn’t waver in the poking and prodding.

I cannot say the same for myself in my year of health challenges.

When I said goodbye to Duey, I stood next to the table and kissed his head, took in the scent of his soft, old beagle fur. I wanted to pray, but all I could think to say was, “Thank you.” So, I did. I thanked God for the gift of Duey, for the easing of his suffering, for the moment. A tear fell on his head, and he pulled away from me. Then he put his head down, closed his eyes, and it was time.

I’ve been struggling to say anything about Duey’s passing this last week. While many have shared in our grief, plenty still seem to find it trivial. More clearly than ever before, I’ve seen how important and different pain is for everyone. That is how it should be. From afar, we look up and acknowledge pain that is different but equally as important as our own.

Please don’t be afraid of fostering in any capacity because of our experience. Duey, hospice dog or not, still needed a place to go. Instead of sitting alone in an empty house the rest of his days or being scooped up by animal control, he slept on the bed of his choosing, ate marshmallows and leftover bacon, and shared sympathies with my grandparents over his bad hips.

As conflicted and tender as my heart is, Duey’s life was six months of as much happiness as we could give him.

Duey, you are so sorely missed.

Duke (AKA “Duey” or “Bo Duke”)
September 17, 2006 – February 18, 2017

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