Three-Week Hiatus

Hi y'all. I have been in denial about ever having had Lyme the last few weeks. I stopped IV antibiotics and had my PICC line pulled three weeks ago, and I have taken a mental vacation from the sick life. It's been awesome. 

Now the reality of illness is peeking out from behind the trees of hope I planted. It burns holes in facets of life that I hoped it would never touch again. I feel so DONE with chronic illness, yet it remains. The recovery is slow. 

And actually, I don't know if recovery ever took root. I like to hope so. But as symptoms emerge (like exhausting twitching spells and migraines), I wonder. Is it healing, illness, or good ol' detoxing?

That's one of the most frustrating parts of all: I don't know where I am on this mountainous journey. Am I peaking? On a decline? Or am I bobbing up and down a few degrees day to day? What is the next step? Should I take really tough steps uphill, with muscles shaking and sweat dripping to the earth, while I begin to grow in hope and strength? Should I allow myself to be swallowed in a new avalanche while I wait upon The Lord for direction on if I should dig out? Or should I set up a nice campsite and wait while until the storm passes to keep hiking? WHAT?

The hardest part of any trial is not knowing how long it will last. If I could see a graph of my trials to know when the worst part of that huge emotional contraction is cresting, that would make panting through it a whole lot easier. 

And so, three weeks of wondering has not given me much headway in the self-motivational department. 

I had a great holiday weekend out of town with our family. I was practically my old self, but with dietary restrictions. It was miraculous. It was like slipping back so easily into a pair of jeans you haven't worn since before pregnancy; it's like they've always fit, but you KNOW you've undergone such dramatic changes. Heck, you sustained a PERSON who was ready for the outside world. And that person is proof that you changed; and that person changes the world by being born. Yet, the jeans fit. It's like noting ever happened for just a split second. You could never forget your child permanently, but you flashback to the unaffected you. 

But since we got home, I've spent 90% of my time lying down, in pajamas, wondering how this weekend even happened. The jeans are in the wash, and I don't have energy to launder them. 

In short, I hoped to blog during this three-week hiatus about a grand, positive change. I can't. It would be nice to report that I have perfected the art of patience. Not in this lifetime. 

But I'll tell you this. I'm still here, and this journey, wherever I am in it, somehow matters.