I saw this C.S. Lewis quote on someone's Facebook page recently, and it just sank into the depths of my soul like water on a parched ground. Someone had spoken the words my heart did not have yet have the language for that boiled this entire last year down to one sentence.
“We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”
This feels like the anthem of not only this past year but these past eleven years. I have seen, heard and tasted the goodness of God. I have declared it in the darkest of nights and shouted it while basking in the gratitude of bountiful gifts. I know in my core how good God is and how good He is to me even though I am sorely, sorely undeserving. With my last breath, whenever that may be, I will still declare that He is good, faithful and still God. However, the pain, the cost, the sacrifice I continue to face now is still hard and unnervingly scary. I was looking back and reading past posts, my Ebenezers, and man, page after page was filled with His faithfulness... Thus far He has been 100% perfectly faithful. Yet, my frail humanity still sits here with something akin to PTSD. I'm still afraid of the pain of expectations even though I know that what God has for me is the absolute best. This year, especially, my heart has been put through the wringer. It has had to shut down in places just to survive. It is exhausted from pain and heartache. It is just now starting to peek its head out seeing if there is safety out there for both the physical and the emotional sides of me. Still, I know without pain I cannot experience true joy and love, and without heartache I would not know the blessing of hope either. So, as I sit on this anniversary, I think about all of the healing that my body has overcome and contemplate all of the healing that remains to be seen. I still have effects like random bouts of nausea, teeth disintegration, and a thyroid that laughs as it clings to every ounce I carry. I still cannot tolerate even the smell of creamed corn, and the scars that cover my palest of skin reminds me of every poke and every med. That BMT day is a day of pure infamy. A day that required the severest of pains in order that I might live. The cost was high, the sacrifice high, and the pain severely high. This was the route that God allowed for my healing to occur. This was my miracle in medicinal form dependent on the smarts of other beautiful human beings. This route allowed for my best to come through. It brought the refining fire to my faith and relationship with God. It brought me a new appreciation for food and the beautiful intimacy that a shared meal can bring. It brought me to a new place of strength knowing that what I had survived would enable me to face ANYTHING else this world could throw at me. It brought me into new depths of compassion, I didn't know existed. Even now, it is reminding me that ALL healing is a LONG process. Some parts heal quicker than others and that is ok. Some parts may never fully heal and the scar that remains is ok and just more proof that I did, in fact, survive. I am finding I need to keep giving myself more grace. Grace to heal and grace to be at peace with the snail's pace. I remember in the first few months after my BMT and the smallest of tasks would completely exhaust me. I could no longer just tell my body to do whatever I wanted it to, and I was forced to rest. I just didn't have the strength and stamina like before. I remember crying because in the middle of shopping I had to stop as the nausea and dizziness came out of nowhere and literally almost took me out. It was clear I was not the same vibrant 25 year old. My body had aged exponentially, and it was just a fact and side effect of my treatment. Now, eleven years later, my triggers are different, a picture, a gift or a ridiculous bill. They spring up and stab my soul, and all the memories of the rejection, the hurt, the waiting and all of the loss overwhelm me like a tidal wave. No longer can I just stuff it away, and no longer do I want to take that route. Still, I have to take the time to deal with it. I have to process it, and I can't just shake my head and tell myself to get over it like I used to do. In this too, I know my stamina will come and the triggers will shrink eventually. I just have to keep going, keep showing up for myself and my healing. Even as I still need the my anti-emetic Zofran, I may still need other tools or people to show up and help me conquer another trigger that will most definitely come my way. That will be ok too. My worth as a woman and a human being is not negated by my need for help and community. My life's race is set for me and me only. A flower that blooms late is still just as beautiful as the blooms that opened before. Therefore, another year into another decade has come and I am still a warrior, continuing to fight for the woman that was saved from physical death because she has a purpose to fulfill. Eleven years down and the warrior in me is now fighting for her soul that was crushed and left for dead because it also has a new purpose to live out.
Happy 11 years post BMT to me! Eleven years strong and counting.
