A Year In Review

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 Before you read this post, please make sure you read this introduction first.
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*** triggers mentioned: surgery, miscarriages, murder, abduction, sudden death ***

Last year on this day, I was recovering from surgery. I had stitches from a laparoscopy in my stomach in multiple places and some of them were black, itchy, and oozing blood. I had my period and everything that came with it. I was wearing a corseted, bone white satin gown. My pain medicine had been lost and no one could find it. My ankles were hot and swollen and stuffed into compression socks that barely held up under the pressure of the edema. My neck was swollen and my thyroid throbbed like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to it. I was weeping and wincing in pain with every movement. Emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed. My entire body shuddered for hours from the physical and emotional manifestations of that pain, but everyone thought I was just nervous. My mind was a complete fog. And I had a fever and a rash creeping around my mid-section that itched like Satan had taken up residence in the layers of my epidermis.

It was also my wedding day.

I could lie and pretend that I sit here as a happy person today....wistfully looking back at the joy of such a wonderful day. I could tell you that a smile comes to my face when I look back at the me of last year who didn't know about all of the wonderful things ahead. And this being the internet, you'd just sit there and read it and pass right by it like every other Catholic retelling of the joyous life of newlyweds.

But that isn't my story. And telling tall tales about it isn't going to change how I remember that day, or the 365 that came after it. And it isn't going to get me or my spouse to Heaven. I might as well be honest so that anyone who can even marginally relate to this knows that they aren't alone. And maybe also so that I can find a bit of peace in finally admitting it all out loud.

I was diagnosed with endometriosis a couple weeks before my wedding. It was a leap of faith to say yes to surgery a few weeks before I would hop a plane to Ireland to get married. If things didn't go well... well, there wasn't even time for a back-up plan. Things either were or weren't going to be OK.

At the time, I barely knew the Catholic surgeon who operated on me, only having met her once before the date of my surgery. I vividly remember the moments leading up to the anesthetic that morning though...where she gave me a rosary that Pope Francis had blessed and held it tightly in between our hands as she prayed over me for peace and healing. I remember waking up and hearing about the endo that was excised from my uterine ligaments and ovary.

I remember my stomach being ripped to pieces by the antibiotics in the days afterwards. And the extreme reactions to my first doses of T3, one of which involved passing out for hours on the floor - only to awake to irritated voicemail messages from the priest who would be marrying us because he couldn't get in touch with me over last minute paperwork before I traveled overseas.

I remember feeling defeated at having to manage so much luggage en route to the airport when I could barely manage walking without using both hands pressed against my stomach to 'keep my guts in place'. I remember the airport staff that took pity on me, the extra luggage fees that were waived, the help that was offered to get me over the Atlantic.

I remember the cantor who tried to charge us an additional 350 Euro the day before the wedding, figuring that we'd pay it like a ransom. And I remember all of the people who selflessly offered help in making things go off without a hitch.

I remember my extremely (read: more extremely than you're taking that to mean) introverted fiance struggling with the social interactions, the demands of last-minute wedding details, and not having any idea how to comfort me as I threw up in a tupperware container while wincing in pain with each heave as I felt my stitches being pulled to their limits against the skin they had been sewed into.

I remember having to drink three glasses of champagne just to manage the stairs walking into my own reception and how often my glass had to be filled after that so I could manage the rest of the evening without feeling like I would pass out.

I remember being nauseated and passing out on our honeymoon and feeling like something was really wrong. And I remember that day at work after the honeymoon when I was stuck in the bathroom - marooned in a stall - bleeding out and miscarrying a child I didn't even know I was carrying.

I remember the ultrasounds after that where I focused on the knowledge that I had more experience with those 10 days of invasive procedures than I did with the sacrament that had made me a wife and a mother.

I remember the weeping so hard that I burst blood vessels in my face. And feeling dead inside. And I remember the next months where that hCG mimicked the feelings of 1st trimester illness I had felt on my honeymoon and how hopeless and lost and utterly shattered each reliving of that and each CD1 made me feel.

I remember the hope of lots of two-week-waits and the confusion when no pregnancy came. And news that we now had a problem. I remember all of the severe side effects of the fertility drugs that I took, the anxiety and panic attacks that they caused, the appetite that disappeared, and the weight that was gained. I remember the changing of medicine doses and the disappointments that came with each one of them, the hormone profiles that made me feel like a death trap, and how all the small victories seemed stale. I remember asking my wedding photographer if there was even one picture with a smile in it and expecting to hear a quick 'no'.

I remember the murder of Paul, the murder of Nathan, the sudden death of my godmother from aggressive ovarian cancer that changed my own treatment plan, our 2nd miscarriage that persisted over my own birthday, and the disappearance of Zulma.

I remember being fired after the 2nd miscarriage because I had taken three days of bereavement leave and the lesbian interim HR director that considered it an inappropriate use of leave time because 'it was not an immediate family member'. I remember having to prove that I hadn't been involved in any misconduct when the unemployment office called to question my dismissal. And I remember the envelope that contained the letter that read 'dismissed after miscarriage, no evidence of misconduct apparent'.

And I remember staring at this once-blank-blog-post - wondering how I could write anything today and yet knowing I had to anyway. Last year we celebrated the Feast of St. Thomas More on June 22nd and I chose to pray a special prayer. This year on June 22nd, we also celebrate the Feast of Corpus Christi, so I think it's interesting that I'm in the middle of praying to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. This year I renew my prayers for intercession from the patron saint of adoption and foster care, and I add my prayers to Christ and Mary. The celebration of the mystery of the Eucharistic miracle is something we acknowledge and receive each time the bread and wine are consecrated at a Mass. We ought to spend some time in prayerful contemplation of what that means and I'm taking that seriously this year.

Jesus did not die on the cross so that I might live a fairytale wedding day and frolick through the fields of the first 365 days of marriage. He was not born into poverty while whispers of the scandal against His Mother were on everyone's lips so that I could live a comfortable life devoid of pain. He did not pay the price for us with his own suffering and death so that I could sit here and write a glib post about the top ten things I love about the first year of my marriage.

Jesus promised that He would be here to suffer with me if I sought Him out. He promised He would comfort me when I felt alone. And that my reward in Heaven would be contingent on the faith I breathed on Earth. He asked me to be faithful because He died, not in spite of it.

So yes, I sit here today with 365 days behind me, broken and numb hearted, with another rash and fever, again with my period and angry uterus screaming to bring down the last bit of resolve I can muster, and certainly with several more grey hairs to count on my head, listening to all the cliches about how newlywed life is filled with unbridled passion and wanton abandon and how these are the best days of my life. Being told to be thankful for this past year and all of the good it must have involved. All of that may very well be the truth I can't see right now.

But you won't find me complaining in my misery. God calls me to live out my faith and I'm trying my best to do it. No matter how ugly it looks from the outside. No matter how ugly it feels on the inside. Trust is trust. And you don't gain it by anything but practicing it. That's how my faith needs to be. And that's very much how my marriage needs to be. The sacrament has meaning beyond and above the pain and suffering. The vocation has worth beyond and above the shortfalls and disappointments. The struggle is worth the promise of the eternal reward.

Life Before NaPro

Romans 8:17: "We are heirs of God, fellow heirs with Christ, provided that we suffer with Him, so we may also be glorified with Him."

Job 6:10-12 "Then I should still have consolation and could exult through unremitting pain, because I have not transgressed the commands of the Holy One. What strength have I that I should endure, and what is my limit that I should be patient? Have I the strength of stones, or is my flesh of bronze?"

***Fair warning - this isn't going to be pretty - proceed at your own caution***

There are a lot of moments in life where it is difficult to distinguish the 'before' and the 'after', let alone the murky middle-area between them. That's not how things worked when it came to NaPro treatment for me. In my life, there is a clear line in the sand - and it's bold and italic and underlined. Before and after are completely divided by it. And you could stand on that proverbial line and look back at the pile of illness on one side and then turn around and look in the other direction and very clearly see greener pastures on the other side. Right now, I'm pretty content to knock out the 'before' in just this one blog post. I expect to point back to this blog entry in future posts, because all of the clues for what was to come rest here.

Life before NaPro was painful. And exhausting. And fraught with illness and frustration. It was nothing for me to be house bound for two weeks a month. Projectile vomiting my way through high fevers, doubled over with stabbing abdominal pains, and barely able to take care of myself - and these describe how I felt *before* I would have to deal with my monthly cycle every month. Menstruation was its own traumatic monster. It's kind of sad that I ever considered a period as separate from all of the dysfunction I experienced. Truth be told it was all misery connected. The things I know now...

I can't promise I'll save you from all of the ugly details moving forward on this blog, but I will save you from most of them in this post. Yes, there are [indeed] gross things to follow. I'm saving the worst from this page though. Conceive of that!

My monthly cycle has always been excruciating. Suffice it to say that is not normal. But it was my normal. I had no basis for comparison otherwise, so I only knew that sometimes things were *less* awful and sometimes they were *normal* awful. Normal-weight-teenagers are not supposed to have severe edema or the kind of bloating that makes it impossible to button pants. They aren't supposed to get a fever every month, or cramps so badly that they can't keep their meals down. Unfortunately, I was raised by tough love and was expected to push through things like that. And so I did.

Fast forward to my late teens and early twenties and the dysfunction was amplified by a factor of 10. By now, I was a frequent flyer at doctor's offices, since I was finally in charge of my own medical care. I was told to exercise more. Stop dwelling on feeling bad and count my blessings. Take multivitamins. Drink more water. And my favorite - "learn that being a woman is just going to suck sometimes". As you can imagine, none of these sage pieces of advice were much help. I tried my best to follow each doctor's recommendations, even training for 10K's and carrying my whole day's water with me everywhere I went to ensure that I wasn't dehydrated. I took the best multivitamins that money could buy. And I tried to laugh off how much 'being a woman sucked'. My reward was pain, weight gain, bloating, mood swings, allergies and respiratory issues, skin problems, severe edema, headaches, fatigue, joint pain, constant nausea, and a whole lot of unexplained itchy rashes.

With 15 doctors and college behind me, I embarked on life as a new homeowner in a new city...determined to find the root cause of my misery and make a good life for myself. I became passionate about my faith, got involved at Church, and finally connected to the Pro-Life cause that I had always kept at arm's length. But I was sick. And oh so tired. And yes, tired of being both. All of the bad medical advice had worn me down and I felt worse for having followed it. I was experiencing constant (and back-to-back) bouts of strep throat at this point, followed by multiple instances of extremely painful shingles. IN MY MID TWENTIES. I felt as if I was 65 years old every time I ventured online to read about my ailments. Then, just when I thought that things couldn't get worse, they did.

There is one word in the English language that strikes fear in my heart like no other: abscess. In 2008, after years of constant cyclical illness...I think my body just decided it was done trying to get better. Like the finale at a fireworks show, things became exponentially worse when I started suffering from skin infections. Nothing seemed to make that better. Not soaking in a tub or applying ointment. Not fresh linens or antibiotics. Not homeopathic remedies or anointings. I tried everything I could think of, but doctors told me "these things just happen as you get older" and didn't give it another look. Meanwhile I was in agony.

One particular infection turned into a grapefruit sized abscess and completely incapacitated me. I grew a 104 degree fever and could no longer walk. Emergency doctors sent me home. I broke down in utter defeat and just wept myself into an ugly pile of whatever was left of me. No amount of physical pain I had ever been in came close to this and I had been told to go home and come back when it's WORSE. I was terrified and convinced I was going to die. (When I say that, you need to know for context that I previously had my all of my wisdom teeth extracted from my mouth with NO pain medication, followed by an intense tonsillectomy. That'll purify a person and buy some time off in purgatory!) So back to saving you from awful details. Suffice it to say that I was in agony for a week before I was able to have the infection dealt with and the process was so intensely painful that I burst blood vessels in my eyes and all over my face from the agony of all the pain and screaming. I literally looked like someone beat me in the face. And I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. Someone should have painted tread marks on me. It would have been appropriate.

After 18 months of *constant* anguish and a lot more of [insert horrible things here], I was a husk of my former self. I looked like death. I felt like death. And yet despite not being able to keep much food in my stomach most of the month, I was also gaining weight at record paces. I would wake up with a body temperature of 94 degrees Fahrenheit and my arms and legs were pins-and-needles numb and I would often fall out of my bed from the lack of coordination or feeling in my extremities. I could barely hold my utensils at a meal, let alone use a knife. My brain was a constant fog and I couldn't remember much from one conversation to the next. My hair was falling out at an alarming rate. My skin was randomly cracking open and bleeding. I was convinced that there wasn't much left in life for me. I began to get such persistent angry rashes that doctors believed the deformed, hot, inflamed, itchy, purple stains covering my torso and legs was a form of Lupus. I saw neurologists and rheumatologists and dermatologists and dentists and any number of GPs (I honestly lost count at this point) and nurse practitioners and GYNs. The consensus was the same in that I never heard the same thing once. The most creative diagnosis was when I was told I had a skin condition that only afflicts African American boys under the age of 9 and asked if I wanted to be in a study.

Then one day I wandered into a PatientFirst (I know, we're all expecting my continuum of care to meet a new low as I say that...) and had the privilege of meeting a military doctor who was just doing a rotation there while he was waiting for orders to deploy back to Afghanistan. He took one look at my medical record and came into my exam room and sat down in front of me and looked directly at me and said "I'm sorry you've been in so much pain for so long. Ignore what the other doctors have told you. We need to get you into surgery. Those were the first words of hope I had heard in years - - and yet they terrified me because how do you operate on someone when you don't know what is wrong with them? This is the part of my life where I started reading the book of Job over and over. And absorbing anything I could about the early martyrs of the Church and sufferers of stigmata. This was the only way I knew how to process my pain. I couldn't really connect with anything else anymore. I wasn't completely hopeless, but I was seriously despairing.

Fast forward to post surgery: life resumes in an instant. It's as if all the cracks in the Earth's crust had healed and flood waters receded and skies cleared of their black clouds and angry crows were silenced. (I'm nothing if not descriptive!) There was a dull silence for a few weeks and my last shred of sanity really needed that to just B R E A T H E. It was around then that I met my (now) husband. When we began discerning a life together, NFP became a new acronym in my vernacular.

One of my closest friends had found a method that worked well for her. And because she is the only person who was ever capable of empathizing with my health struggles, she made a recommendation that I look into learning the Creighton model of charting. I had helped her study when she was refreshing her anatomy and physiology knowledge, quizzed her for her tests, and attended the first introduction session she facilitated for moral support....so by the time I began to chart, I knew that NaPro treatment was connected to NFP. Outside of these circumstances and this exposure to Creighton, I'm not sure I would have ever stumbled upon NaPro. My (then) fiance and I dove into charting, but by the second month of tracking my cycle and PMS symptoms, we were hearing things like "this is the most severe case of PMS I've ever encountered" and "let's get you scheduled to see a NaPro doctor to see what they think of all of these biomarkers on your chart". I knew not what was in store. My faith in medical treatment up until that moment was pretty stretched, if there was even a thread of it left to stretch.

Life before NaPro ends right there. The line is drawn right before I stepped foot into that NaPro doctor's office. My first blog cliffhanger! :) Ok, ok, I'll spoil it: I lived and things got much better and I started a blog ;) . I'm still working on putting together my timeline of treatment since NaPro treatment (which is the phase of life we're still in.... so that will be a work in progress), but I'll have to save the rest for the many posts to follow this one. Take a look at the tags on this post for a hint on the foreshadowing if it's too much suspense!

For now, I'll say: God bless the hands of every NaPro surgeon and every NaPro Medical Consultant and every Creighton Model Practitioner, Sonographer, and Nurse. The difference that you've made in my life has been nothing short of a deeply religious experience. We may not have achieved our fertility goals yet, but at least I'm healthy enough to have goals these days.