Letting Go

I spent the last weekend working at a couple's retreat that I volunteer with every three months. One of the processes they do is have each individual figure out what behaviors they are doing which sabotage their relationships. Once those behaviors are identified, each person is given a chain that represents those behaviors. Towards the end of the weekend, they are given the chance to let those behaviors go, demonstrated by dropping them in a bucket of water. Each of the team members are given chains too and given the opportunity to identify things that are holding them back.

This time I decided what I really need to let go of is who I used to be.

When I was diagnosed 18 months ago, both of us assumed the experience would be like cancer; I'd work through the treatments I needed and then my heart would get better and things would be back to normal. While I am not giving up working towards getting better, things will never be the same as they used to be. I may recover at some point, but we've spent the last year and a half waiting for that to happen.

One of my roommates my first year of college had her kidneys fail in high school and went through a kidney transplant. It caused significant physical changes in her. At the end of our year as roommates, she gave us pictures to remember her by. They were pictures of her before her transplant. Another of my roommates remarked to me that she wished the photo had been a more recent one. We didn't remember her that way. She wanted to be remembered as she had been, but all of our memories were of her as she was now. We didn't think badly of her because of how she had changed; we had no experience with her before her surgery.

I find myself in a similar place now. Even before my heart crapped out on me, I was on bedrest with Eva and then with Laura. That process started four years ago. Megan was seven, Kylie was five, Beth was four, and Jack was two. Megan and Kylie may have vague memories of me as I was before all of this happened, but none of the younger four even have that. They know me as I am now.

That is really hard for me. I miss being able to do the things I used to do. I ran the house and played with my kids and took them places and did crafts with them and cooked dinner for other people several times a week and attended church every Sunday and held callings (assignments at church) and did school work and took care of Rob. I sorted through the toys every week or two and the playroom was always organized with toys in the proper bins. We went on vacations every year, even if it was just a small vacation. My windows were adorned with season-appropriate crafts made by my kids. Their hair was done every day. Their outfits matched and didn't have stains or holes. I could compile a to do list a mile long every day and I got it all done most of the time. I could fit in grocery shopping, playdates, lunches from scratch, visits to Rob at work, cleaning the house, doing my schoolwork, making dinner from scratch for our family and someone else, church meetings, and nighttime rituals for the kids, and still have time to stop and watch a tow truck load a car on it because Jack was fascinated with the process or to point out a caterpillar forming a chrysalis in the backyard to the kids.

I can't do almost any of that anymore. I still cook for us most of the time. Rob and I do the grocery shopping together. I can help with household chores that I can do from my bed, like balance the checkbook and pay the bills. Other than that, I can do very little. At least I have a job that I can still do as I sit in a chair and talk with people. I can help pay the bills so Rob doesn't have to work a second job and can spend time at home with the kids. I'm very grateful for that.

It feels like all I do now is sleep and work. I can barely walk to school and back to pick up the kids on Mondays, which is the only day we don't have a sitter that does it for me. Going grocery shopping makes me break out in a cold sweat and have to lie down. I haven't been to church in months because Rob is home on weekends, so I rest. Last year Rob ran out of sick leave and vacation time in August because of the times when Rob had to leave work early to come home because I was "crashing" (the term we use when my body gets so tired it shuts down and I can no longer function). We're balancing things better now. I sleep all weekend and usually make it through the week. That means I miss church though.

Honestly that's not the only reason church is hard for me. I didn't realize how hard it would be to deal with the reactions of others when you have a serious illness. It may be worse for me because I read people for a living. Not that people are rude or mean. I usually get one of two responses - either they pretend nothing is wrong (but it's obvious they are deliberately trying to avoid the topic), or they ask how I'm doing and then I have to see the looks on their faces when I answer. I don't live in denial; I do the things I need to do to take care of myself, but I spend most of my time not thinking about my condition. It's hard when I'm forced to think about it because of the way my body is responding or because of the reactions of others. Watching the looks on people's faces when they find out what I've been diagnosed with or hear what's going on makes me realize all over again what this means.

I hate my limitations. I hate that I couldn't even take my kids to the state fair this year because I can't walk that far. I hate that I cannot do the things I used to do.

But that is who I am now. Interestingly, I wouldn't go back if I was given the choice. Rob agrees. Not that I wouldn't love for my heart to heal and for me to have the energy I used to have back, but I wouldn't choose not to have gone through this. This has changed both of us so much. I did so much for everyone else that I didn't give them the opportunity to do things on their own. This forced me to step back because I physically could not do it anymore. My children are learning to cook. They are learning to take responsibility for themselves. Rob has been given the chance to get much closer to the children because he is now their primary caregiver. Rob and I have gotten so much closer. We used to have very different interests. I loved going out and doing things and Rob loved staying home. Now I can't go out and do things, so we've been able to spend so much more time together.

I fight not to feel like I am a failure as a mother because I can no longer do the things I used to do with my children. Everyone I have talked to about this has pointed out that my children are loved and happy. They are flourishing. My limitations have changed their lives, but have not handicapped them.

I may get better someday. I hope I do. In the meantime though, I need to let go of who I used to be and accept who I am now. No, I am not the same person. I cannot do the same things. But I have grown and changed in other ways and I still contribute to the lives of those I love. I am enough exactly as I am.