May 5: Two weeks off antibiotics. Anything is fair game (love, war, mastectomies) at this point, but so far we are strolling along with no signs of infection. Gone is the redness and pain that comes with cellulitis. All in all, I'm working to show hospitality to 2.2 while it itself is settling into a new home. And I was trucking along with that welcome until I realized that this coming weekend Ron and I are scheduled to be at the beach for a wedding. Beach = swim suit. Swim suit = just too much right now. Is it wrong to pray for snow in May? I don't know the patron saint of snow fall nor would I think he would listen to me anyway since I tend to bypass each saint and go straight to the Father in a direct prayer line. (So grateful He allows us a direct line.) God, maybe a little snow. Just a tad. I think it would make for beautiful beach wedding pictures. The bride would thank me I am sure. I'm positive of it = I'm a tad selfish.
I'm hearing so much encouragement from each of you. I can't thank you enough for that or even begin to tell you how it boosts my motivation. What is the most remarkable to me in those comments is your ongoing reassurance of how well I am embracing this mastectomy. I can't even begin to figure out how I am supposed to act in all of this. I have no concept of whether I am right on target or off in left field. At times I chuckle at the thought of your impression of me. Yes, I'm positive. Yes, I look for God's activity in my journey. Yes, I desperately want to ooze faith through every nook and cranny of this mastectomy. But boy, have there been moments of negativity, self centeredness, and doubt on an embarrassing ongoing frequency. Last week, when I was failing miserably at balancing the nuisance of this infection, an impossible work week, accumulating house chores left undone for weeks on end, and a self centeredness that even I couldn't stand I looked at Ron and asked the burning question. "Did we make a mistake doing this?"
I was so naive last summer when we were choosing this path. August 7th was to be a quick surgical procedure that would come and go with little more than having to succumb to fake breasts. And while I actually did have "best case scenario" at almost every turn, that whole stinking thing threw me for a very unexpected convoluted loop both physically and mentally. I had an enormous amount of grief. Bitterness found it's way to my doorstep on more than one occasion. Big whopping doses of frustration bombarded my evenings. And maybe I failed you in not allowing you to see more of that. I did strive for transparency and allowed it to show on occasion. But I don't want any one of you to think me immune to the emotions that I myself never once expected for a moment prior to August 7. Instead, I'd rather leave a legacy of Holy Spirit driven perseverance interwoven with the raw human reality. I call it a sandwich of grace, perspective, doubt, bitterness, positivity, faith, sorrow, triumph. I do not, however, want my legacy in mastectomy to be regret. Yet at times, it lurks into an hour of my day. Days when reality sets in of how much easier these last few months would have been had I not had August 7. There would be no April cellulitis had there not been an August 7 mastectomy. There would be no monumental fatigue. There would be less balancing, less adjusting. There certainly would be no dread of a swim suit (ok, well yes there would be but it would be for the old routine reasons, not the new). You know what else there wouldn't be? The amazing growth of self that has happened. The facing of something enormous that I originally anticipated to be trivial. The reminder that just when you think you have it all figured out it can just as easily become flooded with something foreign and unexpected.
I don't have it all figured out. Not even close. But I don't doubt for a second that purpose is being served. And when those moments of regret threaten to surface, I want to dig deep down to remind myself that purpose triumphs (and maybe even when I fail). It's been a tough month. I allowed myself to be bitter. By his Grace, even in that there was purpose. He's sneaky like that.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
