{yesterday I cried in the Walmart parking lot}

I want to think that I’m invincible.  That I’m not tethered to my body that insists on attacking itself.  That I have control over the inner workings of my flesh.

I don’t.  I’m not.

I’ve had a slew of tests and imaging over the past month.  I lost count at the lab after they took the 15th vial of blood. (I asked for a cookie afterwards. I’m still sad that they didn’t give me one.)

I had 12 x-rays.  Two MRI’s. Another visit to the rheumatologist.

And my autoimmune disease is fairly quiet right now.  Controlled by diet and medication.

For the first time in over FIVE years I am sleeping through the night.  I can’t even explain what a miracle this feels like. I used to stare at my bed before getting in it at night, dreading the fact that I would ache as soon as I got in, and I’d sleep maybe three hours before waking up to what felt like someone sawing my spine in two. Every single night.  Now, I wake up in the morning and I’m already looking forward to going to bed.  Oddly enough, I’m really struggling with fatigue, but I think my body is actually doing some much needed healing.  My inflammation levels are down, my hair is finally growing back after it thinned so much last year when my levels were chronically high.  I think back to where I was a year ago, and there is no comparison.  My illness reached an all time high in September when my inflammation levels hit their peak and I ended up with anterior uveitis in both eyes. It was a blessing in disguise, really, because it led to my diagnosis and eventually to a healing path that I’m exceedingly grateful to have found.  I don’t walk the floors at night crying in pain anymore.   I sleep.  Oh, I how I sleep.  I’m still surprised to wake up to the alarm clock in the mornings.  It feels like a gift every day.

But in all the tests and imaging I had done last month, my MRI’s revealed some large ovarian cysts that needed to be evaluated.  I have a long history with endometriosis (I’ve already lost one ovary to this disease, which you can read about on my infertility blog), so I knew this was the likely culprit.  After seeing my doctor yesterday, she informed me that my abdominal organs are completely fused together. I’m having an ultrasound in about 6 weeks to look at everything, and we’ll know better if we need to proceed with what will be my third surgery due to this disease.

I hate it.  I hate knowing that there is something causing such havoc on my insides, and that there is no known cause or cure.  I’ve read that endometriosis may be soon classified as an autoimmune disease itself, but it is certainly already linked with other autoimmune diseases, specifically inflammatory ones like mine (although mine is not listed in the article as it is lesser known).

I hate it because I can’t do anything about it.  I hate it because it reopens closed wounds that resurrect the pain of 12 years of infertility.  I’ve already grieved the loss of my ability to have biological children, but there’s something not quantifiable wrapped up in it that grieves me. I can’t really explain it.  The doctor didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t already know yesterday.  I know after dealing with this for so many years what it feels like when things aren’t right.

The sting underneath the saying it out loud is still there, though.  While I stood in line making my follow-up appointment, a hugely pregnant woman stood in line next to me with her toddler.  I felt out of place.  Like I don’t fit in with my own gender because instead of functioning the way almost every other woman’s body does, my body has literally turned on itself, attacking my insides and webbing them tightly together.

I walked to the parking garage, and managed to not cry until I got my husband on the phone.   I explained it all to him and I don’t really know why it has upset me so much, but I drove to Walmart while I talked to him because I needed to pick up a few things while I was out, and I sat in my van in the parking lot and sobbed into the phone. An older lady got out of her car parked next to mine and looked at me quizzically before moving on.  Nothing to see here.  Just a 34 year old woman in need of counseling because she is one ruptured cyst away from menopause.

I know that in many ways I’m unbelievably blessed because I don’t have cancer and I’m not bedridden. My husband has been dependent on insulin since he was 11 years old.  He handles his disease with such grace and humility and never, ever complains.  So I feel ridiculous being frustrated.  If it weren’t for my autoimmune issues, I’d be healthy in every other way.  Like, very healthy.  My bloodwork is picturesque.  My doctor told me yesterday that I’m the epitome of health in every other way.

But I still hate this broken body of mine.  I hate that it malfunctions and turns on me without any particular reason.

As the Lord would have it, Psalm 39 was next up in my Bible reading this morning.  I was reminded that our lives are fleeting and vapor-like in their length.  I want to think I have permanency, but I don’t.  We are just strangers, passing through earth on the way to eternity.  And I know that what happens in eternity will be no comparison to this life here.  When Eve at the fruit, everything went badly.  Fallenness affected everything; sin tainted even our DNA.  Our bodies misbehave because everything broke when sin entered the world.

And that gives me hope.  Because this is all temporary.  And fleeting.  Short in comparison with the glory that awaits us in heaven with Christ.  Someday I’ll sit at the table with Him.  I’ll eat the food and drink the wine He’s laid out for us…without fear that it will crumple my body in waves of pain.

I sat this morning on the couch by the window and watched the world wake up while I drank my coffee.  I’ve been here before–struggling with a diagnosis, internally battling fear, desiring to press on without anxiety.  What helps me the most in these moments is the truth that Jesus commands my destiny.  He holds me fast.  He is my Anchor when I’m paralyzed by the fear of what’s coming down the pike.  He is faithful in times of adversity; He is always present.  The promise of His presence is everything we need to persevere.

He’s persevered me through many hard things.  And proof of that is the little squealing voice I hear upstairs that reminds me of what the Lord has given me…grace upon grace.