Full of FORTY years

You guys!! I’m so excited for my birthday this year. Why? Because I’m going to be FORTY! The big 4-0. Not the new 30, but a full forty years!

I’m pretty bummed that this whole pandemic thing will seriously impact any real celebration but I suppose in light of the big picture, not celebrating me is a relatively small thing.

And now you’re wondering if I’m being sarcastic. I’m not. But I wasn’t always excited about milestone birthdays. I vaguely remember impatiently waiting for my 18th birthday and the independence it signified but after that I must have greatly matured in patience because I don’t remember counting down the days until I turned 30? No, this celebrating of years passing is relatively new and I suspect the Lord, and my children, have something to do with it. Or more accurately, the way the Lord has used my kids to teach me the value of years.

When we received the kids’ diagnosis, one of the first things that hit me in the gut was reading the case studies and seeing the lifespan of untreated CTX patients. I think most parents realize, in some remote part of their psyche, that there is a possibility of out living their children but there is something about coming face to face with that reality that takes a parent’s breath away. Whether we consciously think of it or not, we have plans for our children. We might not have planned our daughter’s wedding, or thought of names for our grandchildren, but we wonder if little Johnny with the great fine motor skills will be a mechanic like Dad or if little Jenny with the flare for arguments will be an attorney like grandpa. We at least plan for them to have a life full of years, even if we don’t map out said years. We take if for granted that they will at least see the years we have seen. Or at least I did.

It was when I started thinking about the years my kids could miss that I truly started celebrating the years we have. The years we’ve been given. I started remembering something….

Genesis 25:8

And Abraham passed away and died in a good old age, old and full of years. And he was gathered to his people.

Full of years

I started to think not about the time I’m losing, the things I’m losing, but about what I’ve gained. That the years are full of days and days of minutes and minutes full of moments that have created memories and character and lessons and wisdom that make up…. a lifetime. Which means, the more years I’m given, the more I get to celebrate.

April 22nd, I will celebrate forty years FULL. Full of laughter, tears, new adventures and less fear. I will celebrate gained peace, wisdom, weight and even the lines around my eyes. (Incidentally, I will NOT be celebrating gravity). Because I haven’t lost a thing (Nope, not a pound). Even the moments, days, and a couple of years in which I thought I lost the most, I gained. I might not have been able to see at the time, but even those years of loss were FULL… of hidden blessings.

Now, present circumstances considered, I don’t see much chance for birthday presents. But that’s okay! Why? Because, I already have the greatest gift of all. It’s a gift I open anew every morning. The gift of the Gospel. Every morning I am able to fully embrace the day, yet hold it in open hands. Whether He gives me another forty years, or calls me Home that day, I can rest in the knowledge that because of the atoning blood of Christ Jesus I know there will be no death for me, not even when He determines I’m full of years. I’ll celebrate that gift this Easter Sunday… and will wait to celebrate 40 years when I can do it with cake!

Birthday Suit

Trigger Warning!

If you fear aging, or vague references to female anatomy, this blog post may not be for you.

If, on the other hand, you are brave and have a sense of humor, forge ahead!

Today I’ve turned 38. I’ll wait for the applause to die down.

I know, big stuff, right?! Believe you me, I’m as surprised as you are. (This is even more shocking for anyone that spent time with me as a teenager.)

Unlike some people, I’ve always really enjoyed my birthday. Even as I’ve gotten older. Maybe it’s the cake and presents. Maybe it’s because I value life a little more than I once did. Kind of strange, but I even love the lines by my mouth and eyes that prove years of laughter. Even my many scars come with great stories. I truly desire the wisdom gained by experience.

Now, this doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t take both the 18 year old body as well as the wisdom if given the opportunity, but since I live with a teenager it is very evident to me that one cannot have both a youthful body and wisdom. What I am saying is, that normally I’m very content with the trade off.

Now, all this to say that this is the first year I may have freaked out a little as my birthday approached. I believe it’s completely warranted but I’ll let you decide what you think.

For the past several months I’d been experiencing pain on my left side. As there was a lull in the kids’ medical care, I decided it would be a good idea to get it checked out. After a couple ultrasounds, a CT scan and plenty of bloodwork, it was determined that I had a cyst that needed to go, along with some girl parts that were no longer required (Congratulations, you survived the vague female anatomy reference). After some watchful waiting and discussing and a lot of sitting on the couch with a heating pad we decided laparoscopic surgery was necessary. I’ve had a few surgeries over the years so this was less upsetting to me than it was to Hubby. (Maybe because he knew he’d be mom for a bit?)

Surgery was a same day affair and really went off without a hitch. I generally have no issues with anesthesia and have actually been told I’m kind of a good time while sedated. After a little trouble getting my bladder to shake off the anesthetic, I was discharged and sent home that evening. This is when things sort of went downhill.

I was sitting on the couch, propped up with a half dozen pillows a day later when I started to cough. If you’ve ever had abdominal surgery you likely just winced and recoiled a little. And you’d be right. I drained a couple more glasses of water coffee, soda and juice as I tried my best to brace with a pillow for each cough but as the day wore on, the coughing grew worse. At this point, I am mentally cursing every drug addict that has been part of the opioid crisis that has left me without pain medication after surgery. I’m short on sleep and long on sarcasm. Not a great combination when I call the surgeon’s office begging for a cough suppressant. I may or may not have been a bit unkind when the very helpful nurse asked if I’d tried hot tea, bracing with a pillow over the incisions and a humidifier. She called in a cough suppressant.

Fast forward a couple of days and the cough has turned into the most horrible cough you have ever heard. The very helpful nurse calls and gives me the good news that the pathology of the cyst was benign. Yay God! But that endometriosis was confirmed. (Ha! Tricked you with another female anatomy reference! Don’t Google it. Trust me.) This did not make me any more kind.

Now, I’m gingerly “rushing” around the house to get the kids ready and out the door for school when it happens. The most horrible cough starts up. And this time won’t stop. Literally one after another, until I can’t breathe. My chest is actually sucking in as I’m clutching my sides in a vain attempt to stop the searing pain. I’m pretty sure I’m a goner. When I realize I’m going to throw up. I actually do run to the bathroom and almost make it. Almost. While I’m steadying myself to try to get down onto the floor I’m sucking in breath like a fish out of water. I know at least my eyes are bulging. And tearing. And because it can always get worse, my poor little over worked bladder decides it has also had enough.

So, there I am, gasping for breath, shaking, exhausted, in pain and covered in my own bodily fluids. I give up on the idea of getting the kids to school and stick them in front of the Xbox. I climb into the shower and I start to cry and pray and cry some more. When I’m done, I call the clinic for an appointment.

My sleep deprived brain goes right from the city of Molehill to the top of the mountain. I spend the remainder of the day looking around my house at all of the mess. The overflowing laundry baskets, the piles of stuff EVERYWHERE, the stack of unpaid bills, the children going on 6 hours straight of electronics and am certain that I’m worthless. I am falling apart. I can’t clean, cook, drive, do laundry or paperwork. I can’t even hold my bladder! By the time Hubby gets home I’ve just about taken the train all the way to Crazy town. He can’t possibly be attracted to me. Half my girl parts are gone (Sorry!) and of course I’ll just end up losing the rest of them because, well, endometriosis. Sigh. Hubby does his best to annoy distract me and I make it to my doctor appointment the next morning.

Insult to injury, I’ve accumulated another 4 lbs. Apparently even the most horrible cough and the vomiting are no match for my couch and church lady cooking. Feeling bad for myself, I was texting a sweet friend about my body falling apart and feeling a bit worthless when she re-reminded me of something.

“He can ONLY use a broken you.”

And when I got to the exam room:

I started thinking about how He couldn’t use the put together me. The had it all figured out me. The didn’t need anyone else, I’ll do it on my own me. The whole body works well me.

I started thinking about how focused I’d been lately on how the world saw me, instead of how the world would see Him in me.

This very sweet lady came in next and gently reminded me that I’d just had major abdominal surgery, with a complication of bronchitis. That I needed to give myself, and my body, some grace. Not to mention time. She sent me home with instructions to REST.

So, here I am, resting. In God’s grace. In His presence. And thanking Him for the present of a rather damaged birthday suit. He can work with that.