Compromised: Immuno-and-Otherwise

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I got a call the other day from Dr. K, my former hematologist-oncologist of 15 years.  From Michigan.  I don’t know if it’s the weight of the heavy Colorado spring snow on budding branches, or the heaviness of a pandemic that hangs on every soul, but I cherish the check ins that comes my way.

Being officially in the immunocompromised category by chronic leukemia and the immunotherapy treatment for it, I feel privileged to receive random check in calls from caring people wanting to know if I am doing okay during this pandemonium that has taken over the globe.  They want to make sure I am taking extra care of myself.

Emotionally Broadsided

When Dr. K called, I felt emotionally broadsided by the unexpected check in.  I’m sure he has a million things to think about at the main hospital, hit hard with COVID-19, in the heart of Detroit.  But he paused to think of me.  To make sure I was doing okay.

That call confirmed my self-diagnosis.  I am emotionally compromised.  Yup.  Emotions are just below the surface and ready to well up. At. Any. Moment.

Just a fair warning:  If you call to check in and say kind things—I’ll probably cry.  If you stop to tell me your sad or touching news—I’ll probably cry.  It’s possible I might start out laughing at something and end up crying.  Or vice versa. Why limit ourselves to one emotion at a time when we can feel multiple, complex emotions simultaneously?

Mentally Tumbled

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And then there’s my brain. My thoughts tumble around in my head like wet laundry.  The significant intertwined with the curious and bombarded with the mundane and distracted.  Chaotic and scattered.  It’s the opposite of focused.  I’m lacking goals, and trajectory is vague.  So many thoughts circling around in each presented moment.  Yup.  Definitely mentally compromised, too.

“How is Strength my Weakness?”

My favorite part of the movie Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle is when the characters discover that they each have specific strengths and weakness within the Jumanji game.  Kevin Hart’s character discovers that strength is actually on his list of Weaknesses.

Jumanji-Strength my weakness?

I love his question: 

“How is strength my weakness?”

But I also like to flip things around:

What if weakness is actually my strength?

What if tears are my superpower? And grief is a place I’ve grown comfortable with?

What if chronic hope comes from chronic illness?

What if immunocompromised means I’m also immuno-alert?

What if mentally scattered means centered in the present?

What if my limitations are the exact ingredients of sensitive, present, and vulnerable I need now, in the middle of a pandemic?

Broadsided by Grace

If I were to connect with the Designer of my strengths and weaknesses, how would that go?

I imagine it to be similar to The Apostle Paul’s process, being broadsided by grace—grace that came through a conduit of weakness.

Paul pleaded and discussed with the Divine to take away his weakness.

His Designer declared:

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.

My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

And so, the Apostle Paul relinquished himself to be broadsided by grace:

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride… And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become.  (2 Cor. 12:9-10)

Weakness was the Saint’s necessary ingredient for greater sources of grace.

To hear the voice of my Designer…  Not to tell me I am healed or that I am strong. But to hear that at the heart of humanity is weakness, and that on my list of strengths, weakness is at the top.

The weaker I get, the stronger I become.  In my current mentally scattered state, I’m okay to sit in the presence of this paradox.  I’m okay to lavishly love on another grieving soul with my unstoppable tears.  I’m awkwardly eager to hold up my best super girl akimbo pose with my favorite napping blanket flapping cape-like behind me in the wind.

I’m surprisingly okay.  Immuno-okay.  I’m being cautious, and there’s not much to report health wise or otherwise.  So strong in weakness.  So okay with my compromised state (at least in this present moment).

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Corona 2020 #2: Deep Breath

Sunday, March 22: Small successes make us stronger

Virtual church in our home—that’s a good family rhythm.  Coffee with my Sweet.  Pilates during worship.

Deep breath.  The sun is shining.  We know how to rally as a family.  We’ve done that before.

I learned in grad school that when things get really challenging, it helps to take on doable physical challenges.  Before graduation, I was standing on my head for a solid 3 minutes or more.  Today I take on my ripstick—I haven’t done that since our move to Colorado in 2018.  I went further on the Poudre trail than I have ever gone on my ripstick.

I can do this.  All of this.

Drive-ins—a social distancing spring break treat post family physical activity.  Sonic is Mommy’s rare and spontaneously fun fried treat.  Desperately wishing I could wash my hands, the Sonic manager offers us disinfectant wipes at our window.  It’s the best she could do.  And I was thankful.

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Monday, March 23: Empathy and grief set in

Emotions are so mixed up. I can alternate tears and laughter without taking a breath.  I think the complexity of emotion keeps me going.  Empathy is a part of me.  So is shared laughter.  I can’t shut out the hurt of the world. I have to find a way in it.

Grief sets in as social media pours out the news of loved ones’ sick loved ones.  There are people who can’t breathe.  I feel pressure around my own lungs.  Or is it my heart?

I got this song stuck in my prayers…

🎶 You give life, You are love
You bring light to the darkness
You give hope, You restore
Every heart that is broken
Great are You, Lord

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You…

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing 

Great are You, Lord 🎶

Zoe bakes her first berry pie.  Yum.  She has been painting and creating and plotting a socially distant picnic with a neighbor friend.  She makes beautiful things.  She makes me smile… with teary eyes.  She is filled with purpose and plans and projects.

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Wednesday, March 25: To be seen and heard

I have a regularly scheduled virtual meeting with my colleague.  She hears exhaustion in my voice and heartache in my rhythm.  I needed her to say that I didn’t seem ok.  Someone noticed.  Someone said something.  I try to hold back immediate tears.  I’ll save them for later.  My tear bank is robust.  I am tired.  I am overwhelmed.

Thursday, March 26: The good, the bad, and the garbanzo beans

A walk with a friend.  I bring her chickpeas and pass them at a safe distance.  Canned goods are hard to come by at the grocery store and she is a garbanzo lover like myself.  It feels good to do a little good.  Colorado is in full shelter in place mode now.  Stores close earlier.  People might start to panic.

I think I am among the immunocompromised.  I google articles about leukemia patients, those on immunotherapies in relation to Covid-19.  I should be extra cautious.

Speaking of Covid-19… I read a comment comparing the “Covid 19” to the “Freshman 15!”  Hard to curb the quarantine baking spree.  I love that there are so many things to laugh together about.

Steve and I have an important virtual work meeting.  The meeting delivered bad news.  Not really anything to do with pandemic, just regular life bad news.  It hits hard. It feels like rejection.  Emotions are already at the surface and reserves of faith and grace and strength and resilience have already been reallocated.

Sprycel—my leukemia miracle med—is delivered as usual. Check.  The UPS man doesn’t ask me to sign for this pricy parcel.  He just leaves it and waves.

I slip out for a run on the track as I pour out my heart in my prayer.  My regular running playlist doesn’t seem fitting anymore.

Why is motivation so hard?

Goal setting.  That’s my specialty.  First, identify barriers: It’s hard to get to goals when you’re in the midst of grief.  Mourning and gratitude are both necessary.  But if you haven’t mourned, it’s hard to move forward.

Steve and I zoom in with our community group.  Thursday night is our regularly scheduled hangout time—part of our familiar chorus.

I’m still not okay. 

News of people sick, dying, or singing out their windows is global. 

Urgency and exhaustion in the voices of healthcare professionals. 

More emails regarding upcoming online school than I can process. 

Loved ones have sick ones. 

I worry for the most vulnerable, like my resettled refugee friends and pregnant mom friends. 

I worry for my healthcare provider friends. 

I am in tears for a hurting world.

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Check in with your inner self.  Practice heart presence. Breathe…. Oh yeah.

Steve gets a stern and caring reminder from our doctor friend to be extra cautious with his immunocompromised wife.  Clarity.  Caution. Heartfelt concern.

Friday, March 27: Emotional backlog

Things have to change.  My heart is being pressed in on all sides.  Everyone is caring about something else.  I feel isolated with the whole world.  I am.

So much has halted.  So much to process.  An emotional backlog. So many people going through something and the same things.  Momentum is gone in most of life’s places.

Deep breath.

I decide to start collecting the songs I need for this new rhythm of life.

I choose carefully how often I watch the news.  Today there is a healthy flow of tears watching a video montage of communities rising up and joining together.

🎶 And I’ll rise up
I’ll rise like the day
I’ll rise up
I’ll rise unafraid
I’ll rise up
And I’ll do it a thousand times again
And I’ll rise up
High like the waves
I’ll rise up
In spite of the ache
I’ll rise up
And I’ll do it a thousand times again
For you…
 🎶

Thank you, Andra Day.  Put that one on the playlist.

Saturday, March 28: Naming negative emotions

I cross out lots of things on my calendar that didn’t happen and that won’t happen.  Good thing I write in pencil.  Saturday is Ella’s choice for special breakfast.  A rich cup of coffee with my Sweet.  Pilates and prayers.  My whole body feels heavy.

I have dealt with difficult things before.  I cry. I walk. I sleep.  I pray.  I listen—to truth, to hope, to sadness. To divine whispers.

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It’s helpful to just be present with negative emotions… 😕♥️
• grief—of losses big and small
• guilt—that we should be doing more, less, something else
• fear—of things we can’t control
• disappointment—of unfulfilled expectations
• discouragement—too many overwhelming things to take in at once
• sadness…
• madness…

🤲🏼👣

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Tomorrows have no structure.  We are oscillating between aimlessness and creativity’s  blank page.  Setting goals seems like such an uphill journey.