I texted my cousin, whose youngest graduated last year, and asked her if she felt lost. She did. We went back and forth a little about taking up running again, maybe going back to school, ordering our days, and maybe just resting for a little while. With that, I ordered a new pair of running shoes and set in my mind to start trail running at the closest state park a few days a week. Little did I know that what I had planned as my next first step would be put off as Amazon didn't deliver my shoes until yesterday. The truth is - my next first step wouldn't be merely physical but would turn out to be one of the scariest and most humbling steps I've ever had to take.
Osteoarthritis of the spine with spondylosis of the lumbar and cervical lordosis is the physical diagnosis I live with on a daily basis. After my Mawmaw went Home, I made the decision that being physically present was what my children needed the most since only one could drive and B works late hours. My Dr and I prioritized the most pressing of my symptoms (pun intended) and began a long string of treatments that would level off eventually but life continued around me. My very last PT appointment following my first surgery was the morning after we lost Aunt Suzie. I remember vividly looking at my PT and telling her that recovery didn't matter anymore because I had lost my reason to rush.
That summer began the darkest journey I've ever been on. Trees with no color. Birds with no songs. Words like "unfit mother" yelled at me by my children who could not understand the depth of the sorrow I woke up in every single day. I detached myself emotionally from them as my logical brain said, "If they're not that close to you when you're gone, it's not going to hurt them this bad."
But time and pharmaceuticals and squirrels would begin to heal the deep, abiding pain. Healing would take place with my kids and a proper diagnosis for B's HGH deficiency would make him more present than ever. Life was finally breathable again. Sure, there were things but I had a firm grip on my mental health, my physical health was being attended to and life was good. Until.
Between July 2022 and June 2023, we would lose B's mom suddenly and unexpectedly. In the midst of that, all three of our boys would get married also. There was a steep learning curve as I became the mother in law without a mother in law. I would have to learn to let go of them. I was not then and would never again be their number one. They would share their hopes and dreams with someone else. They would tell the stories from their work days to someone else. Someone else would take care of them when they were sick or hurt. That was not my place any longer and in order to give their marriages a fighting chance, I had to determine to take a deliberate step back, giving that piece of my heart to a young woman to guard and protect, to encourage and love, to cherish and adore. I grieved the now dead relationships that I had had with all three, since the moment they took their first breaths, in order to take the next first step into a new relationship with them. Slowly, the tears would decrease. The all day sorrow and missing them would turn to joy as I would get a single text and run through the house - He texted me! He texted me! My mental health was recovering as I navigated this new world.
In December our lives were flipped upside down yet again as daddy would face surgery and ultimately walk away with a stroke that occurred during this life saving process. The morning after, he didn't know us. (He only just said my name three weeks ago and I happy cried!) Over the next week, his words were all jumbled and he got tired very quickly, especially as his grandkids routinely descended in that hospital room. Stroke recovery is a marathon, it's not a sprint. It's almost more like a slow two-step only it's one step forward and two steps back at first.
But as daddy was in the hospital, Nonnie began to deteriorate rapidly. Mike and I would stay with daddy and the drs as mom assembled another team to tend to Nonnie's needs. My first night to spend with her would be daddy's first night home. Then a couple more, including her last Christmas. New Year's evening mom got a call from her living facility. Something had changed; she was confused, disoriented, regressing so quickly that names were often wrong, her thoughts about her location in her apartment were wrong, her strength was completely gone. We knew time was short then. And so, I did what I had done before - I took up my place as mom's right hand, more there for physical strength and mom emotionally. I detached myself from the situation at hand in order to carry her to the finish line just like we had Mawmaw, just like we had Aunt Suzie.
A deafening silence fell in that apartment in the early hours of January 2. Mom had just fallen asleep on the couch beside her chair and I had just moved to the chair facing her, instead of sitting at her feet where I had been all night long. I knew when I startled awake that there were only two of us left in that room but the immediate grief and regret of not being right at her side and holding her hand overtook me. This was the third time in my life to be in the room when someone I loved slipped past the veil and into eternity. How could I have not carried her all the way? I thought we had more time. I have never shared that before.
But life would continue and I genuinely thought I had a firm grasp on things. I've thought that for months, honestly, but it wasn't until a month ago that the facade of my mental health would splinter and come crashing down around me.
As a part of my diagnosis, the fusion surgery two years ago would need to be matched by a level above and level below fusion surgery to follow. Pandora's box had been opened and there was no turning back now. This would be my life every few years. What none of us could know would be the occipital nerve obstruction and neuralgia that would take place in the meantime. The migraines that indicated surgery last time had returned with a vengeance. In an attempt to postpone surgery again, we opted for occipital nerve block (injections). Four syringes full of steroids were shot into the base of my skull and crown of my head. The relief was immediate though and I do intend to do them again should the pain return.
But what no one can prepare you for is the emotional fallout four syringes full of steroids will reek in your life. And life, being life, brought a new set of devastating revelations and accusations that very night and weekend. Life altering kind of stuff. As my brain tried to wrestle with the steroids, words like "unfit mother", "manipulator", "emotionally absent" played on a loop in my head space. What alternate reality was I now living in? How could I have dedicated my entire life to them and none of that be seen for what it really was?
Monday morning the nurse called to see how I was faring from the steroids. Through a very tense and troublesome conversation, I found myself yelling at her on the other end of the phone. After being transferred to my Dr, her sweet voice calmed me a little but now I was sobbing uncontrollably. "Ms Foster, what is happening? This isn't like you. You are one of the most positive patients that I have...." Determining my out of control emotions were a side effect of the steroids, she said, "You're going to have to take a step back. Remove yourself from emotionally traumatizing events as much as possible for the next two weeks until you stabilize."
And so, I did. Over the next two weeks, I cocooned myself as much as possible. I have never in my life spent so much time pouring over scripture, listening to sermons, singing along with hymns, all the while begging God to show me the truth of who I am from His perspective. It was hard at first and there were urgent things that needed attending but during that time, there was peace like I've only felt one other night in my life, there was Light that shone not only on who I was but how and where I needed to be more like Jesus, there was clarity that I hadn't felt in months.
So back to last week and my follow up appointment....
Upon being escorted to my room, I asked to speak to the nurse who had called me a month ago. Through tears, I apologized for not treating her the way she deserved to be treated, no excuses, no buts, no reserve. I did the same with my Dr when she walked into the room. Both said they appreciated it but that they knew it was a side effect and not who my character had always proven to be.
My Dr asked what was going on and so years of "dealt with" trauma came pouring out. Losing my boys (she, herself has three young boys). My daddy having a stroke. Taking care of and losing my grandmother. She stopped me, "So have you thought about seeing somebody to talk about all this?" I responded that I felt like I had it all under control until March when my son would start divorce proceedings. Again, she stopped me and said, "Ok. I'm going to NEED you to talk to somebody. The steroids didn't cause all of this but since you literally couldn't control things, it all came bubbling out." I told her nothing of the events over the past month as she might have just admitted me right there and then.
She reminded me that chronic pain and depression not only go hand in hand but feed off each other. We will need to curb any future physical treatments until my mental and emotional states are under control again. She said she would gather some names as we talked about therapists, cognitive behavioral therapy, and pain management psychiatrists. Then she said, "And I'm always here. I need to know what's going on in your life so that we can manage ALLLLLLL of your symptoms." As the door closed behind her, I sobbed and melted into my momma, "I feel so very stupid..." She whispered in my ear, "But you are not, my sweet girl. You are so very brave."
And so with that, tomorrow, I will be taking another next first step. After a lifetime of being counselor for my friends, after twenty years as a mentor and arm chair therapist to "my girls", after a life in fast forward for the past ten years, my emotional status is Swiss cheese. There are lapses in memory as traumatic events were boxed and shelved, the only way I could cope in those moments. There are still gaps in my ability to manage group settings and the determination to not let that loop start playing in my head again. I would be lying if I didn't say that I'm not looking forward to this. Admitting you need help is crushing. Seeking out that help is being brave though.
And still, there's Jesus. A few years ago, God gave me the question in one of my quiet times - "If you only had Jesus, would He be enough?" Of course, my brain yelled YES! And at the time, my heart felt it too. But over the past month, all I've had was Jesus. My brain still called out to my heart - Yes, He is enough. But my heart is prone to wander, as the weight of all of these situations and more squeeze and clutter it. Thus my ever present tattooed reminder - "Bind my wandering heart" to Thee.
Through all of this my Anchor still holds. "It's the Setter of the sail, not the gust of the gale that determines my future." (Dr Chuck Swindoll) So to that Anchor I hold as I take my next first step and lace up my new shoes, run a new trail, make some new phone calls, and remember who I am. I am a daughter of The Most High King, who gave His very best for me, just to be The One I turn to in sorrow and in joy.
