Sometimes We Don't Want Logic, We Want Compassion

I recently had a follow-up appointment with my dermatologist about my "not, not cancer" spot on my arm.  When I had the procedure done, she told me that I would have a scar, but that the way she was going to sew it was going to leave a fairly minimal scar, one that she could even do some minor abrasion therapy to later on to render the scar virtually unnoticeable.

On the day I left my surgical appointment, I left with the idea that I would remove my bandage, see a minimal scar and a few months later at my follow up appointment, I'd go in and she'd do her magic on whatever was left.

That is categorically NOT what happened.

First off, when I removed my bandage I had a hideously red and very bumpy scar.  It actually looked like someone had sewn an angry, red, fuzzy caterpillar to my arm.  There was nothing minimal about that scar.  So, I called the doctor's office and got what is probably a very commonly relayed "Calm Down" speech.  I was assured that within 6-8 weeks I would be fine, my scar would be fine, the world would not end, and I could someday wear sleeveless shirts again.

Fast forward 6-8 weeks and that is categorically NOT what happened.  My scar was less red, but other than that, pretty much the same.  I decided not to panic this time and gave myself a pep talk.  (Not the Kid President kind of pep talk, but more like the "don't be ridiculous Carol, it's a scar, not an amputation, geesh!" kind of pep talk.)  I also decided not to call the doctor and get another lecture about calming down.

But every time someone would see my scar (I'm not even kidding here people!) they would say something like, "oh my" or they would suck their breath in sharply.  Clearly, a surprisingly ugly scar.

So, when I went in for my appointment, I was ready to take that dermatologist to task over that scar.  It wasn't at all what she told me I was going to get.  It was far, far worse.

I feel the need to tell you that my dermatologist is an incredibly sweet person.  Very soft-spoken.  Very sensitive in her bedside manner.  So when she said to me, "Mrs. Jones.  You're being superficial about this.  You have a small scar.  It's significantly better than death by cancer, which is what you could have experienced had we done nothing," I was somewhat taken back.

And I cried.  I mean like a baby, snotting, sobbing cried.  (So embarrassing.  I am an ugly crier, so there I sat with a red-splotched face and a hideous scar on my arm).  Ugly from head to . . . well . . . elbow.

I said, "I know you're right.  Of course you're right.  My logical mind can tell me you're right.  And then there's my illogical mind that just wants to be pretty."

All that to say, perspective is important.  Of course I understand I'd rather have a scar than cancer.  But sometimes hearing what you already know is still just hard to hear.  Sometimes, we just want a little compassion.  Sometimes, we just want someone to tell us it's all going to be okay.

Always Kiss Me Goodnight

When we brought the girls to this house over two years ago (TWO YEARS AGO!), I wanted their room to look like it was "their" room and not an eclectic garage sale version of the room they'd had before when we were fostering them.

Even though we were very grateful for all the furnishings that people had loaned us in the early days, we wanted their room to say, "You belong here.  You are ours."


But I didn't have a lot of money to spend on decorating, and I'm pretty thrifty, so I shopped at a local online resale site and bought matching, white, Jenny Lind cribs.  Then I finished them in high princess fashion, complete with tulle crib skirts and matching, handmade crib blankets.

We were given a really cute little blue rocker (courtesy of a sweet friend, Shauna Maness) as well as an adorable bookshelf that Zack insisted we paint lavender.  And then rounded out the room with a garage sale dresser ($5!) that Zack refinished, and a sweet little lamp and nightstand that I paid $7 for at a garage sale and refinished.

Perhaps the greatest amount of my budget dollars were spent on three pieces of wall art from Pottery Barn and an adorable little sign that says, "Always Kiss Me Goodnight."

I was so proud of that sign.  I attached a piece of pink grosgrain ribbon to the back of it, and hung it from a pink crystal drawer pull that I screwed into the wall between their cribs.

Last night while I was rocking them to sleep, (yes, I still do this . . . they need the skin to skin contact, and it helps them sleep better) I looked at that sign and I was overwhelmed, to the point of tears, at just how far they have come.

Two years ago, when meltdowns were a daily part of our lives, they would stand in their cribs and reach up to that cute little pink sign, barely able to reach the edge of it, and they would push it as hard as they could, causing the sign to swing wildly from that pink knob.  I hated that sign in those days.

But I left it hanging there because it was my reminder that no matter how bad their meltdowns were (and they were very, very bad)  I needed to kiss them goodnight.  It was my reminder that they needed me to kiss them goodnight.  They needed my unconditional love and acceptance, no matter how horribly bad their meltdowns had been or would be.

And every night when I would sing made up lullabies to them, and rock them to sleep, I looked at that sign and begged God to heal their little hearts and minds.

And now, when I look at that sign, I am grateful for the healing work He has done and continues to do.

All that to say, I imagine that sign will always hang somewhere in their room.  It's a great reminder of God's faithfulness to us, to them.

Day 67: Changing Planes

Mike asked me to take a break from controversial topics for a while, which makes me laugh a little (not really, not at all) that a subject like losing my job and learning the lessons God wants me to learn is controversial, but I've kind of reached the "whatever" stage.

Technically, that's not true either.  I'm not at all at the "whatever" stage.

I totally vacillate between the

"This isn't a surprise to God" stage

and the

"What in the H-E-Double Toothpicks is happening right now?" stage.

When I'm in the God stage, I have a million thoughts that run through my head, all encouraging, all uplifting, challenging, but not in a way that makes me want to pull the covers over my head and never leave my house.

When I'm in the HEDOUBLETOOTHPICKS stage, I have a million thoughts that run through my head, none of which are good or for my good.  And they almost all end in some horrible set of circumstances.

When I'm in the God stage, I am at peace.  I feel assured that the future is in His hands, and I can easily trust in His incredible plan for my life and the life of my family.  I feel eternally grateful that He cares enough to refine me, purify me, mold me into the woman I will someday want my girls to be.  And none of that makes my blood pressure soar.

When I'm in the H.E.D.T. stage, I can't breathe.  I fear every conversation (or comment on this blog) is going to turn into some kind of rant.  I worry about what others think. I feel trapped, attacked, bewildered, confused.  I feel like I'm trapped in a tornado of chaos.

So, last night, I was in the NOT GOD stage, and reached out to a friend.   I told her all of the above and she spoke some incredibly life giving words to me and I wanted to share them with you.

She said, "Carol, I'm going to paint you a visual picture, because that's how your mind works. It's like you're on two different planes.  One plane is your spirit, and it's the part of you that's connected to God.  And the other plane is your flesh.  And that's the part of you that wants to be heard.  It's where the chaos is. And the noise from that plane demands to be heard. And you keep changing planes.  When you're on the plane that is your spirit, you can be rational, logical, calm, because you are trusting God and His plans for you.  When you're on the plane that is your flesh, you feel the fight, the chaos.  But you can control which plane you're on.  It's why God tells you to take your thoughts captive."

She said many other things, all of which were God-breathed, that caused me to breathe deeply of Truth.

All that to say, I reached out to her because she's the kind of friend that listens well, and then speaks Truth into you, and also refuses to allow you to wallow in your junk for very long.  Everyone needs a friend like that.  Very grateful for you today, my river friend.  And thankful for the change of planes.

Day 14: Goo Day

Somedays, I am just a big pile of goo.  And by that I mean, I'm a mess.  I'm a giant amoeba with boundaries that are all over the place, threatening to spill out over everything without any notice.

And other days, I'm all neat and tidy.  My ducks are not only in a row, they are moving forward with a purpose.

I wish I knew what happens in the brain that allows such a shift.

Are women the only ones who experience such things?  Am I the only one?  Say it ain't so.  Say it ain't so.  It ain't so.  Right?

Today is a goo day.  Perhaps I will coin that phrase, "goo day."  Though if I say it aloud, people will think I am saying "Good day" and that I just have a speech impediment.  And they will smile at me, but in their heads they will be thinking, "Poor thing.  Such a tragedy that her speech is so bad."

In my head, that makes me laugh out loud.  Imagine the conversation.

"Good Morning.  How are you?"

"I'm having a goo day."

"Oh, well that's good.  Me too."

Tee hee.

I feel more duck-like already, just imagining that in my head.

All that to say, Here's to the goo days and the duck days.