Why I Believe

There is an ongoing quandary in my head about how to explain the reasons I believe in a higher power. Call it the Universe, call it God. I call it the Divine, a force that is greater than myself. There is suffering everywhere you look in our world. It's deplorable, heart-wrenching, overwhelming. For some, seeing all the suffering makes them question the existence of a higher power. How can there be a god when there are children starving or dying from cancer? When there is war and abuse? How can there be a god, and furthermore a merciful, benevolent god when all these things exist? I am often asked how I can believe in God after all that I've gone through. Here is my best attempt at a response.

Growing up, I was not traditionally religious. My family informally celebrated Christian holidays, but the Bible wasn't a part of my life, nor was church. However, my Nana was a deeply spiritual woman, and being in her presence brought God to life for me. As early as elementary school, I would ask her to take me to churches from a variety of denominations, searching for that perfect fit. It wasn't until college that I asked her to take me back to the church she called home. The church she took my mother to as a girl and where my parents were married. I'll never forget that Sunday morning service at Unity Church of Christianity. We sat in one of the first rows, and as the opening prayer was said, Nana and I both had tears in our eyes. We were home, and I felt spiritually complete.

When I got sick 16 years ago, it felt like the skies opened up and a mighty wind blew me on my ass. My life became an obstacle course of pain and misdiagnosis. Just as I was starting my career and trying to establish myself, my illness blew the candles out. I was left in the dark, fumbling my way over long hospitalizations and demotions, frequent trips to the ER and narcotics that wrecked havoc with my body and mind. I couldn't help but wonder where God fit into the painful chaos my life had become.

I sought out a local Unity branch, and I found a great source of solace and support at a time when I really needed it. I was living in Arlington, Virginia and working in D.C. My parents would come as often as they could, but when they couldn't be there, my church family was. My minister would sit at my bedside and help me sort out my thoughts. For whatever reason, I had been chosen for that path that has lead me up until today. It wasn't a punishment from above. I held on and kept my faith as the disease took me on a very rough ride.

When the days turned into months and the months turned into years, I began to wonder why I couldn't catch a break. Every time I thought the pain couldn't get any worse, it would, and I began to drown in a haze of first medical misdiagnosis, only to be followed by a diagnosed nightmare. It just kept going, and I couldn't help but question why God was allowing it all to happen to me. What had I done to deserve such punishment? I often thought I must have been a Nazi or serial killer in a past life to reap this painful karma. I spent a lot of time meditating through my tears. While it wasn't immediately clear why God wanted me to experience the things I was, I held fast to my roots of faith I had found with my Nana as a child

Time is a powerful thing. Perhaps more than anything else, it can change one's perspective and attitude. It heals. It enables personal growth. More than any surgery, medication or therapy, it changed the way I saw things once the illness truly took over and my life became unrecognizable. My body wasn't the only thing that was transformed. My spirit grew even when my body faltered. For all the ways my body was disabled, my mind and spirit grew in ways I didn't think possible.

My empathy for others, my passion to help those with similar problems, my inner strength and faith in myself and God... those were all the reasons I was chosen to endure all that I have.  I have been able to look back and see my pain and suffering as one of my greatest gifts. Without those two things, I would not be the woman I'm proud to be today. That's part of what time has done for me. Even with my health issues, I still feel strong in spirit. When I'm writhing in pain or struggling to breathe, I have to trust in my mind and my soul to keep me focused on healing. And when my strengths develop cracks, as is inevitable in serious situations, God is the caulk that seals and keeps me together.

Don't get me wrong, I have my moments (or weeks or months.) Keeping my faith allows time to pass, and I eventually find myself in a better place. Just as I want to see the good in people, I want to embrace the goodness of this force that holds me up when I'm falling. It's not in my imagination.  Since 2009, I've been in the ICU or SICU on a ventilator four times. That's not just some scientific healing of a skinned knee or the intervention of practical medicine for a throat infection, Those were miracles. Divine intervention that allowed me to live rather than die. I don't need anyone else to believe. It's enough that I do.

Our circumstances mold our beliefs, which is why it's unfair to judge others. If you believe, use your faith for understanding and tolerance. I can't blame or judge others for not believing, because I don't know the circumstances that led them to their lack of faith. I can only ask the same of those who don't believe. Grant me the respect to trust I have my faith for a reason and don't judge me. A riddle of sorts, or perhaps a recipe. I know not how to survive my life without my faith. It brings me comfort and strength. I've lived through things that make it impossible to not believe in a higher power.

People ask how I can believe in God after all I've been through. My answer is, after all I've been through, it's impossible not to. I've witnessed things from within that defeat logic and science.  I've had experiences when I've felt a flow of warm, unconditional love from something much greater than myself. There is a calm, loving presence infused in my heart. It's something that defies an exact definition, but it's real. For me, it's real. That's why I believe. AMEN!

The Truth of Spring Cleaning

While it is almost summer, I am still bogged down with the whole spring cleaning process. Whoever started this process must have had a small closet and no hobbies, and was obviously able to drink copious amounts of wine throughout the process. My closet is bleeding with my various hobbies, each stuffed in separate totes.  I can never understand that all the stuff I threw away the past year seems to be reincarnated to the stuff I need to throw out this year. How did I look at this year's trash as last year's gems? It's a never-ending quandary that will likely never be answered. I've made peace with that.

As I've started on the archaeological dig into my closet's piles of totes and boxes, I have a lawn bag ready for my former necessary unnecessariables (my word.) My first tote was a treasure chest of old journals.  They serve two purposes. I write down all my meds each day along with any medical issues that are going on. It keeps me on target. It also enables me report to my doctors exactly what's going on at any given time. It's become an empowering tool that helps me have some control of my health and helps guide my doctors and I to make the best decisions for my health. I highly recommend this to anyone with chronic health issues.

Then there is my spiritual cleansing, aka my writing. It has a Tourette's Syndrome-type personality whereby I may not write for weeks, and then one day I get a surge of ideas and I grab whatever is closest to me. I've got napkins, matchbooks, receipts, etc., but I usually grab my journals.  I write down those thoughts, keeping them safe in something I won't throw away. It's a journey through history to read those scraps of my heart in writing.

So there I sat going through perhaps the smallest tote in my closet. I often discard the medical info after a certain amount of time, and I keep only my writing spasms. The first journal I opened was from 2010  when I had a very major surgery. The words I read brought tears to my eyes. The writing was beautiful (if I do say so myself) and raw and overwhelming. I could almost feel the physical and emotional pain I was going through at that time. It took me back like a time machine, giving me a view of Jessica then vs. Jessica now.

 I read some of it to my mom, and she replied, "It's so good, but so dark.  That's not who you are now."

That was so validating to hear. The words sounded like someone I used to know wrote them. A familiar stranger. There I was digging through my closet, and I found old bones from an old me. An ancient text about things long passed. That's not to say everything is peachy keen now, but I feel that I'm in a better place spiritually and emotionally. There are changes in my life that have allowed me to heal peacefully rather than stressfully. Healing has various degrees of stress, but it's the where and the who you're healing around that can make a big difference. Different doctors are amazing gifts, too.

Healing is a puzzle that takes time. Reading about where I was compared to where I am now was so cathartic. It took the term "spring cleaning" to another level. We all go through stuff that is hard and life-changing. Everyone has different ways of holding onto the feelings surrounding those times.

You don't have to have journals or thoughts written down. There is a wardrobe of reactions and thoughts most people have within them.

Within your spirit, examine those things that no longer serve your greater good and let them go. Stick them in that figurative trash bag and toss them out. Purge yourself of that which weighs you down with negativity. It's a new day. The lessons you learned from those experiences have already been woven into your souls. Clean your mind and heart of the baggage. Eventually we all have to accept our perfect imperfections and give ourselves permission to be loved just as we are. It's not likely to happen all at once, but in pieces as we go.

 A counselor once told me not to view life as a linear process, but rather as a web-like journey. On that same note, every movement on the web will offer a time to heal past hurts and to love ourselves wherever, however and whoever we are. In truth, spring cleaning is just a convenient analogy for an ongoing process. Granted, I started writing this in early May, yet just finishing it in early June. So my cleansing is retroactive but progressing, one day at a time.

Memorial Day

As with most holidays, our culture has created a  tradition whereby holidays become associated with celebrations of no relation at all. For example, Christ's birth has become all about Santa and gifts. The death and resurrection of Christ has become all about colored eggs and an over sized bunny rabbit. Memorial Day seems to be about a three-day weekend and burgers.

There are men and women in war zones all over the world, protecting my very right to write these words and to live in this democratic society. Yet there is no significant way we, as Americans, do to make our gratitude known for all who have served in our military, past, present and future.

It's ironic, because I venture to say that the people who get a three day weekend are NOT those serving our nation. The males and females in the military are scattered around the world, seeing and doing things no individual ever should, existing in rough environments far, far away from their families. They aren't the ones enjoying the cookouts and long weekends.

I know our society isn't likely going to change its way to celebrate a holiday, but we can all take steps towards a change. Many of us have family and/or friends who have served in our military. Going forward, all it takes is a phone call or a text to express our gratitude. Love is a great ways to show appreciation, and it costs nothing.

God Bless America and all those who are serving our great nation, yesterday, today and tomorrow!

Memories of Mimi

I am so blessed to have one living grandparent, my grandma Evelyn Jorgensen, aka "Mimi".  I have so many memories of growing up with her in my life, so I thought I would share some of them for Mother's Day.

When my mom went into labor with Keith, I went to stay with my Mimi and Bapa. I recall her putting a steel washtub in the courtyard of the home I now share with my mom. She filled it with water and dish soap, and I was allowed to strip naked and take a bath out among the squirrels and birds. It was the best bath ever. I felt like a cross between a princess and Mowgli the Jungle Child.

She would come pick me up at my preschool at Jeffrey Mansion in a red pickup truck and a mink coat. The macaroni and cheese standard was set at the top with Stouffer's Mac and Cheese that she cooked in the oven, always having a bubbly top layer. I would take her concentrated frozen orange juice cans and she's throw it in a blender with some ice, and voila, a delicious orange smoothie. The poor woman was probably always out of O.J.

I spent most of my time either riding Charlie the Wooden Horse around the driveway or playing with a stuffed camel named Noodles who had long, spider-like, black eye lashes. To this day, I'm still searching for a mascara that could make my lashes measure up to Charlie's.

To sum it up, I was spoiled.

As I grew up, Mimi and I started developing a more mature relationship. I was standing in her kitchen when she asked me if I had fallen of the roof yet, and I had no idea what the heck she was talking about. I'd been having my period for years, but I wasn't one to play up in the gutters. I would visit she and my grandpa in Florida, and we would shop and eat and do all kinds of girlie stuff together.

I can't say exactly when we became good friends on TOP of having a great grandma-granddaughter relationship, but it happened. After my grandfather passed, I would go visit her in Florida, and we would have long talks over tea sitting in the living room of her condo. At some point we called our chats "pouring tea", as we were pouring our love and thoughts into each other. To this day, she still has a Willow Tree angel holding a tea pot that I gave her one Christmas. I have one, too. It always reminds me of her.

Mimi and I have done a lot of growing up together. We've had the pleasure of truly getting to know each other. I've heard her stories of growing up as one of ten children in a small town in Michigan. She doesn't travel anymore, but her stories keep the memories alive.

Our family's "Old Polish Chick" is 91 years old, and I love her so much. I just wanted to share a few memories I have with her. I am a better person from having her as my grandma.

Motherhood as I Know It

Ode to the empty armed mother,
Song to my wombless child,
Forever the gravesite watcher,
Sadness hits me like the tide.
I see his face in the trees,
I feel his life in the breeze,
Wish I could bottle his spirit,
His life I couldn't save in me. 

My son Gabriel, so long passed away, is ever a sadness and a blessing at the same time. I watch for him, almost like Rapunzel in the tower, only it is I who seeks his spirit, and wish I could send him that lifeline that was destroyed in my womb now twelve years ago. Such a glorious sadness, an unrequited love for something I wanted so much, yet the choice was not mine to make.

The exhaustion in my body after so many years of illness now knows that his passing was a three-fold result of fate. Had he been born, he would not have survived, nor, likely, would have I. And even if we both survived, we both would have faltered in the storm that has come these last twelve years.

A sadness and joy that is so difficult to describe, how one can feel them both simultaneously is a mystery I still can't solve. I seek him out in ever breath, in every moment. I know he's in me as much as my own soul is within me. Or I am within him. Perhaps my survival has been by nothing less than his life sacrificed, for my life survived.

No apologies for any sadness induced by your reading these words that help me heal and grow as I continue to cope with the loss of a child. Of actually two children, only the first was lost in those first weeks and became the "mole" in my partial molar pregnancy. Such things I did not know existed. I was told by a neonatologist around my third month that I had "a healthy baby growing in there". It wasn't until early in my sixth month that every maternal hope I had was dashed.

I am always processing this loss. Once a mother, always a mother. I know my baby boy lives on in me, as does he or she that left so, so soon. It was all ended way too soon. Mothers, hold your children close. Squeeze them an extra squeeze for me this weekend. I  know Gabriel would want it that way. Blessings to all on this coming Mother's Day.

The Goddess Within

In 2012, my parents' marriage ended after almost 39 years. It was heartbreaking to watch, not just as their daughter, but as an adult, understanding all the ramifications of a split of such magnitude and depth. As a woman, my search for the right man was largely based on the example my parents had set for my brother and I growing up. Their divorce blew everything I once believed in out of the water.  As time has gone on, I see both of them happier and healthier apart than together, and ultimately that is what I want for them.

 

I had been living with my parents for some time before their split due to my own health issues. I was too ill to live alone. My grandma had also been living with us, and I was able to provide any help she needed during the day while my parents were at work. It allowed us some quality time together. When they split, my grandma went to live with my aunt, and my mom and I stayed in the house. She and I have always been best friends, so being roommates was natural. For some, living with their mothers may sound like a nightmare. For me, it's a blast and a blessing!

 

Over the past three years, my mom and I have been there for each other during some tough times. The divorce wasn't easy for either of my parents. They signed their divorce papers one day short of their 39th wedding anniversary. Not even one week later, my mom's brother, Rusty, died of cancer. My mom was heartbroken but stoic. I was able to be there for my mom for what seemed like the first time in my life. She has always been a strong, dynamic female role model.  Even under the unbelievable stress and sadness of both losses, she found a way to carry on with amazing grace and humility. I kept waiting for her to break down, but she never did, and never has.

 

Yesterday I woke up, and my mom wasn't here. I texted her, and she said she'd be back in a bit. Not long after this, I'm sitting in the living room, and here come my mom carrying a tree up our front walk into our courtyard. Granted, it's not a HUGE tree, but it is, nonetheless, a tree. Our courtyard has almost an enchanted garden look to it. Lots of stones, angels, a few Buddha statues, lots of wind chimes, bird feeders; all in all it has a magical feel to it.

 

The one thing we've been missing is a red bud tree that once hung over the whole area. It was ruined in a storm several years ago. Since then, my mom has wanted to replace it. So yesterday, my mom went out and bought one, put it in her Camry and drove home with it coming out the sunroof. She is not a woman to be stopped when she has a vision. At first she was going to wait and have my brother plant it, but I convinced her we could do it.

 

So there we were, two women in flip-flops standing in the rain, me with my little shovel helping to break the tree out of it's container, and she with her big shovel digging a whole deep enough for the roots to have room to grow. The wind was blowing, the chimes were singing, and we're planting this living thing into the living earth. It was organic, cathartic and empowering.

 

I've never been one to garden, but yesterday it felt amazing to be part of this process with my mother and soul sister. Being out there, feeling the rain on my skin and the wind in my hair, it felt like nature was washing away some of the hurt from the past few years. Between the divorce and some of the darkest times of my life due to health issues, she and I have had our share of troubles, but we have survived.

 

She always picks herself up in the face of adversity and plows forward. She accepts her limitations, but she is always finding a new way to get things done when she can do it. She turns her worries into prayers and leaves the rest up to God. She loves unconditionally, and she gives her love generously to people, even when those people aren't acting all that lovable. I know that from personal experience. Most importantly, she loves herself, and witnessing that every day is perhaps the best lesson I have ever been given.

Yesterday evening, the wind was blowing, the chimes were singing, and my mom and I saw our fledgling tree standing straight and beautiful. I looked over at my mom, and I said, "You are teaching me to be the goddess every woman should know she is."

My mom turned from me to gaze back upon our beautiful courtyard and then turned back to look in my eyes, "Of everything I've taught you, THAT, to me is the most important. It is the most precious. I am so grateful to be setting that example for you."

EVERY woman is a goddess within.

Life's Stormy Shores

I preface this blog post by saying that there is not enough gratitude in the world that I have for all of you who have lived and supported and survived along with me. I know it can be hard to watch it, but to then have to read about it is a lot. I get it. I love you. On to my post....

I never expected to love writing for this blog like I have. It is a safe place for me to voice my inner thoughts, and my hope is that there are readers who hear their own inner voices echoed in my words. This is not meant as my sad story. It is challenging, trying at times, but it is a testament to my survival despite all these less than fortunate situations that have occurred over the past 16 years.  My words are those of a song of celebration for the sheer fact that I have come through so much! Things can always be worse.

I started this blog to sort of satisfy my aunt who thought writing one would give me good exposure and experience towards writing a book of my own. I have been writing said book for so long, and my life has fragmented in all these different life experiences and medical debacles that the book is now about 20 books, all incomplete. Her suggestion was a gift. This blog is a labor of love. I've made it my mission to make those dealing with chronic pain feel less alone, less afraid and less hopeless.

One of my biggest frustrations is the lack of response from my Facebook "family". For all of you who do regularly respond and make comments, you have no idea what joy it brings me. My former teachers especially, you give me GREAT feedback, and that only helps me grow. I know the sites aren't connected, so you have to go to the site to read the blog,  and then you have to go back to Facebook to hit "Like" or write a comment. I have gotten feedback from friends and family that they don't feel it's appropriate to "Like" something that is so sad or tragic, or that it makes them too sad to even read it. And perhaps, sometimes it's just a bit TOO honest (which I can appreciate.)

I see people who post something like, "OMG! That show was AMAZ! I just can't. It was just amaz." (this is not an actual quote. I just selected a few incomplete words that have been circulating, and I threw together a nonsense salad.) And what kills me is that they get double-digit "Likes" and comments. It feels like not being one of the popular kids in high school all over again. THIS, is MY problem. It's something I have to change in myself. What I truly need to focus on is connecting with the people who are dealing with similar issues and who need to feel understood, despite the pain and the craziness it has brought to their lives.  Please be clear, this post isn't a cry for more "Likes" or Comments on Facebook.

Going through all that I have only makes the small things in life all that much more precious. My request of you is that next time you see my blog post appear on Facebook, don't think of sadness. I'm just asking for a shift in your perception of me. Strength is not something we are granted. We have to endure some stormy days to earn it, and we've all been there in some way, shape or form. There is a secret I've learned over the years. God makes a great raincoat. Yes, I have suffered, but to do nothing with all I've learned from it would make my suffering be in vain. And that serves no one. That lets the negativity win, and my cup isn't just half full, it overflows.

Thank you for supporting me on this journey!