Faith is the Substance of Things Hoped For, and Possibly Kicked and Screamed For?

So often, I read lifestyle blogs or medical news that detail the effects of stress on our bodies. I have long accepted this but failed to fundamentally change the way I live my life in order to preserve myself. The last several months, however, have provided me with a frightening but fascinating experiment in Y’all, This Is What Happens When Your Body Can’t Handle Any More Stress.

Ben and I both caught the flu and each developed secondary infection in January. That illness was easily the worst I’d had in 20 years. Ben, already at risk for dehydration and complications because of Crohn’s Disease, lost 16 lbs. If you are familiar with our timeline, you will remember that we ended 2017 with 4 psychiatric hospital stays for Mom. She was released the last time on December 23, and as you could expect, our Christmas celebration was difficult. By the time the New Year rolled around, regular visits to her apartment became impossible, and Ben and I were having to manage many aspects of her life. I even had to coordinate ambulance transport and conduct hospital business from my couch at home while suffering from the flu. She had called me and told me some disturbing information, and I felt as though her life was at risk. She was taken again to the hospital on that day, but ultimately wasn’t admitted. Our pastor graciously picked her up from the ER and took her home, since we were too ill to drive.

We were barely recovered when we made the decision to move her into our home. I’ve chronicled many of the challenges we’ve faced on this blog, so you know the unrelenting demands that a caregiver faces every day. Perhaps you are also a caregiver, and you face similar struggles as well.

In any event, I began experiencing heart palpitations in March due to the emotional and physical stress of taking care of Mom. I mean, these suckers were relentless – imagine the sensation of your heart skipping a beat, the sudden rush of inhalation that follows it. Behind it is an electric shock of adrenaline. Now imagine this happening 100 times a day, whether you are sitting or standing or lying down. This became my new normal.

Several of my female friends had also dealt with this same phenomenon. “This same thing happened to me,” their messages would read, “It was really bad the year my sister went through chemo/the month after my husband died/when I had to quit my job to care for my dad.” Every single one of them experienced palpitations while enduring heartbreaking experiences, and every single one of them recovered following resolution of their stressors.

Fascinating! Horrible!

I was encouraged but still frightened. After all, my father died from a heart attack at 48, and I’m knocking on 40’s door. So, I went to the doctor and was sent for both an echocardiogram and a cardiac stress test. Although the testing itself caused me a great deal of anxiety, I remain grateful for my health insurance that provided the opportunity to even go get it checked out. I know there are plenty of women who can’t afford or have access to basic self-care.

After a mix-up with my test results (yes, really), I was given great news: the palpitations, as uncomfortable as they felt, were stress-related. My doctor’s advice was to get up and walk around when I started to feel them, so that hopefully my heart’s natural rhythm would override the irregular rhythm squirted out by adrenaline and directed by cortisol.

I did tend to feel the palpitations less when active, but Mom’s endless anxiety about everything from her food to her future only fed m y own, so I felt no relief. Despite the care of excellent doctors and our full attention at home, she just needed more help than Ben and I could give her. By the beginning of April, we were told that Mom had finally been accepted onto the waiting list of a quality nursing home in Maryville, only a 30-minute drive away. This was wonderful news – until we found out she was number #35 on the list. Since Mom was being cared for at home without major problems, almost every other person on that waiting list was considered a higher priority.

My sister began planning a trip to take Mom back to Ohio with her, just so Ben and I could have a respite. This was no small feat for her, as she is an entrepreneur, and spring begins her busiest season. She and her business partner own a Midwest comic-con, and the weeks leading up to the Con are grueling. I couldn’t imagine how she would be able to care for Mom while trying to manage dozens of volunteers and soothe picky celebrities, but it meant the world to us that she would even try. Even a single 24 hours alone with my husband for the first time in months would have been incredible.

We were used to keeping a close eye on Mom due to her balance problems and medication sensitivities. In late April, she began exhibiting signs of a particular medication toxicity, one that we had dealt with before. She had been taking a medication for seizures since before I was born, and for many years her levels were stable – until the seemingly endless combinations of psychotropic medications were introduced. Sometimes her new meds caused her to need to take more of the anti-seizure drug, sometimes less. It left Mom feeling jelly-legged and woozy. During one recent Saturday drive, she had a seizure in the backseat. This was her first seizure in many years, and it was scary. We had been traveling down I-40 when it started, and by God’s grace we were able to pull over safely so I could get in the back seat with her to assist while Ben drove us to the nearest ER. So, while we had total confidence in her doctors, it was a reminder that within the discipline of medicine there is a definite learning curve.

Sure enough, Mom’s medication levels were toxic. This time, the doctors admitted her to the hospital for stricter observation. Ben and I literally begged every practitioner we came into contact with to help us get Mom placed in her nursing home. Literally. Everyone. Because at this point, we simply couldn’t take care of Mom another day. She wasn’t eating in our home. She wasn’t happy in our home. And her medication levels could not be monitored the way they needed to be in our home.

And it worked. Well, God worked. We were able to take Mom directly from the hospital to the rehab section of nursing home, where she is expected to transition to long-term care soon. It is not a “done deal,” because we are still currently fighting to have her Medicaid approved. Her application has been twice denied for, frankly, petty and false reasons rendered by the Medicaid case worker out of Nashville. It has been so ridiculous that Mom’s local case workers (from an advocate group called ETHRA) have had to contact the Nashville case worker’s supervisor twice for resolution. Yes, really.

So please pray for continued good news on this front. And it is such good news! After her release from the hospital, I wrote a gushing and emotional email to the staff at Parkwest Hospital, who treated her. We were so grateful for their help. And would you believe that within 48 hours of having Mom placed in her new home, where she is safe and well-cared for, my heart palpitations were reduced by 75%? Fascinating!

I’ll be honest – I would like to say, “See? Look how the Lord took care of things! I had faith that he would!” but that would be a lie. My faith in God is real, but I find it much easier to remind others of our Christian belief in His promises than to believe it myself. So much of this doubt comes from childhood poverty and being shown by others’ actions that I couldn’t rely on them. And because of that, I left the Christian church for years, convinced that flawed, human, Jesus-loving people who let me down = Jesus Himself. That isn’t true, but I was too angry and hurt to think differently.

I’ve had several readers of this blog reach out to say that they appreciate my willingness to share such personal details of my life. Thank you for reading and for your encouragement. My words are set aside for you with love because I hope they can help you the way you help me. The subject of doubt seems to be a taboo one among Christians, but I don’t want it to be. Despite my wilting in the Foothills Belk after another horrible bathroom accident, my rage-crying about the Medicaid case worker, or my unspoken fears that this process would never end and my mother would die on my couch anxious and confused, the Lord still answered my prayer. So, while my lack of faith is a sign of my Christian immaturity, this story is, ultimately, a sign of His faithfulness. It is not the kind of story that a flashy televangelist would highlight at the beginning of his sermon. It is the kind of story that I would tell you over coffee, tears ruining my waterline eyeliner and the woefully inadequate brown paper napkins I use to blow my nose, because you are my friend, and this is the truth about how God works in my life.

May 13, 2018