The urologist moved the camera along my insides, while multiple doctors and nurses ducked in, and I believe at one point the Fed Ex guy even popped by for a sneak peek, their collective confusion evident.
In my 30 years of being a urologist and doing thousands of these, I’ve never seen anything like this.
It’s always fun to hear a specialist say those words with a cement face.
So here we are. At a loss for this weird mass my bladder confiscated. What is it? How do we treat it? Only time will tell. I’m bouncing around from doctor to doctor like a sphere in a pin ball machine. Ziiiiiip. Ping. Ping. Ping. Hoping for answers as I shoot from side to side and down then up.
We’re still doing life but now it’s peppered with doctor appointments, surgery scheduling, trying to gain clarity for Umi. Yes, I’m referring to it as Umi. Blobby, alien-like Umi. ‘Cuz if I can’t be rid of it just yet, I may as well befriend it.
And then days after the question-mark appointment, I had a meltdown in the bathroom. Our teeny pocket of a master bath where God often speaks the loudest and most clear.
Right there clutching sink bowl, I bowed in front of the oval mirror and told God, I don’t want this stupid mass in me. I’ve done the hard stuff. I want the positive, beauty-from-ashes, bloomy story. This mass pricks at everything I don’t want to be about.
Shame and embarrasment washed hot over my shoulders.
And Real spoke, When you wish for a story that’s not yours, it will become your idol. I have you right here.
So I cursed. And cried. And felt all the scary-controlly-unknown emotions. I thought of a dear mentor friend’s story. About how she lost a baby in a car accident and laid in bed for a month, covered deep in depression blankets. Completely uncomfortable being the one needing care when, until then, she had offered it to everyone else.
I thought about how stories aren’t grown through perfection and roses and ideals but hard stuff. But man, aren’t those stories so pretty?
Hard though. Hard is where we grow.
From cementy soil. Tilling. Periods of waiting and staring where we know we planted those darn seeds if only they would just.sprout.
I think of Abraham. Who was told he’d be a dad, and then what probably felt like a zillion years, grabbed a local hottie and had a baby with her.
Waiting sucks. So does going through hard stuff. But as Lisa-Jo Baker says in Surprised By Motherhood, “The only way to go through something is to go through it.”
I look at the perfect, the fun, the happy moments and wish for those. Yet, in the same thought, those are the very things I fight against. And God pulls me back, once again, to the center of hard, and speaks. This is where I have you. This is where you need me. That over there, that perfect ideal is a circumstance.
Friends, It’s okay for our spirits to be well and our souls not.
Maybe you need to hear what a friend spoke directly into my shaky insides:
Your situations don’t define your identity.
You are still fun even if your circumstances aren’t.
You are still beautiful even if you don’t feel it.
You still matter surrounded by piles of mundane.
And I’m learning this again and again and I’ll echo it back to your tender ears, in case you need to hear it even now.
We are still fun even if we’re going through some hard stuff.
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