Stop Telling me "God has a Plan"

Whenever someone has suffered a loss or is grieving, there's a whole cluster of clichés that are repeated as though they were a ritual.

• "It's a part of God's plan." 
• "They're in a better place now." 
• "It could have been worse." 
• "You're young enough to have another child/remarry/find someone new." 
• "Be grateful you had the time with them you did." 
• "God must have needed another angel in heaven." 
• "I know EXACTLY how you feel [and proceeds to compare their grief in such a way that monopolizes the empathy]." 
• "You have so many other things to be grateful for." 
• "Be thankful you have another daughter/son/grandparent/parent." 

...and their variations against many others.  If the phrase starts with "At least..." it's probably somewhere in the vicinity of these.  I remember experiencing a slew of them when my grandfather died, specifically at his visitation.  "He's in a better place now," one person told me in consolation, with a gentle pat on the arm.

At fifteen, I wasn't having it, replying back in tears "but he's not here!"  I don't recall what their response was, but I know that this is not what they were expecting.  I was angry at them in that moment.  Their words were well-meant, intended to be comforting, but the implication behind some of the words was that I shouldn't feel bad because he was in a better place.  My grief was not being recognized in that moment--there is an edge of "get over it" in those words that I cannot abide.  I was missing my grandfather, and they were effectively telling me I shouldn't be feeling that.  Even now in my adult-filtered responses, I feel my response would be something like "Yes, I know, but I'm still hurting now."  I am not agonizing in that moment about the state of his spirit but instead feeling separated and recognizing acutely the missing presence of someone I love.  This statement is accidentally manipulative to get me to stop crying at a time when I really need to have a good cry and feel what I'm feeling.

The one I really want to address though are variants of "God has a plan."  This is another phrase that translates into a "Stop crying and get over it."  This phrase does not recognize my grief; it tries to explain it away so that I stop crying.  But I need to be present with my grief.  I need to process, and I need to recognize that state of loss.  Saying "God has a plan," as though that's all there needs to be said about the situation I'm going through so that we can move on, that's not compassion.  That's "I'm uncomfortable with you feeling bad so...stop."

That's reason enough for distaste as it is.  But the phrase can be even more insidious:  someone that is experiencing some serious grief that is told that the loss they are experiencing is "part of God's plan," how are they supposed to interpret that?  God did this to you so that you could learn something?  God did this to you for some divine reason?  On the one hand, that can be a comforting thought in some circumstances that at least there's a validation for all of this suffering, like undergoing a medical test, a temporary pain for your overall future betterment.  Sometimes that makes the sting a little bit more bearable.  But other times it generates resentment.  I don't personally believe that God is in heaven doling out miscarriages, terrible diseases, family drama, abusive relationships, and whatever else from a selected seat in the clouds, picking and choosing which people suffer what and when.  That does not line up with the compassionate and loving vision of God that I have.  When someone is vulnerable, why would I want to suggest to them that God might have done this to them on purpose?  

I do think that things happen and God can take that something and turn it toward something good.  I also feel there can be people and situations in our lives to help us make decisions, but I don't feel that everything is sketched out to use suffering to help us make the decisions.  I buy into that free will thing, where I think that God lets us suffer the consequences of our own actions and has a direction for us, but that doesn't mean that being cut off in traffic, choosing Taco Bell for lunch, or getting to the grocery store before we run out of toilet paper, is scripted out, in my estimation of things.  Other people's free will sometimes has splash damage, too, meaning that you can get caught in the consequences of someone else's free will.  But sometimes, this world is just chaos.  Again, I think that God can take those places and turn them into something beautiful, but I reject the idea of the pick-and-choose suffering model.  

Between that implication and the subtle manipulation of "you should stop being sad now," I'm not a fan of how this phrase has been used.  I think the speakers of "God has a plan" tend to have good intent, but the impact of this statement can be more damaging that helpful, either by denying someone their own grief or planting a vision of God that is cruel.  People are allowed to experience their grief as they need to; trying to bring up a theological discussion may not be the best help at the moment.

I don't want to think about my chronic illness as something that God has done to teach me and those that love me some kind of lesson.  I've learned a lot about patience in my experience with Crohn's disease and the American healthcare system; it's definitely shaped who I am.  But I don't need a "master plan" for that suffering to be validated.  Some beautiful things developed from it, and I have grown so much compassion for others that grieve or are going through their own complex medical issues--it makes me feel old in some interesting ways.  

I've seen "God has a plan" used to silence people that needed to talk about something important.  I've seen that phrase used to belittle the pain someone is feeling.  I've seen people digest that phrase with a lot of significant misgivings.  There may be some scenarios where it helps, that it's a consolation prize in a world of chaos and hurt, but I have seen too many where the impact was more pain, despite how well-intended the intent was.  At this point in the game, when those words are directed at me, I shake my head internally. 

If they're going to try to steer the conversation I need to have with platitudes meant to end it, I can oblige and let them end it, even let them go on thinking that they helped.  I try to give people the benefit of the doubt--they're also not the individual I'm going to go to in the future when I need someone to really listen.  And I'm not saying that I haven't used some of the aforementioned phrases at some point in my life either, specifically the borderline "I'm glad [person/animal] is no longer in pain;" I try to temper it now with something like "you must miss them terribly" to still open the door for grief.  

The best kind of helpers regarding grief tend to do the following, in my experience:  

• Tend to the physical (make sure that food and other basic necessities are met)
• Continue to check back in, acknowledging that grief isn't something magically over once you hit an invisible expiration date
• Don't try to rush the grieving process
• Listen openly, WITHOUT the intent to "fix it" (which I think is where a lot of these platitudes come from)
• Be a compassionate presence:  just being there without saying a word can be HUGE
• Be sincere

But most of all, let the grieving person set the pace.  If they don't want to talk about it, maybe it's time to be a distraction.  I've flat-out asked that question many times ("would you like to talk or would you rather be distracted?"), and often even checking back in with the same question later.  Don't shut down the conversation just because you're uncomfortable with someone's tears--let people cry, dammit.  Send a card if you're not able to listen from where you are (either physically or emotionally).  Don't say anything because it's what you're "supposed" to say in this situation.  There isn't a magic line of knowing the person well enough to talk to their family--send a card if you're not sure.  And rest assured that no one really knows what to say at first, in my opinion because we avoid talking about death in our culture, but this is a skill set that can be learned. Everyone will encounter grief at some point:  these are skills worth learning.  

January Chores of the Chronically Ill

I was talking with a friend at work the other day about the insurance plans offered by our employer.  He is on the FlexPay plan; I have been on the High Deductible plan.  He has a card, loaded with X amount of dollars for the year; I expect to be kicked in the teeth paying for the full deductible ($4,500 in our case) but with everything in network covered after that, storing up in an HSA in the meanwhile to minimize some of the teeth-kickage.  He was explaining to me that he had bumped up his coverage a bit to $1,000.  I was immediately confused and asked for clarification whether that amount was supposed to last a month.  He clarified that the amount was going to last him the whole year.

That blew my mind completely.  I know that a higher percent of the health-related expense is covered on the get-go with the FlexPay plan, where insurance covers like 90-95% of in-network, but you pay the rest out of the FlexPay card or some such thing, whereas mine only covers 80% at the start.  But, still.  My major medication, the one that I go in for routine maintenance every eight weeks for, is $8,000 a dose.  That means at MINIMUM, I am $1,000 for a single week.  And that is NOT including doctors' appointments, my ostomy supplies, other prescriptions, routine checkups, or, God forbid, getting into an accident or coming down with pneumonia.

I...I don't understand that world where you could spend ONLY $1,000 on health, not even counting over the counter Tylenol.  I cannot relate.  There's no way to wrap my head around that; it's so entirely foreign.  The amount that he has for the full year I spend in less than I week to stay functioning.  My brain is sputtering trying to articulate my confusion.  It makes no sense.  Does not compute.

You may notice at the end of every year that even though the holidays are coming up, it is VERY busy.  On the one hand, yes, we're in cold and flu season, which means that people might be sick and therefore at the doctor's office--duh, I know.  However, the other mitigating factor is that those who know their deductible is hit for the year are trying to get services squared away before it restarts in January, to put off that pain for as long as possible, OR people how have been hoarding their FlexPay money for emergencies want to use it up before it goes away with the year roll-over.  This means that eye exams, dental care, and any other system or specialists that could be put off is now inundated with appointments, naturally while staff is requesting time off to be with their families for the holidays.  This means a LOT of back-to-back appointments, extended waits in the waiting room, and a long line at the hospital lab.  Happens every year.

And then January hits.  Even if you stayed on the same insurance, there's a new insurance card and revised forms to fill out the next time that you go to the pharmacy or the doctor's office.  Long waits happen for different reasons as the staff work to juggle the influx of paperwork and run out of clipboards for the waiting area.

If you're chronically ill, you learn to expect this.  Every appointment for the first couple months, you arrive a little early with your insurance card and ID already out to hand over, even in the places that know you on a first-name basis.  I had my first round of Entyvio (my 8K medication) last week.  Before that, I had already reached out to my insurance and my doctor's office to ensure that they had my new insurance card, just to be sure I didn't need to be pre-determined again because two digits changed on the card.  In fact, knowing that change was coming, I even called my insurance to ask if the pre-determination was tied to the individual or the member ID (they told me individual, but I was glad to be proactive because I was pre-determined again anyway).  But I know I have to be proactive like this, every January.  There's a list of chores that have to be done to ready my health billing for the new year.

1. Settle all of the paperwork for the insurance re-up with my employer and confirm that HSA deposits are flowing correctly into my HSA account for the new year.
2. Ensure that my doctor's office has my new insurance card PRIOR to the first Entyvio infusion--no one wants to be on the hook for $8,000 if they don't have to be
3. Call the co-pay assistance program through the manufacture of Entyvio to ensure I'm still enrolled in that program--more information on that here
4. I confirm that my ostomy supplies also have the updated insurance information, since those orders contribute to my deductible (each order between $300-$500), and I do this mostly online, ordering 3 months of supplies at a time
5. After my experience mid-year last year, I will need to get an appointment with an ostomy nurse to update my prescription for ostomy supplies, otherwise they might be denied by insurance and thus my order is also placed on hold, my order for important medical supplies
6. I figure in an extra ten to fifteen minutes for the first appointment with every provider for the year to write the same pieces of information, my consent to billing, and my HIPAA forms for each one; sometimes I'll call ahead for these forms to have them beforehand
7. Always, again, have my insurance card and ID ready for every appointment in the first three months of the year

Usually by the time that March hits, I don't have to expect any new paperwork and we have also come close to, if not hitting already, our deductible.  That's normal for us.  

One year, a little while back, Andy came down with something, I don't even remember what.  We had to pick up a prescription for him at Walgreens.  It took an extra couple of minutes because he had to update his insurance information--it was September, and he hadn't yet needed to update his insurance information in their system.  I was thoroughly disgusted, simultaneously happy for the marker of his good health but still entirely perplexed and envious that he hadn't any reason to have already done this by that point in the year.  It's a perspective I just don't understand.  He didn't understand the January ritual.  

Caring for Melvin is another set of tasks that need to be addressed in the January ritual of preparing for the new year of medical costs.  Caring for my ostomy requires its own specialist and own set of supplies, adding to my already full slate of pieces that needed tending to at the beginning of the year.  It's a facet of so many Americans' lives that we just don't talk about.  I recognize that my reality of dealing with the billing department of my various care providers is an entirely foreign experience to someone, just as even the idea of only spending $1,000 for the whole year is entirely foreign to me.  We've talked to a few friends of ours overseas about how much we expect to spend on health every year and especially what we could spend on health out of pocket without insurance, and it's an entirely bonkers idea to them (more on that here).  

Why do we accept this is okay?  When did this all become normal?  Why in the world do we actually think healthcare costs this much?  

[Insert your own favorite rage gif here--I couldn't decide.]

The short answer for me is that I will die otherwise, waste away at the very least.  I can't choose to boycott the medications I need to keep me going.  There's so much hidden maintenance to that maintenance--it's hard not to just give up, and some people do stop fighting, eating the cost or not pushing for a second opinion because the emotional effort of wading through the swamp of logistics is just too much.  And it's tough.

But in the meanwhile, I'm patiently checking things off the list, sorting my new pre-determination letter in one pile, reviewing the first of many Explanation of Benefits for the new year in my email inbox, already verbally confirmed I'm in my co-pay assistance program still, and intending to send a scanned update of my insurance card to my ostomy supply service within the next couple of days.  Got to keep fighting for my own health, one battle at a time.

Post-Post Lasik

An update!  Whelp, we seem to slowly continue to improve.    I'm not always convinced that my right eye is getting better, but I know that I have some potentially mitigating factors.  Specifically, my body tends to heal more slowly than your average bear, but to exacerbate that, I'm also on the low end of my meds cycle, coming off of the previous one that I received a week late (just got them yesterday, actually).  All that this means is that I have a little more inflammation going on in my body, which means that the inflammation in my eyes might take a little more time to resolve.  Granted, that's not a professional medical opinion, but that's what I have cobbled together and it has a semblance of sense.  In short, I'm not panicking about things being slow until after we've got that round of meds in for a day or two AND I'll have my next follow up in another week anyway.

But it is a little difficult not to panic.  I feel a bit out of control in the healing process, both prior surgeries and this one.  I cannot control how fast my body is going to recuperate.  I don't know when I need to be worried and when I should just be patient.  I am proactive about my health and simultaneously I loathe the idea of going to the doctor or any expert without something "legitimate" to bring up--at work, it seems as soon as I call IT to help, suddenly the problem with my computer seems to have fixed itself.  I don't want to waste the emotional energy of scheduling an appointment only to be told that everything is fine while simultaneously I want the reassurance that everything is fine.  Which means that ultimately I have resigned to waiting, giving it an adequate amount of time but still finding ways to measure what I can, keeping up on the eyedrops and following the rules (mostly) until then.

It's hard to stay patient and compassionate toward my body as it tries to figure itself out.  That does not sit well with me at all., feeling out of control in this camp  Before, all I had to do was clean my glasses, put them on, and adjust them back into place and, voila, I could see.  I don't have that assurance now.  I am simultaneously encouraged and dismayed that squinting doesn't seem to help right now--if it did help, then perhaps the laser didn't etch in the right prescription; if it doesn't help, then it's more likely that it's an inflammation issue that can calm down rather than something more insidious.  But being out of control and at the whims of my body, constantly in a state of hyperawareness as I try to find any potential warning signs and then weigh whether or not it is something to pay attention to which takes a great deal of emotional energy, that puts me in some spaces that I don't want to be in.  It makes the wait a certain flavor of agonizing.

In the meanwhile, though, I have made a few observations.

1. In order to put in eyedrops, I find I must lean my head back.  That in and of itself is not a problem, until we factor in the photosensitivity and that a lot of lights tend to be fixed to the ceiling.  Putting in eyedrops, then, has become an odd mix between relief and pain, trying not to stare at the lights too long while getting the drops in.  I've been rather annoyed at this pattern of lighting structures for the past couple of weeks which had certainly never bothered me before.
2. Pray tell, why do people have to have their mouths open when putting in eyedrops or applying mascara?  There's got to be a weird physiological reason for this.  
3. With the shift in my appearance, now, with the glasses fully gone, I've been contemplating what kinds of other changes I might want to make.  I'm updating my gym regimen, contemplating new hairstyles, and even looking at what makeup I use.  It's an opportunity to take "New Year, new me," into a greater focus.  

The gym component has a slightly deeper edge than health and vanity--this is in particular a way to help reassert control in my life.  I feel like I have more control when I adhere to some kind of strict workout program in a few different ways.  This has led to some overworking before, but with that awareness I'm trying to listen to my body more carefully while still learning to be compassionate in my response to it.  That will make some of the difference, making forward motion hopefully as healthfully as possible.  

And that is what is going to make more of a difference in the waiting now, even as it frustrates me--I will be aiming to go through this watching with compassion for myself rather than angry suspicion.  Damn teachable moments, making me stretch and grow when I just want to be cranky.  Deep breaths.  Let time happen and all that.  And naturally I'll be updating folks here.  

Impossible Tasks

Andy and I have seen a component floating around on Facebook, as things do, talking about a particular depression symptom that has been dubbed as "The Impossible Task."  In other article (found here and, while long, is definitely worth the read) has called it "Errand Paralysis." I want to throw my voice in the ring and say that this is emphatically something that I resonate with.

What is an "Impossible Task?"  An impossible task refers to something that is objectively a very easy thing to do, including replying to an email, making a phone call, driving to a particular local location to drop something off, clicking the "yes, I'm attending" button Facebook, etc. and yet, while these are completely innocuous things they feel impossible.  There is a strange weight on the process.  For some reason, typing in the letters and pressing send feels like Sophie's Choice.  This makes no sense to anyone on the outside--they're just waiting for you to say yes or no to their text, with no life-changing repercussions or invisible conditions.  The main difference between an Impossible Task and a regular task is that you're aware of how superficial and small the task is--again, objectively it's nothing compared to that big project at work or the large undertaking of a multi-step process.  That frustration with oneself, knowing that it's not a big deal so why are you reacting to it this way, that's the worst part.  The feeling of inadequacy feeds back into yourself, where you're certain that you're even more of a failure because you couldn't bring yourself to get into the turn lane and go to Walgreens while you were already out or something similar.  When I was (or when I get) really low, eating lunch or taking a shower easily fit into these categories.

In my experiences, these tasks don't necessarily have a pattern, but there can be some elements where one text reply is fine but two falls into Impossible Task territory, even if it's just the word "okay."  In other words, I feel that I'm more quantity based, that even small tasks feel like just that one more thing if I'm already feeling a bit overwhelmed.  Another pattern for me is that texts and replying through Messenger become Impossible Tasks more readily than anything else.  I can't tell you how many people have told me that I'm a bad texter, not because of what I send or how I send it, but I'm not infrequently slow to reply.  Sometimes it's fine and I can spit back an answer as soon as I'm able; other times I read the text and feel a small internal freeze of "I can't deal with this right now," even if the question or greeting is completely innocuous.  I have yet to figure out the pattern.  Sometimes replying to an email hits me the same way.

Hooray for high functioning depression.

I understand the parts I can about the process, and I have named it, but that does not mean that it excuses it entirely.  Sometimes, people need a reply to set their own schedules, and there are some social rules about replying to texts.  I weigh these to a point but only to a point.  With some texts, I have purposefully waited until I see that individual in person (for non-pressing things) to give them the answer verbally.  Part of me thinks "well, if it was that important, they would have called," but I also recognize the availability of texts allows us to give the recipient the courtesy of replying on their own schedule and less likely to interrupt what they're doing.  Plus, zinging a quick text can be done less obviously than having a conversation, if that individual shouldn't be on the phone wherever they're currently at, for whatever reason.  I still need to find a way to reply and make those important phone calls such as filling out my insurance paperwork for the new year.  I find that checklists help me, that outlining them as a single point on a line makes them feel slightly less daunting, particularly as the list steadily gets checked off.   Even small steps like eating the ingredients of a sandwich instead of making one, that gets around "preparing food" when that seems like too much.  

Andy experiences these, too, some of which revolve around household chores as well as my pattern of emails/texts.  However, we've found a loophole:  we can trade impossible tasks.  I hand Andy my phone and ask him to reply to that text asking when we're arriving for a family event.  He asks if I can schedule an appointment for him that he's been putting off.  And suddenly, the invisible weight is gone.  The task is done and no longer looming on the periphery.  I ask him if he will take care of this medical bill; he asks me if I wouldn't mind taking an extra turn unloading the dishes this week.  I'm fortunate to have this support readily available, but I've learned that you can start asking this in other places, too.  Asking for a ride somewhere means I'm not driving there and suddenly it's okay.  Asking someone else to tell someone already going to the same event to RSVP on my behalf works in some cases.  There are some good ways that Andy and I can help each other with these:  we've adapted some sneaky ways to get around these tasks, but there are still some that linger.  Each Task is different in its own way, but we are building our individual library of working through them. It can expand further--I've offered to make other appointment type calls for people before, since I feel a bit more at ease in those places than others.  I've offered to meet people places or go with them to certain events to ensure that they're not alone for the process, at least.  Once the Impossible Task is identified, there are a number of ways to be sneaky about helping get it done, if you're on the outside of it.

It doesn't seem like much, but relieving the weight of a simple but still impossibly difficult task makes a HUGE difference, mitigating some of the burden while also breaking the chain of that cycle of inadequacy.  That simple awareness and even the offer is a wonderful way that we can care for each other.

Post Lasik, Yo

I have this habit that kicks in any time I'm faced with something traumatic and especially something medical--I tend to the physical first and process the emotional part later.  For example, if you cry in front of me, yes, there will be hugs and reassurances, but I will also be encouraging you to drink water, handing you tissues, checking how you're been sleeping, etc.  Physically hurt?  We're going to be stemming the bleeding or offering a heating pad while discussing the what happened.  Family member in the hospital?  I will ask if I can bring food.  I want to ensure that the physical is attended to particularly when emotions are running high.

I do the same thing to myself.  With my ostomies, it was a series of what does my body need, how do I care for it, what do I need to prepare for, what appointments do I need to schedule, how much grief is insurance going to give me, etc.  Then, I set to work physically tending to myself.  The emotional part all gets processed later.  ...hopefully.

Lasik is following that same pattern for me, where I'm so focused on the care for my eyes, trying to be mindful of when they feel dry and balancing my drop schedule on that rather than the clock, erring on the side of soaking them.  I need to protect them as much as possible in certain situations and be planning for those.  I need to be patient toward how my body is healing and regard it with compassion rather than frustration, but that's as far as I've really delved into the emotional aspect yet.  As a result, I've had a few people ask me how I like it so far, and I don't really have an answer.  It hasn't settled in yet.

But here's what I can tell you--it's definitely better and I'm looking forward to the point when it's totally healed and the blurry/hazy spots are gone.  I'm trying to get used to my face again.

So here's how it went:

Surgery day itself arrived--I went to work for the morning and then Mamma P picked me up.  We went down the Lasik center of Gailey Eye Clinic and waited in the main area.

From there, they wanted to take a couple of additional measurements.  I was fine with them clearing up any error now than after they warmed up the laser, certainly, so we hammered those out quickly.  Then, it was back to the waiting room.  I stood, feeling that I would be more anxious to sit until I was brought into the in-between room.

There is ALWAYS an in-between room on a procedure.  Sometimes there are a couple, but there's always at least one in-between room.  With surgery, you're with your family for the first space, then taken back to the in-between room where they're actually prepping your for surgery or covering some last minute components before taking you to pre-op.  Then, when it's your turn you're in the actual procedure room where whatever it is going to happen.  The waiting room, you can have your family and friends with you; the procedure room, it's go time where you've done everything you needed to, it's time to let it happen, and the staff is focused on accomplishing the goal you've been preparing for.  But the in-between room, that's where the worst of the waiting is, where you're left alone on the edge of whatever is going to happen, staff coming in to discuss things with you but otherwise leaving you to wait alone.  The in-between room at Gailey had some very comfortable chairs, at least.  There was a familiarity of this process that was both comforting and very much not, pulling me back to previous episodes.  This was a medical procedure but definitely out of my wheelhouse.

So when I was asked what my nerves were like, I answered with a "...4?", the question mark much more audible than I would have liked.  5mg of Valium later, and that was certainly a bit calmer.  They walked me through the remaining care instructions, rehashing some that had already been covered before but were incredibly important, such as the eyedrops schedule, wearing the eyeshields and other precautions.  We also reviewed a recommended strategy for putting in these drops that I have gratefully adopted.  I had an antibiotic drop, a steroid drop (to help speed up the healing), and had already bought several boxes of the rewetting drops.  The eyeshields were to tape over my eyes at night for the first week, to prevent any accidental injuries during sleep when everything was particularly delicate.  I was given a pair of sunglasses with instructions to wear them whenever I was outside, particularly the first month.

And then there was another quick in-between room to recheck measurements, add in some numbing drops, and such before heading back to the base in-between room, allowing those drops to take effect.  Then, it was actually go-time.

There was a bed to lie on and machines on the right and left sides of it, by the head.  The bed was brown/grey, but most everything else was white because that's the sterile color that we associate with medical and confidence.  They lined me up where I needed to be on the bed, and, to my delight, handed me a pink stuffed dog, appropriately named "Iris," to hold on to.  The valium was definitely working, but it was still reassuring to have something to hold.

The bed swung over to my left.  I had to hold open my eye while the machine got into place.  My eyelids were held open on my left eye to start, if I recall correctly.  It wasn't painful, and I blinked with my other eye normally.  More than anything I was annoyed that I had to keep looking directly at a light, asked to stay focused on that spot as best I could.  The few parts that I could see in that eye without my glasses were completely blurry as they finished moving the cornea out of the way on that eye, all the while complimenting me (the "you're doing so well!" kinds of statements).  It didn't hurt--again, I was more annoyed that I had to stare at a light and otherwise that I knew I wasn't actually blinking with that eye.  Then, they moved on to the other eye, repeating the same process.  Phase one complete.

Then, the bed was swung over to my right.  Again, we attended one eye and then the other, fitting into the non-blinking apparatus for a single eye.  The cornea was flipped open--this did involve some kind of tool that I thought I saw, but I'm not completely sure, like a tiny Allen wrench.  Still no pain thanks to the numbing drops, just disconnected weirdness of seeing something close but not feeling it.  Then the laser started whirring, again while I had to focus on a light.  This part took, I would guess, about five minutes.  The flap was closed and they moved on to the other eye.

And then we were done.  Maybe about fifteen minutes an eye, total.  Immediately upon sitting up I could see more details without my glasses than I could have in years.  It was like looking through plastic wrap or a lens with Vaseline, but there were defined lines less than a foot from my face--a huge improvement.  I walked back to the in-between room without needing assistance.  One more check in the other room, to ensure that everything seemed to be in order and to help ensure that first few drops went in well as well as some solution painted over the surface of the eye, and that was it.  It was weirdly anticlimactic in some ways.

I walked out in a bit of a daze, processing that that was it and it was done.

Mamma P dropped me off at home and I aimed to take a nap as soon as possible, get a jumpstart on some of that healing.  I had been warned that about two hours after everything was done, things would get rough for a bit, feeling like there was sand or an eyelash in my eyes that I absolutely was not supposed to touch.  They said drops every fifteen minutes when awake--once that hit, they were going in about every six.  I napped for a bit, then woke up and repeated the process.  About four hours after, we were fully over the hump.  Then, it was dealing with constant rewetting drops and photosensitivity.

Flattering, I know.  Those are the eye shields.

As it stands now, getting on two weeks, the radius of clarity is continuing to expand, with some of that sensation of looking through plastic wrap starting further away.  I can, provided my eyes are sufficiently wet, consistently see with great clarity in about a four foot radius before the plastic wrap effect seems to start.  And lights are still a tricky thing, meaning that driving at night is a bit rough, still, with the sudden blast of headlights creating its own halo in my vision--and I've learned that different lights have different "signatures."  Some lights stretch like when you squint but have tears in your eyes; some lights look like they're on the other side of a frosted window, an impossibly smooth haze; some look like the texture of the shower door with the prismatic surface; other lights have sharp edges around like a tight spirograph.  Either way, I'm not driving at night more than I have to right now but am safe to do so.

I don't know how some of these elements will or will not clear up, yet, but the radius continues to expand.  Anyone worried about my driving, yes, I can read the sign over there that says the speed limit--it's just not completely crisp yet.  It can take a few weeks to be healed completely, but I will be putting drops in like a nervous habit for the next while regardless.

I'm excited for the "but what does it mean to me?" part to click in, where I'm able to really enjoy it and experience it rather than focus on the physical care I need.  So far, I've only reached for my glasses to adjust them sixteen times.  I look forward to where I no longer think of it and can buy a number of cute sunglasses.

Mandatory New Year's Reflection, 2019

Looking back on previous years (beginning 2016, pre-2017, starting 2017, and pre-2018), I can see a trend in thinking about the future with a guarded optimism.  2016 saw us looking forward to our Norway trip and moving to our current residence.  2017 ended with some significant health changes, going into the permanent colostomy.  2018 focused a lot on dealing with the fallout and reasserting health.  So, 2016 was The Year of Adventure and Exploration.  2017 was The Year of Self-Advocacy in health decisions.  2018 was The Year of Recovering. 

 2019 I have dubbed "The Year of the Precipice." 

I feel like we are on the edge of things.  I feel like we are climbing to the top ready to make some plunges. Andy and I are looking at where our goals and our finances are, trying to find where they can overlap or at least can be started toward something. There are lots of hypothetical situations, points were where talk about best case scenarios, and elements of how do we leave a cushion for worst case scenarios, all in the same stretch.  

The big one is that we're trying to sort out whether or when we'd like to buy a house.  Andy wants the autonomy of knowing that he can do what he wants to with his space, that he can plant a garden or paint a wall without seeking permission and otherwise carve out a spot that is uniquely his.  I want autonomy by maintaining the freedom to leave when our lease is up and in the security that someone will be coming by to fix things that eventually break, without the sudden financial shock disrupting other plans.  Same need; different strategies; lots of discussion.  

Somewhere along the way, we figured out that we could actually discuss elements of it if we sidelined some of the emotional elements temporarily.  On my part, Andy throwing Zillow links at me with "what do you think of this one?" was pushing too hard too fast and thus was shut down immediately, frustrating Andy who wanted to get an idea of what we might want to do.  This fits our respective approaches--Andy has to try things out to understand what he wants; I'm better at identifying what traits and factors I'm looking for in an item to find one that matches those parameters.  So, we shifted the house discussion from "what do you like about this option?" to "what would you want in a house?" which was a much safer conversation for me and helps Andy hone down his focus, including creating an EPIC spreadsheet to quantify and compare those elements.

But we've got my student debt to figure in.  And we're finally to a point in our snowballing where we're ready to attack this one head-on.  I don't want to add another debt in when we're actually close to being out of it.  It's tangible now:  if we knuckle down, we can be done with my student debt in a year in a half.  Eighteen months.  How much broader my world will seem for it.  So, yes, the housing argument sits against that, too, where I'm not keen to take on an albatross I don't have to, no matter how lovely its feathers are.

So here's where that leaves us, then:  we're in a state of preparing, of chipping away that debt in extra hundred dollar payments at a time, of assessing both what we want and what we need, of determining what the right balance between want and need we should land on, of obsessively checking our accounts and reconfiguring the budget anywhere we can give ourselves more space (mostly me); of feeling both close and impossibly far from our goals.

Last year left us with some very major shifts.  

• I was/am processing living with my permanent ostomy, which will be a lifelong process since it is a lifelong point of acceptance (see any post with text "Melvin and Me")
• Andy got a new position at work that has revitalized him in some good ways
• Andy began making "bad art" on his YouTube channel and hit some very important milestones for him.  I'm so very proud of how much he's learned in this process and delight in seeing the joy it brings him.
• We switched our Ford Escape for a Chevy Volt, appreciating that the Escape was what met our needs at a different time of our lives and that the Volt mets our needs and our values better with where we are now.  
• I crammed in a few more permanent changes with both a tattoo and Lasik eye surgery.
• I started taking a class through Heartland, and it's been immensely helpful to me to have a few places outside of work where I'm learning something new in a structured environment--this also includes starting voice lessons, and I'm very curious to see what I can actually do with this instrument.  

Apart from our immediate circle, there are a few other places that feel they are readying for a change.  Politically, the House is switching power and campaigning for 2020 is going to start sooner than any of us would really like.  There are a few people in our family that have had some significant changes to their health and might be experiencing their own significant life changes with that--grandparents getting older, the Little Cross Family expecting their first child.  Some friends are shifting their personal education goals around, too, which has my empathy in sorting through how to manage those components in the way best forward for them.  All four of my parents are also my friends with their own goals and worries.  My brothers are preparing for shifts in their lives.  I have a couple of cousins expecting their first child as well.  

There's just so much coming, clouds rolling ominously on the horizon.  But, I love a good thunderstorm.  I often express my anxiety by preparing to the point of preoccupation (yay for high functioning depression), and yet facing into 2019, I feel oddly reassured that I have placed safety nets where I needed to, exercised caution liberally, but still placed a lot of the pieces in the right positions.  There's a number of places that need to be shifted into the right place to initiate the chain reaction, but we're still building to a summit of some as-of-yet intangible shift.  Changes are coming.  I cannot speak to how hard or easy that will make 2020, but 2019 is building toward them.  I find myself looking toward the edge of the cliff--still a little ways off, but visible--and wondering what the view is going to look like by the end of the year.

Wishing you all the best 2019.