Control and Surrender
"I used to think the opposite of control is chaos. But it's not.
The opposite of control is surrender."
-- Erin Loechner, Chasing Slow
I had forgotten what fear felt like. How all of the oxygen is suddenly sucked out of the room. The gasping for air, your chest tight and painful with the effort of it. The dull ache in the pit of your stomach; the rise of bile in your throat. Fear is ugly.
Admittedly, we melted down for a few days. Google is a scary place when you hear the words malignant melanoma. For the second time in less than a year, I sat in an office and had a physician tell me that we might need to go to OHSU to meet with specialists in order to care for someone I love. I had no interest in going to OHSU. Not last August and certainly not now. I found myself reading about five year survival rates (and doing the quick, horrible math to figure out how old my kids would be at that time), navigating melanoma patient forums, researching treatment options. My degree and public health background were both helpful and hurtful-- I understood all the words, all of the jargon in the articles. I understood the words, and I wanted to un-know them. And I was angry. Oh, was I angry. That's sort of my M.O. in times of crisis--it feels easier to be angry than it does to be sad or scared; it makes me more task-oriented and operates as a distraction from the other, bigger feelings. I was mad at Jake for not getting the mole checked sooner. I had been asking for months. I was mad we didn't have a copy of the pathology report. I use MyChart and have records of everything--why don't you?! I was mad he wasn't going to have surgery for at least another two weeks. Wasn't this urgent?? I wanted to control all of the things. I wanted to fix all of the things. I wanted to go back in time. And I couldn't. Jake was out of town for three days the week we found out, and I cried myself to sleep every single night.
It was 32 days from the time we found out about the melanoma diagnosis to the day we found out the cancer had not spread. 32 days. It might as well have been eternity. A big, huge virtual hug to all of you who called, texted, emailed, Facebook messaged, etc. during that time. Your prayers and words of encouragement were everything. I mean it in all sincerity when I say that we went in to Jake's surgery with immense calm, peace and very little fear. We had every belief and expectation that the results would be negative and were deeply relieved, thankful, and so, so, so happy when we got the call to confirm what we had hoped to be true. Thank you for loving us so well during those 32 days!
In the midst of all of this unexpected cancer drama, Jake and I were also trying to move. Because we are crazy people.
We didn't plan for all of these things to happen at once (like anyone plans to get cancer), but that's just how the chips fell. (A quick back story here: Jake's position at Calapooia had ended in December and we were actively trying to figure out what was next for our family.) We were in Klamath Falls just before the cancer diagnosis, lunching at Klamath Basin Brewery. I mentioned offhandedly that I had seen a posting for a position they currently had open; Jake applied and had a phone interview within the week, an in-person interview and an offer the week after. We proposed a start date of May 1 to buy some time for me to get a job (there just wasn't much available for me to apply for at the time). As May approached, we were feeling more and more nervous about the time we'd be living apart, trying to manage all the logistics of childcare, living situation, selling the house, etc. I got a call out of the blue mid-April for a job I had applied for at the beginning of March. I interviewed the following Wednesday afternoon and had an offer Friday morning. The start date-- May 30. Everything seriously fell into place so easily it was almost shocking.
But that meant we needed to seriously scramble. We spent the remaining part of April interviewing short-term nannies, getting Lyla on waiting lists for preschools for the fall, finishing house projects, meeting with our listing agent, cleaning and staging the house, preparing at work for me to leave my job... and then May arrived and we juggled everything while living in different parts of the state.
It has been yet another rough season.
But during the past few months, I have thought so often about this very same time last year, and Fisher, our sweet, unexpected baby boy. Everything about Fisher (aside from the fact that we definitely wanted a second baby) was unplanned. We got pregnant when Jake was under-employed, at a time when we are actually trying NOT to get pregnant. There were concerns that Fisher might have Down Syndrome and I was experiencing thyroid issues, so I had more ultrasounds, an echocardiogram, and lots and lots of bloodwork. When I was 38 weeks pregnant, they thought perhaps Fisher had a heart murmur, so I had a non-stress test which showed some other potential issue, which ended up with me getting admitted to the hospital for still more tests. A week later, I birthed his giant, 10 pound body with no meds after a whirlwind two and half hour labor. But here's the thing about Fisher-- every single thing that I was worried about worked out. Jake got a full-time job the week after we found out I was pregnant-- and the job ended a week after Fisher was born (seriously). Fisher did not have Down Syndrome, or any other health issues for that matter. His birth was a crazy, painful rush, but it was easy and uncomplicated. He is the most mellow, happy baby and has been such a source of joy and light in this rather challenging time.
No amount of my worrying or spinning out was going to change the timing of my pregnancy with Fisher. I couldn't worry his potential health issues away anymore than I could try and dictate the day of his birth (but oh how I tried, believe you me). I couldn't stew and stew and stew until more money or a new job appeared to keep us afloat. All of those things happened totally outside of my control and realm of influence. And it's this truth that has kept me grounded every time I have felt myself grasping at the strings of control this past spring. Surrender, surrender, surrender. It wasn't easy. I failed often. But I did get to a point, maybe a week or two after Jake was diagnosed where I just had to give up the worrying. Carrying the weight of premature grief was not going to change the outcome of his surgery and biopsy. I committed to not freaking out until I had to. I was lucky that I did'n't have to.
I've tried to carry this same attitude into our move. It's been significantly less emotionally stressful, sure, but admittedly much harder to let go of the need for control. (Should you find yourself considering a big move with tiny humans, maybe re-think your life choices. For real.) But it is what it is. I can fret all I want about the packing, staging, listing of our former house, the search for a new one, the inspection and appraisal reports, the living with my parents while escrow of our new home drags on and on and on, and let's not forget the actual moving of the actual things (TWICE)... or we can just keep moving forward the best we can, letting all the spinning wheels roll away. So, onward we go.
You might remember this post from last year, where I talked about our throes of panic and trying to figure out what we were going to do-- about money, about jobs, about moving, about this unexpected pregnancy. The back-up-plan of all back-up plans has always been to move to Klamath Falls. And up until now, I was VERY resistant to the idea. During the chaos that was our life last spring, I distinctly remember telling Jake, "I just want to buy a year. Give me one more year. And I'll be ready."
And here we are, one year later. I got my year. I also got a baby and a cancer-free husband. I did the big, scary thing and left my much-loved job to get a new one. We sold the beloved first home and are under contract for a new cozy, light-filled home by the lake.
I waved the white flag. And the load feels oh so much lighter.
The opposite of control is surrender."
-- Erin Loechner, Chasing Slow
All of the life things seem to happen to us in April. I mean, not everything, of course. But many, many things. We first broke up, all those years ago, in April. We got back together, five years later, in April. I got the call from OSU about a scholarship for my graduate program, and we made the decision to move to Oregon, in April. I peed on a stick last year, in April, and found out we had another (unexpected) baby on the way. Life seems to like to surprise us around this time of year.
Although, technically, we got kicked in the gut by cancer in March.
I had forgotten what fear felt like. How all of the oxygen is suddenly sucked out of the room. The gasping for air, your chest tight and painful with the effort of it. The dull ache in the pit of your stomach; the rise of bile in your throat. Fear is ugly.
Admittedly, we melted down for a few days. Google is a scary place when you hear the words malignant melanoma. For the second time in less than a year, I sat in an office and had a physician tell me that we might need to go to OHSU to meet with specialists in order to care for someone I love. I had no interest in going to OHSU. Not last August and certainly not now. I found myself reading about five year survival rates (and doing the quick, horrible math to figure out how old my kids would be at that time), navigating melanoma patient forums, researching treatment options. My degree and public health background were both helpful and hurtful-- I understood all the words, all of the jargon in the articles. I understood the words, and I wanted to un-know them. And I was angry. Oh, was I angry. That's sort of my M.O. in times of crisis--it feels easier to be angry than it does to be sad or scared; it makes me more task-oriented and operates as a distraction from the other, bigger feelings. I was mad at Jake for not getting the mole checked sooner. I had been asking for months. I was mad we didn't have a copy of the pathology report. I use MyChart and have records of everything--why don't you?! I was mad he wasn't going to have surgery for at least another two weeks. Wasn't this urgent?? I wanted to control all of the things. I wanted to fix all of the things. I wanted to go back in time. And I couldn't. Jake was out of town for three days the week we found out, and I cried myself to sleep every single night.
It was 32 days from the time we found out about the melanoma diagnosis to the day we found out the cancer had not spread. 32 days. It might as well have been eternity. A big, huge virtual hug to all of you who called, texted, emailed, Facebook messaged, etc. during that time. Your prayers and words of encouragement were everything. I mean it in all sincerity when I say that we went in to Jake's surgery with immense calm, peace and very little fear. We had every belief and expectation that the results would be negative and were deeply relieved, thankful, and so, so, so happy when we got the call to confirm what we had hoped to be true. Thank you for loving us so well during those 32 days!
In the midst of all of this unexpected cancer drama, Jake and I were also trying to move. Because we are crazy people.
We didn't plan for all of these things to happen at once (like anyone plans to get cancer), but that's just how the chips fell. (A quick back story here: Jake's position at Calapooia had ended in December and we were actively trying to figure out what was next for our family.) We were in Klamath Falls just before the cancer diagnosis, lunching at Klamath Basin Brewery. I mentioned offhandedly that I had seen a posting for a position they currently had open; Jake applied and had a phone interview within the week, an in-person interview and an offer the week after. We proposed a start date of May 1 to buy some time for me to get a job (there just wasn't much available for me to apply for at the time). As May approached, we were feeling more and more nervous about the time we'd be living apart, trying to manage all the logistics of childcare, living situation, selling the house, etc. I got a call out of the blue mid-April for a job I had applied for at the beginning of March. I interviewed the following Wednesday afternoon and had an offer Friday morning. The start date-- May 30. Everything seriously fell into place so easily it was almost shocking.
But that meant we needed to seriously scramble. We spent the remaining part of April interviewing short-term nannies, getting Lyla on waiting lists for preschools for the fall, finishing house projects, meeting with our listing agent, cleaning and staging the house, preparing at work for me to leave my job... and then May arrived and we juggled everything while living in different parts of the state.
It has been yet another rough season.
But during the past few months, I have thought so often about this very same time last year, and Fisher, our sweet, unexpected baby boy. Everything about Fisher (aside from the fact that we definitely wanted a second baby) was unplanned. We got pregnant when Jake was under-employed, at a time when we are actually trying NOT to get pregnant. There were concerns that Fisher might have Down Syndrome and I was experiencing thyroid issues, so I had more ultrasounds, an echocardiogram, and lots and lots of bloodwork. When I was 38 weeks pregnant, they thought perhaps Fisher had a heart murmur, so I had a non-stress test which showed some other potential issue, which ended up with me getting admitted to the hospital for still more tests. A week later, I birthed his giant, 10 pound body with no meds after a whirlwind two and half hour labor. But here's the thing about Fisher-- every single thing that I was worried about worked out. Jake got a full-time job the week after we found out I was pregnant-- and the job ended a week after Fisher was born (seriously). Fisher did not have Down Syndrome, or any other health issues for that matter. His birth was a crazy, painful rush, but it was easy and uncomplicated. He is the most mellow, happy baby and has been such a source of joy and light in this rather challenging time.
No amount of my worrying or spinning out was going to change the timing of my pregnancy with Fisher. I couldn't worry his potential health issues away anymore than I could try and dictate the day of his birth (but oh how I tried, believe you me). I couldn't stew and stew and stew until more money or a new job appeared to keep us afloat. All of those things happened totally outside of my control and realm of influence. And it's this truth that has kept me grounded every time I have felt myself grasping at the strings of control this past spring. Surrender, surrender, surrender. It wasn't easy. I failed often. But I did get to a point, maybe a week or two after Jake was diagnosed where I just had to give up the worrying. Carrying the weight of premature grief was not going to change the outcome of his surgery and biopsy. I committed to not freaking out until I had to. I was lucky that I did'n't have to.
I've tried to carry this same attitude into our move. It's been significantly less emotionally stressful, sure, but admittedly much harder to let go of the need for control. (Should you find yourself considering a big move with tiny humans, maybe re-think your life choices. For real.) But it is what it is. I can fret all I want about the packing, staging, listing of our former house, the search for a new one, the inspection and appraisal reports, the living with my parents while escrow of our new home drags on and on and on, and let's not forget the actual moving of the actual things (TWICE)... or we can just keep moving forward the best we can, letting all the spinning wheels roll away. So, onward we go.
You might remember this post from last year, where I talked about our throes of panic and trying to figure out what we were going to do-- about money, about jobs, about moving, about this unexpected pregnancy. The back-up-plan of all back-up plans has always been to move to Klamath Falls. And up until now, I was VERY resistant to the idea. During the chaos that was our life last spring, I distinctly remember telling Jake, "I just want to buy a year. Give me one more year. And I'll be ready."
And here we are, one year later. I got my year. I also got a baby and a cancer-free husband. I did the big, scary thing and left my much-loved job to get a new one. We sold the beloved first home and are under contract for a new cozy, light-filled home by the lake.
I waved the white flag. And the load feels oh so much lighter.
I love your posts!
ReplyDeleteAll glory be to God!
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