Plot Twist

Friends!

I know, I know...I did it again.

That thing where I finally get back into blogging and it feels so wonderful to be writing and communicating again and then POOF.

Radio Silence.

Crickets.

White noise.

And all of a sudden it's December 7th and I haven't blogged in a month.

I want to apologize. 

And those who know me well, know that I am REALLY fighting back a very sincere "I'm sorry."

(Senior superlative in high school? Most Apologetic. Yep. That's right. Can't wait to brag about that one to my grandkids...)

So in my wise old age of thirty years, I'd like to cancel the "I'm sorry" oozing from my pores, and instead share my new motto:

Ahem.

(Clears throat. Prepares vocal chords. Drinks water.)

All together now...

PLOT TWIST!

Right. So remember my last blog post where I confided to the world that I was struggling a bit in the land in between? And how for the first time in my life I felt truly "ill?"

Turns out that wasn't exactly just an emotional feeling. Turns out my white cell count was ridiculously low and my liver was so inflamed that it was leaking liver enzymes all over my body.

Ya know, like if the washing machine chucked fistfuls of Tide everywhere EXCEPT the inside of the machine with all of the dirty laundry.

Oh and that subtle yellowish-pinkish glow in certain lights? 

Right. 

Not a glow.

Although based on the number of compliments I received on my skin tone, I'm thinking "Pre-Jaundice" is going to be THE most coveted blush color of the season.

In any event, I was benched from any and all treatment for a month. 

Yep, A MONTH. 

Initially I was less than pleased to be a month behind in treatment, but then I secretly (or maybe not so secretly to my darling husband) became a wee bit excited to feel semi human for four entire weeks!

We've reviewed how my tick friends have invaded my brain stem, yes?

Good, because maybe then you'll judge me a little bit less for having ridiculous moments of false optimism that I would feel super fantastic without a functioning liver and/or an adequate supply of white blood cells. 

[Insert yellowish-pink sheepish face here]

So I slept a lot. I'm talking 12 hour nights with 2 hour naps kind of a lot. I'm talking days when going up and down the stairs twice warranted a fist pump and a gold star. I juiced my veggies, took fistfuls of liver supplements, and if it wouldn't have taken me ten minutes to get up afterwards, I probably would have been down on my knees literally begging for this liver situation to be temporary. 

Luckily, after a month of rest and a visit to my friendly neighborhood phlebotomist, my liver earned a good report and my body returned to normal, err...its usual alien self. 

So I did the completely logical thing and celebrated by restarting the treatment that caused the liver problems in the first place. 

Right. 

Because that makes sense?

My doctor and I decided this was the best move. It wasn't an easy decision, but for better or for worse, the drug cocktail was working (remember the herxing? sick = working) and that's not something to be taken lightly. So I'll take a deep breath and try again. I'll throw all of my cards back in and see what we get, albeit a little bit more cautiously this time. Instead of doing two weeks of treatment followed by one week of rest, now I'll do two weeks of rest and hope that gives my body enough time to recover. 

It's a leap of faith. 

A scary, pull-the-rug-out-from-under-you, leap of faith.

I'm a health coach. I teach people to listen to their bodies as a profession. 

And yet, I'm completely ignoring mine?

I almost feel like a fraud.

But the more I've thought about it (and if you refer to my last post, you know I spend a LOT of time stuck in my brain), isn't EVERYTHING a leap of faith? Isn't everything in life about throwing all of your eggs in a basket with a splash of glitter and a whole lot of hope?

We think we can control so much. We plan and prepare and line things up and follow directions...but it's all just in the hopes that things will work out exactly as we expect them to. 

And so often they don't.

Despite our very best intentions and preparation, we get thrown off the cliff on an adventure that does not match the luggage we packed.

Bathing suit and flippers in Antarctica? Um, brr.

It's jarring.

And scary.

And sometimes it takes a while to find our sea legs, but we always do.

Because in the end, it's really just a plot twist, and you might as well hang on and make it a best seller.