A Divergent Decade

Whew, friends. It’s been a DECADE.

(How often do you get to whip out THAT line, eh??)

Tomorrow is the start of 2020 and I am full of ALL the feelings - wonder, excitement, trepidation, apathy, and if I’m being frank, a wee dose of fear.

The past ten years have included the most unexpectedly life altering moments of my 36 years. Vivid memories I’d like to forget, and fuzzy memories I desperately wish I could better remember. 

Ten years ago, I could never have imagined how my life was about to change. Could not have written the prologue if you paid me. My story, like most, wrote itself and has been one heck of a thriller.

I worked everyday in a community I loved, with students whom I adored. 

I ran all the time. 

I got engaged. 

I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. 

I got a virus from my students that humbled my young, vibrant body to the core. 

I got married. 

I went on a honeymoon. 

I ran a half marathon. 

I wore silver, sparkly shoes every Friday. 

I was diagnosed with gastroparesis. 

I lost 30 pounds in 6 months. 

I was diagnosed as failure to thrive. 

I had surgery to place a feeding tube. 

I was told by one of the finest hospitals in the world that they couldn’t help me, and sent off to another. 

I saw a doctor who wanted me to surgically remove my stomach. 

I actually considered it. 

I flew to Minnesota, planning to stay for a week, and came home over 3 months later. 

I met and lived with the most incredible second family I could have asked for. 

I started writing.

I had a PICC line placed. 

I endured an endless litany of medical tests, ranging from painful and scarring to epically comical.

I was sent to behavior medicine when nothing else made sense.

I was genuinely thrilled to have unexpected surgery in the middle of the program, so I could escape the worst 3 weeks of my life. 

I lost my right submandibular gland.

I went back to school. 

I lost my thyroid. 

I was told I had cancer. 

I spent so much time in Minnesota in one year that I could have applied for residency. 

After spending the majority of 3 years in hospitals, I finally came home for good. 

I lost my job. 

I spent years entangled in a legal fight that made me question my faith in humanity and forever altered how I look at the world. 

I started my own company. 

I had surgery on my heart, including the “birth” of Penelope the pacemaker. 

A month later I had surgery to repair an abdominal fistula. 

I had a muscle biopsy that has since been named the “sewing experiment” for the ridiculously bad scar it left behind. 

I grew my practice. 

We bought a house. 

After seeing doctors at Johns Hopkins, Mayo Clinic, Cleveland Clinic, Georgetown, George Washington, Penn, Tufts, Brigham and Women’s, INOVA, Jefferson, Lankenau, and countless private practices, a geneticist 10 minutes away discovered 2 genetic mutations that have never been seen before. 

I got kicked out of 3 fertility clinics. 

A perinatologist wouldn’t even open my file.

My fur baby came into my life. 

I did 2 years of IVF, 150 miles away, in a veil of total secrecy. 

I got pregnant and had a shockingly delightful pregnancy. 

I gave birth to my beautiful daughter. 

I crashed and don’t remember the first few hours after her birth. 

My daughter was diagnosed with a digestive disorder that ironically didn’t come from me. 

I was diagnosed with another autoimmune disease. 

My dog was diagnosed with a digestive disorder (seriously people, can’t make this stuff up). 

I celebrated my daughter’s first birthday.

My last class of students started their senior year of high school.

I started weekly infusions when my cardiac function changed drastically. 

I spent time with my family. 

I restored my soul in the mountains. 

I laughed. A lot.

I cried.

I lost and gained and ebbed and flowed.

I endured.

And that’s just the cliff notes.

Throughout all of this, I grappled with finding acceptance and some semblance of closure. I expected myself to move on, mentally and physically, and was embarrassed that I didn’t find it that easy. More than embarrassed, I was ashamed. I wanted to move on, to close some doors, to stop feeling what I was feeling. Forget the leaf, I wanted to turn over the whole damn tree.

But, you know what?

Ten years later, I think closure may actually be a bit of an illusion. 

How can there be an end point to love and loss?

Closure would mean there is a final chapter to love and passion. There’s not. I will never stop missing the career I had. I will never stop wishing I could run again and not feel like I’m going to collapse every 5 seconds. I will never stop yearning for the ease I had to eat and travel and live my life completely at whim. I will never stop feeling these feelings because I was lucky enough to have them in the first place. Closure would mean never thinking about those years of my life and remembering not only the season of hardship, but also the season of joy. 

Yes, it may seem easier to close the door on the last decade and pretend it never happened. It would save me from reliving pain and grief and loss. But it would also prevent me from some of the most special times of my life. My marriage, which has been pushed and pulled and bent beyond comprehension, is a product of that decade. My relationship with my family has strengthened immeasurably and my friendships are ones that matter. My child - my joy-filled, shattered-glass-ceiling miracle child - is a product of that decade. Erasing the last ten years of my life would erase not only the pain, but also the happiest moments of my life.

You cannot have one without the other. If you want to close off the pain, you will also close off the joy. 

I know that now. 

If the next decade looks a lot like this one did, it will be unexpected. 

And scary. 

And my health insurance just may name a building after me. 

But you know what? 

I’d be ok.

No, not I would be ok. I will be ok. 

I’ll be ok.