Dramatic. One word sums up my May 18th election day, the first time my health permitted me to vote in person. 4 AM. I awake panicking, "This is election day! Did I sleep through voting?!" Frantically, I look at my clock and realize I can go back asleep. The polls aren't even open yet. Besides, we aren't voting until 2 PM. When I do get up, my day is fairly typical until the afternoon. 12:30 PM. The front door slams as my mom races outside, then she comes inside again, runs into my room, and exclaims, "Lauren! There's a helicopter!" "What's the significance of that?" I ask somewhat annoyed, as I was trying to sleep. But when I see the look on her face, I bolt out of bed and race outside barefoot. I scan the sky. I hear it. It's loud, but I don't see it. "Where?" I gasp. My mom points directly above a neighbor's house, but trees obstruct my view. We talk to a delivery man in front of our home. "It's a State Police helicopter," he informs us. Further down the street I see 2 parked State Police cars. A neighbor walks towards my mom and me and passes along a message from the police, "Go inside and lock your doors." My heart races as I take off running for our house. There are now 6 police cars and a SWAT team in our neighborhood. From the windows inside, I finally see a black helicopter making low circles above our surrounding woods. I learn from the news that there were 2 homicides and a car bombing. The police are using their thermal camera from the helicopter to look for the man who did it. 12:50 PM. A neighbor messages that the man was found and is in custody. I relax but am sobered. The next day I learn the man spent the previous night sleeping in the woods surrounding our home. 2:10 PM. I depart home with my parents to vote. We feel safe, as the man has now been caught, but the State Police helicopter is still hovering and now a news helicopter is following it. The main road to our poll is blocked with police and news, so we go another way. 2:15 PM. My parents and I arrive at the polls to see police surrounding it. I walk inside where a volunteer informs me that the man who committed the homicides lived directly across the street and is registered to vote here. "He didn't vote today," he adds. "We checked the records." 2:20 PM. I show my ID, sign my name, and walk to a polling booth. I am voter 209. Voting in person feels more real, more official, and more exciting than voting absentee in bed ever did. 2:25 PM. I walk out of the polls with a "I voted" sticker stuck proudly to my shirt. My dad snaps my picture. And that was my election day, my first time voting in person. A day I'd anticipated since I was in my single digits but a day that was unlike anything I ever imagined. A day I won't easily forget.
2 Comments
"You've come a long way, but you still have a long way to go," Dr. L told me over the phone on Friday. And he was right. Both statements are true. For the first time in 6 years, I went to Walmart a few weeks ago. You'd better believe I was beaming under my mask! I walk 1 mile almost every day and recently completed a 2 mile hike. I was able to attend my brother's wedding on May 8th, although it was a push that left me crashed in bed for 3 days afterwards. I'm living in a season of firsts and am filled with awe and wonder. I'm thankful God has brought me this far. Currently, a good day is when I can be up for about 4-5 hours in the morning mostly doing sedentary activities, rest in bed all afternoon, and walk 1 mile outside after dinner. This is the most I've been able to do in years, but I'm still quite limited. I still have a lot of fatigue, brain fog, and get headaches easily. I have at least low-grade fevers daily and often experience sweats and chills. I have occasional GI upset and sometimes feel like I have the flu. We need to keep fighting the infections. Yesterday Dr. L started me on step 1 of my new treatment for Babesia. It's a supplement to help break apart the Babesia biofilms. Then in a few weeks I'll likely be adding a new medication that attacks Babesia. Eventually, I'll probably be on 5 different antibiotics and herbs. Dr. L has been honest with me. These treatments are going to be very difficult, and I'll worsen before improving. Today I'm already feeling the effects of the new supplement with increased fatigue, fever, and feeling run-down. Every day for the past several years I've kept a daily symptom diary and a log of when I start or stop medications or supplements. Now I'll have to email Dr. L a summary of this every 1-2 weeks so he can judge my response to treatments. I receive routine blood work monthly and test my urine 2x a day. I also have to monitor things like my blood oxygen saturation levels. My grandpap says it's like I run a lab. Maybe someday I will. ;) We don't know how long I'll need Babesia treatments, but I've been told to expect about a year. I'm not exactly looking forward to it, but I also know that while they'll initially make me worse, in the long run, they'll make me better. While this is intense, I am thankful God has placed me in good hands. Dr. L has studied Babesia extensively and emailed me a 6 page document he wrote about the treatments and a PowerPoint presentation. He is knowledgeable and sympathetic as his daughter has Babesia. He responds promptly to my emails, and he is willing to treat me, although I'm a complicated case. He has encouraged me by sharing his daughter's own story and how she has improved greatly on Babesia treatment. Healing is possible, and I am hopeful. Often I listen to This Is Your Fight Song from the Piano Guys. The music invigorates me when I'm weary. It begins with this beautiful verse from Amazing Grace, "Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come. 'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, And grace will lead me home." Note: There will be no post next week since I am posting today. I will resume my usual posting schedule of every Tuesday on May 25th. I didn't need to be told what it meant when I heard the awful screech last Wednesday. I raced out of bed to your cage in the living room. Mom and Dad soon joined me. There you were laying limp and lifeless on your back. When I put my finger to your chest and there was no pulse, it was clear to me that my sweet little lovebird was gone. I don't know what caused your death. You were sleeping more as you grew older, but you weren't showing obvious signs of illness. Oh, Esther! My heart broke to see you laying there at the bottom of your cage. I cried. I cried because I loved you so much for the thirteen years we were together. Loving you made losing you harder, but I don't regret it. C.S. Lewis wisely wrote, "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." And so I quickly made the decision to love again. Not three hours had passed before Mom, Dad, and I were bringing three new lovebirds home. The widower of the friend who originally gave you to my family wanted me to have all his remaining lovebirds. I was touched by his kindness. I'm told these three are old, but I've chosen to love and enjoy them for however long they are with me. I've named them Valerie, Emily, and Francis (CeCe for short). At first, they weren't as tame as you, but they're warming up to me already. They're learning that they can trust me and have stopped biting my hand. I'm inspired by the human mama you and they both shared before she died two years ago. She worked as a NICU nurse and loved and cared for all her birds, even if it meant carrying them in a baby sling or taping splayed legs. She valued every life and together with her husband fought actively for the unborn and adopted children. Here are some pictures of the many baby lovebirds she raised. Esther, you were a good pet, and I have many happy memories of you. I remember when we brought you home and I was so small that your cage towered above me. I was young enough to play with dolls then, so a few times I let you walk around and explore my large doll house. More recently I remember when my massage therapist came to our house twice a week, and we watched and talked about you as I received lymphatic drainage. I always enjoyed introducing you to company and letting them pet you. Sometimes I'd bring you into my bedroom, close the door, and let you fly. You loved to land on my head and climb up and down my long hair, occasionally leaving a gift while you were at it. Now I'm making similar memories with Valerie, Emily, and CeCe. One memory of you especially sticks out to me. A month before you died, you sat on my shoulder while I read The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Last Wednesday, I cried as I covered your warm body with cold dirt, but I buried you knowing one day this winter will melt. One day Jesus will return, the curse will be over, and death and sorrow will be no more.
I miss you, my sweet little feathered friend, but I'm thankful for the thirteen years we had together. You were an embodiment of hope and joy to me. I am sad, but my heart rejoices as I hear three new friends singing that same tune you sang to me on even the darkest days. It's just three times louder now. Last week, I sat in the grass with friends and their horses. Their newborn foals ran to me, curious, sweet, and playful. The sun shone bright and warm, so I wore my medical cooling vest with ice packs in each pocket. I wore it for my own benefit, but I think the foals enjoyed it almost as much on that hot day. They kept licking my vest for it must have felt refreshing. Then they began to amuse themselves by playing with my shoes and laces. One tugged playfully at my sleeve. As I watched the foals, I was struck by just how happy they were to be alive. They ran in circles, tumbled down the hillside, then rested and bathed in the sunlight. It reminded me that life is a gift that is meant to be celebrated. The little foals seemed to marvel at everything, as one does when experiencing a first. Like them, I want to live with that awe and wonder. In some ways, I am, for as I regain health simple pleasures such as the ability to eat foods I used to carry an EpiPen for, walking, and even this visit now seem like miracles. I feel a thrill in my heart when I breath in fresh air, stare at the vast blue sky and distant hills, and smell the sweet grass.
I enjoy these things so much because for most of the past six years I have primarily lived in bed, and I still spend much of my time there. It's sobering to realize how many pleasures I am oblivious to until they are taken away. How many daily blessings am I still blind too, and how do I reconnect them with wonder? I don't exactly know, but I think the advice of Mary Oliver is a good place to start. "Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." But lest I make it seem as if living with wonder is complete bliss, let me add that wonder also requires an open heart. If I am to poignantly feel the joys of this world, I must deeply feel the hurts too. A numb heart may dull the sorrow, but it will keep me from fully experiencing the joy. And so when it was time to gently pat the horses goodbye, I left inspired to rejoice and find the wonder in this hard yet happy life that the Lord has given me. |
AuthorHi! I'm Lauren Watt. I'm a 20 year old Christian, chronic illness warrior, and amateur artist and writer. Archives
November 2021
Categories
All
|