down for the count

So, my heart broke again. I mean, literally. Sometimes I wish my life weren't so like a Russian existentialist novel.

On Valentines Day, 2008, just before my ex and I separated, I ended up catching Rheumatic Fever. Sitting in the swanky bistro, trying to enjoy our awkward 'romantic' dinner in spite of recently finding out the firsts in a string of terrible things that he had done secretly over the years, my head swirling as a deep sickness set in. In the aching blur of sadness that accompanied the whole unrecognizable, lying mess my marriage had become, I hadn't even noticed I had strep throat. You shouldn't not notice you have strep throat. Because sometimes it then turns into Rheumatic Fever and you endure a month of 100+ temperatures and the most excruciating pain words fail to describe, and then end up with heart damage, following which your husband leaves "to find himself" and "be alone", then allowing you to say (ever so poetically) that he figuratively and LITERALLY broke your heart.

Since then, I haven't let the damage slow me down much. I run. A lot. And kickbox. And hike. And long board. And pretty much whatever else I want. I do live with palpitations, mild cramps, and shortness of breath from time to time. But, last week, I started having shooting, stabbing pain. Like someone was taking a taser to my chest. It would pass quickly, but was happening frequently and intensely enough that I finally drug my uninsured self into my doctor for an x-ray and EKG to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack or blood clot. I may not have gone, but little J told me he "never, never, never wanted (me) to die." So...

They found that some of the scar tissue that had formed around my mitral valve as a result of the Rheumatic Fever had pulled away. There are a lot of pain receptors around the heart and the pain was just their way of sending out the occasional message that, "Hey! Something's wrong in here..."

Nothing I could do but endure the pain, wait for it to heal, and try to avoid stress (bwahahaha!)

And the whole incident just seemed so reflective of my life as of late. How deeply I wish my heart were just this thing I could take out of me and place on my nightstand, like a handful of change, or a watch, or dentures. I think it might be easier like that. It's having a hard time keeping up with all that's being asked of it lately, this heart-o-mine.

You may have noticed (or not) that it's been eleven days since my last post. That's a long time, for me. I've been waiting and waiting for something really positive to happen to report. But things seem to  feel like I'm back in a spot similar to where I was right after the divorce. Waking up each morning, feeling the weight of what I'm up against settling in me like wet cement that's drying. Wondering how, how, how am I going to do this?

Basically I'm in the midst of a culmination of everything I have fought at one time or another during my  4 years 4 months of singleness--loneliness, rejection in various forms, uncertainty, financial strains (income still cut in half), spendy house and car repairs, loss of hope, impatience, sadness over my appearance, the letting go of dreams, worries over my kids, feeling incompetent and yes...brokeness. All hitting me at once. Relentlessly. Until I just kind of slumped to the ground and let it all keep hitting me. I didn't have it in me to get back up.

Good thing I know how to take a punch. I mean, I am not weak. I am no dummy. I am in no way slothful or lazy. I am not lacking in talent or creativity or ambition.  I have always lived the very best I know how to, faithfully, every. single. day. And yet, single life thus far has seemed rather like a series of practical jokes. Everything coming together again and again to say, "YES! THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD DO! THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD DO IT! THIS IS WHO YOU SHOULD DO IT WITH! HERE YOU GO!" And then...it's all gone as quickly as it came.

And why? You know? Why? What about me is so different or worse than those who have so much seeming ease--spiritually and temporally? What about me makes me 'unqualify' somehow? It makes me struggle with my faith, though I know God is ok with that. He's not going to let me go. He just keeps reminding me that He knows better and has my best interests at heart, that all things will work together for my and my children's good, even if it  doesn't feel like it right now.

I guess I finally cried myself out. Because today I woke up and there were no more tears. They just wouldn't come. So, I got up and I went about life as usual:

*I prayed alone. *I prayed with my kids. *I made breakfast and drove car pool. *I smiled at everyone I passed and noticed all the lovely details about the world around me. *I walked a woman who was lost to her destination and looked for any other acts of service I could perform, large or small. *I spoke only kind, honest words. *I worked hard at my job. *I came home and loved my boys up good and fed them and listened about their days. *I did some reading and writing. *Then I went and spent time with my friend, M. We picked blackberries in her backyard had the most delicious homemade blackberry chiffon pie plus a nice talk, laughter, some So You Think You Can Dance and cuddling with her sweet baby. *Then--thankfully insulated in the pie and friend love-- I put my boys to bed, *cleaned the house, *ignored the laundry that needed folding, *had a phone chat with Mr. Perfect, *and sat down for round two of work for the magazine and radio show. And to write this.

Unless I somehow find a way to utilize the 3-4 hours that I actually get to sleep, I can't do any more. I can't work any harder.

I need some divine help. Some opportunity that I can't create myself. A little miracle.

I've felt like it was coming, that miracle. Seen it in my mind's eye (for lack of a better word) so clearly I was surprised it wasn't already so. And yet, every day that passes with no change, or with things getting worse, makes me wonder if I am forgotten about. If I'm forever going to have to live with the negative after-effects of Brad's choices. If I am destined to be one whom God tries the heaviest for long periods of time--some type of reluctant saint-to-be who goes into the trials kicking against the pricks and throwing a fit because, "This is hard and I just want it easy already. Waaaaah!"  I know things could always, always be worse.  I know I am still comparatively VERY blessed. But, in the context of first-world problems, it's heavy. 

I just have to keep telling myself that right now I am ok. I can't look even as far as three hours away or tomorrow, or think about what I lack and feel that re-assurance, but in this very moment, I am ok. I am sitting at my computer, clothed, in an air-conditioned home with high speed internet connection. There is a variety of food in my refrigerator and pantry. My sweet boys are tucked into their soft beds with clean sheets and pajamas, healthy. My well-fed cat is asleep at my feet. I have beautiful music streaming through my speakers. I have a job to wake up and go to tomorrow. I have good, kind, funny, talented friends. I have a whole army of family-angels helping me from the other side of the veil.  I have a plan. And a back up plan. I have a tummy still happy from pie. I have really straight, white teeth and great abs. And frankly, I am all around a pretty incredible woman. And, most important, I think I may still have a teeny tiny more in me to dig up to give and keep going--physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally.  Somewhere in a spot inside me I have yet to discover, a reservoir of extra battery life I am being prompted to find and share. I will get back up, soon enough, and start to throw some punches back. And then, watch out! Because we all know what happens in those boxing movies  when the underdog gets back up...