The Truth

Y’all know I live in Texas, and when a girl lives in Texas, she listens to country music. Which is awesome (many of you are grimacing right now, but I’m ignoring you because you clearly don’t know better).

One of my favorite songs is “The Truth” by Jason Aldean, about a man wanting to hide what hurts. He lists all the things he wants people to believe about him—none of which are true—because the truth is embarrassing/painful/makes him feel vulnerable. Yes, it’s a break-up song (aren’t all the good ones?), and his truth is that he still loves the woman who left him.

I’ve been thinking about Jason Aldean and his song this past week as people have been calling and texting, asking how I’m doing. With every inquiry, my first inclination is to proclaim “I’m fine!” as cheerily as possible. Which is true, on a basic level. I am fine. I am warm and fed and comfortable in my home with my family. I’m fine.

But the embarrassing/painful/vulnerable truth is that I feel lousy.

I can really feel the drugs from the second infusion working, which means I can feel my body attacking itself. Basically, everything hurts and all food grosses me out (yes, even Diet Coke). Every night, I take a mountain of pills for the worst of the side effects (I’ll spare you those details), but I’m still left feeling nauseous and so, so tired. Like, bone tired. Can’t-get-off-the-couch tired. Two-or-three-naps-a-day-and-still-exhausted-by-nine-PM tired. I can only describe it as this: every time I move, it feels like my muscles are sliding off my bones.

I have zero appetite, and my mouth is so dry, all food turns to paste before I can swallow. But if I don’t eat, I feel worse, so I force down broth-based soups and if I’m lucky, oatmeal. Plus, I am puffy. This is especially evident around my eyes, which are swollen into slits, and for some reason I can’t see well either—everything is blurry. The lymph nodes in my neck are huge and rock hard, which the doctor told me is a reaction to the drugs. 

I freaking look like Jabba the Hutt.

 (And you thought I was kidding.)

It’s ugly, but it’s the Truth. And like Jason Aldean, I try to hide it.

This past week, Brad and I took Pepper to the temple for the first time. Pepper has been looking forward to this for months, and we’ve been looking forward to it since he was born, so there was no way I was going to skip out on it, no matter how I felt. I chose my most comfortable skirt and the softest shirt I own, curled my hair all up to hopefully draw attention away from my squishy face and brushed make-up on my puffy eyelids.

We arrived at the Dallas temple a few minutes early so we could stop at the distribution center to get the things Pepper would need, and even after the hour drive, I was thrilled to see a chair in the little store. I gratefully sank into it, then barked suggestions at Brad and Pepper as they talked to the lady at the counter.

About half-way through, I stopped and thought, “Ah jeez, this looks really great. What must this Beehive Distribution lady think of the squinty-eyed, sour-faced mother calling orders to her husband and son from across the room?” She probably wanted to slap me a little and tell me to get off my butt and come help. Or to just shut-up if I couldn’t be bothered to leave the comfort of the only chair in the room.

Of course, she didn’t say or do any of these things. Temple people are probably the least judgy people in the whole world, but I bet she at least wondered what my problem was and why I was being so bratty. I tried to fix it when we left by thanking her and offering her my best attempt at a smile, but my face didn’t really work, so I think it was more of a wince.

I felt bad for the way I came across, but looking back, I can honestly say I did my best. The truth was, I felt terrible, and it was all I could do to get through the session with Pepper. My sagging face and dropping eyes had nothing to do with the joy I felt as I watched my son make the covenants he’s prepared for and anticipated for months. My simple, earnest son, for whom everything is so hard, made good on his lifelong desire to go through the temple—it doesn’t get any better than that. My heart was truly full.

Although, no one would know by looking at me. I probably looked like I was attending his funeral.

I’ve been reflecting on this quite a bit over the last few days. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my forty-eight years, it’s that everyone has something hard. I’ve watched friends deal with a child’s health problems, or a spouse who betrays them, or a loved one whose poor choices make them frantic with worry. I’ve seen good women who have no business being single battle life alone, oftentimes with children. I’ve seen someone quietly order the smallest salad on the menu because it was all she could afford on a much-needed girls’ night out, and I’ve watched a worried mother’s face fall as another woman bragged about her high-achieving child. Everyone has a Truth.

And almost none of them are obvious.

Now, I know this isn't earth-shattering news. Native Americans have been telling us for years not to judge a man until you've walked a mile in his moccasins, and the Golden Rule is golden for a reason. Maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself (←this is surely the case), but I'm feeling a need to be real and to be better. We are all connected in this tangle of humanity, and everyone's Truths matter.

If I’ve ever trampled your Truth, I’m sorry. I’m dumb, and often oblivious, but I’m not inherently mean—at least, I don’t think so. Yet I know I could be nicer. In college, I took a religion class from George Durrant, and he used to say the gospel of Jesus Christ could be summed up in two words: Be Nice.

So, that is my goal for 2018—to simply Be Nice, even in my thoughts. Because all of us are doing the best we can, and all of us have hard things.

All of us have Truths.

Beat the Bear

Look at what my sweet daughter had made:

In case you can't read it, it says #BeattheBear. Jess had enough made for everyone in our family to wear and remember and hope and attack. She says black is the color of melanoma awareness (which I didn't know), so this is our new show of solidarity.

Just look at our warrior selves (except Joey). Melanoma doesn't stand a chance!

All I want for Christmas...

Second infusion: done.

In some ways, this was harder than the first. Last time, with all the drama getting it scheduled, I was just happy it was happening. It didn’t hit me until we arrived that This. Was. Serious. I never quite got used to the fact that I was sitting in that chair, hooked up to medicine that made all the other patients look so sad and sick. It was all new, and I was equal parts curious and overwhelmed.

This time, however, I knew what to expect. And I was NOT excited.

After my first treatment, the side-effects took about a week to hit me. I was only tired and achy until day six, when my stomach cramped up with nausea, and the mild itching I’d been experiencing ramped up a thousand times. My back, my front, my scalp, my ears—everything itched. Constantly. I tried Benadryl for the rash, but that just made me sick and tired.

And still itchy.

Thankfully, after a few days, the nausea waned to occasional flare-ups, which I could mostly relieve with gallons of diet ginger ale. But the itching continued—and it got worse. By last Sunday night, my skin was so inflamed, I could barely open my eyes. Brad emptied the drugstore shelves of their hydrocortisone, and that helped some. Then my doctor called in a prescription for another anti-itch cream as well as anti-nausea pills, and that helped some, too. But by and large, I was going CRAZY. Everything itched, and it itched bad. On Tuesday morning, I had to drive to Grapevine for a CT scan (about an hour away in rush hour traffic), and I was wriggling around in my seat like a woman possessed. I kept thinking, “This can’t be safe. I’m not even close to concentrating on the road.” All I could think about was the back-scratcher at home in my closet and how I wish I’d brought it.

But I survived, and I even drank the nasty CT scan barium they gave me without throwing up. That was a victory.

So on Wednesday morning, as Brad and I drove to Dallas for Infusion #2, I was dreading it. I’d been told the side-effects would probably get worse which each treatment, and I couldn’t imagine feeling worse than I already did. A friend of mine told me she sometimes wants to kick and scream and throw a tantrum before her infusions because she just doesn’t want to go through it all again. I thought of that many, many times as I grit my teeth and made my feet walk me back into the room with all the recliners.

When the nurse attached the IV, I glared up at the stupid little bag with my best Look of Death, but it didn’t work. The spiteful thing just kept dripping like it didn’t care. So I burrowed under the super-soft furry blanket I brought and felt sorry for myself.

And itched.

Three and a half hours later, the bag was empty and we drove home, me itching all the way. I headed straight for the shower, where I stood under the hottest water I could stand because the burn feels like a whole-body scratch (I KNOW hot, hot water makes rashes ultimately worse, but at that point, I was past reason). Then I lathered my whole body with the anti-itch creams and popped a Zyrtec, which my doctor had told me that day might help. I put on my softest jammies and ate the yummy chicken dinner my friend had brought while I watched my kids decorate the Christmas tree I hadn’t had the strength/desire to put up yet.

Jessica and Pepper had arrived home for Christmas the night before, and they had holiday music playing while they unpacked the bins and strung up lights. Jess is a bit of a Christmas drill sergeant, so she had the boys toeing the line as they hung our old, mismatched ornaments. We do not have a designer Christmas. Our tree is covered with construction paper bells and popsicle stick frames made by my kids, with their little preschooler faces grinning from faded photographs. We have a few cheap IKEA balls and various ornaments we collected as souvenirs from the places we’ve visited, but it's a real hodge-podge—nothing like the gorgeous trees I see in other homes with beautiful matching bulbs and lux ribbon wound around perfectly coiffed and embellished décor.

Every year, Brad makes some subtle comment about how our tree needs work (this year, he’s been saying he wants to start a business where people can order Christmas tree kits, with all the items needed for a perfectly put-together tree), and every year I ignore him. I like our ugly family tree, and I like that each item has a story we all remember as it gets hung. Even the odd little ceramic village Jess set up on the mantle makes me smile. It’s mostly pieces from my Grandma Darrington’s collection, which are from some decade where the people looked like cherubs and the houses were trimmed in gold and sparkles. These are mixed in with the little houses I bought in Germany, with their clean, crisp lines and charming European architecture. It is like no town in any world, but it has a place in my home. It represents my people and my past, and I love it.

So I sat on my couch and watched the Bitner Christmas magic take shape while Bing sang about snow and Wham! lamented their last Christmas. After about an hour, I stood up to put away my empty chicken plate and realized something:

I wasn't itching.

I WAS NOT ITCHING!!

No, this is not a post about Christmas spirit and the miracles that come when we “just believe.” While all that is awesome and I was certainly feeling the cheer, I am realistic enough to give credit where credit is due.

My new favorite pill.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all an itchless night.