in sickness and in health: chronicles of injuries and caretaking

This surgery’s been a long time coming, though we didn’t know it.

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Mark hurt his (ring) finger about a month ago, playing frisbee. He dove for a catch (read: threw his body toward the unforgiving earth with too much confidence in his youth and flexibility) and dislocated and fractured his lil digit.

At first, we thought it was just a dislocated joint, especially because he had “popped it back in” right after the crash. It took an x-ray three weeks later to reveal that he had popped it back in…just not to the right place.

The joint (first one up from the base) was popped out about a finger’s width on top of the rest of the hand, and the bone connecting the two joints was chipped, too. The way the surgeon described it, it seemed like the three weeks’ delay had been like a desert storm on that lil chip, wearing away at it until it was no more. Here, questions abound: where did the fragment go? Does it get reabsorbed into the blood stream? Is there a lot of erosion going on in our bodies, normally? If so, what’s doing all that jostling in there? I didn’t know how to phrase these questions appropriately and quickly enough to ask.

So the surgeon reset Mark’s joint (as a “let’s just see if this works” measure) and scheduled the formal surgery (because we were pretty sure the measure wouldn’t work) for the following Thursday. And since the resetting, Mark was told to keep his hand elevated above his heart — it prevents undue swelling — and thus, the multitude of photos of the Markling in the perpetual worshipful-hand-raise pose.

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After that first manual resetting, Mark was in a lot of pain. A desperate, helpless, sleepless kind of pain that demands all your attention but only intensifies when you offer it. He texted me all through those first two nights, unable to sleep — midnight… 1 am… 3 am… 5 am… It was heartbreaking, and I was completely useless to help. We tried getting the surgery moved up, but no luck.

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Fear and Powerlessness
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But it wasn’t all pain and tears. We did some fun stuff this past month, too. @ Thomas Sweet.
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also, Pasta.

The surgery day finally came, and as it approached, Mark’s fear grew and grew. It was kind of astounding to me, because I have an almost unnaturally blase attitude toward medical procedures. Needles, blood-giving, surgery…it’s all NBD to me. All the opposite for Mark. He despises needles, hates the thought of steel objects penetrating his dermis, fears physical pain above all else. Don’t tell the terrorists, but he would last zero seconds under torture…

The fear was palpable and uncontrollable. I was even getting frustrated with him — the fear becoming bigger than a matter of the finger and the pain itself and triggering questions of character, of faith. Why is he so afraid/what is it that makes me not as afraid? At the core, I trust in the medical establishment and their ability to make me better. Does he not believe that? Is this a trust-of-establishment thing? Why does he always expect the worst? Is it a God thing? Does he not believe that God has this under control? Is he even praying? 

I tried, really, to be patient — though I broke down at the last minute and mini-yelled at him to “Stop meeping!” right as we were walking into the surgery center. Worst, ever. I know. He forgave me, gracious even amidst the fear.

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Behind this tight-lipped smile is fear and anxiety, don’t let him fool you and please pray for him.

We met with the surgeon and discussed what the procedure would be like. Mark was small and shivery in his flimsy hospital gown and high-fashion hair net. We tried to watch Food Network to distract him from the gloomy chill of the pre-op area, analyzing cupcake flavors and laughing at the made-up drama of food competition TV shows. It was hard, though, because the surgeon had just told us that it would not be a good idea for Mark to travel right after his surgery, as we had been planning to do. Mark’s brother was graduating the next day, so we had planned to head down to be there.

It makes so much sense, in hindsight, that we would have to stick around at home and let Mark rest over the weekend, but we just had no idea what it would be like. We are — luckily — both pretty inexperienced in hospital procedures and figured that as long as I did the driving, it would be no big deal for us to travel. Wrong-oh. The surgeon looked at us with the single eyebrow raise almost visible through his tight facial control, questioning our common sense, and advised that it would be best to take it easy all weekend, hang out on the couch, watch TV, and administer meds as necessary.

It was disappointing… But I came to be grateful for the dashed plans, because this meant that both our schedules were completely free for the time that we had expected to be away.

Those four-ish hours in the waiting room flew by… I was busy texting updates and emailing prayer requests, reaching out and asking to be touched. My fear bubble had grown, too, because fear is infectious — I was feeling grave and sad and sending out pings in hopes of receiving some back. And receive I did.

People came through. Events like these, I realized, clarify who makes up your community and family. People called, emailed, texted, visited (!), letting us know that they loved us and were praying for Mark. Mark’s family even came up on Saturday to see Mark after his surgery and to grab a meal with us. Afterwards, Mark smiled like a goon and said, “I love my family,” at which I cracked up cause, like, duh.

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Scott calls Mark to encourage and to love. “Be strong and courageous,” he said (Joshua 1:7). “WHAT A GOOD GUY,” we said.
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A snippet of the post-op email update sent out to the DC small group. Theme: “We are so grateful.”

The surgeon came out, showed me before and after x-rays, complete with new bits of bone and pins poking through. He said that the joint was able to bend all the way to normal range (110 degrees, for those of you counting), so we’re hoping that with physical therapy, Mark can reset the doc’s PR for best recovery.

And thus began our four-day weekend of resting and worrying and relaxing and an uncharacteristic amount of cooking on my part. Like seriously, I have never cooked so many things in the span of four days. Who even am I?

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Couch-sleeper, thanks to J&Q’s gracious generosity. After finding out that we weren’t going to be going to Mark’s parents’ place for the weekend, we had to figure out real quick where we’d set this guy up — I didn’t want him to be alone. In short, my housemates are the best.
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Mac and cheese cures all.
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Bananer bread, gone in three days. Go us.
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“This is my favorite thing that you’ve ever cooked for me.” How can I not make it again? It’s super easy — pad krapow gai by Chef John: http://foodwishes.blogspot.com/2017/04/spicy-thai-basil-chicken-my-pad-krapow.html

It was a weekend of fitful sleeping, for sure, what with the medicine schedule and the jingle-jangle of Rogue the dog’s midnight prowls through the living room. But we did things we’ve never. done. before as a couple: hang around the house for hours, cook multiple meals in a row, (re)watch seasons of TV shows old and new, sit on the couch until my back hurt, do zero things of productivity. Like, normal people weekend activities. I know we were caring for an invalid here, but it felt kind of luxurious to me, in some ways.

And I got a teensy little taste of what it means to serve selflessly — like, putting my needs and wants on a back burner somewhere and thinking first about somebody else. And I noticed that the caretaking got easier over the weekend as I got more used to it. My selfish sharp edges were dulled a little in the face of real need and a very polite customer. Mark was an easy patient, grateful and eager to get better.

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#adulting at the grocery store, where we went to take a walk and advantage of the deals.

He has his post-op appointment on Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. And as our super-weekend winds down this evening, the Sunday feels are real. We’re sitting here, both back in our respective productivity modes as I blog with a vengeance and he puts the finishing touches on the wedding website. But for the first time in a long, long time, I feel really refreshed from what was actually a pretty stressful weekend. Ironic, yep. Such great ups and downs we’ve traveled in the span of these past 48-or-60-or-whatever hours — counting in chunks of four-to-six as the prescription bottles dictate, constantly asking for the enumeration of pain levels (on a scale of 1 to 10, how do you feel?), cooking and eating real meals, laughing at the antics of Michael Scott (and falling asleep to an anime episode…), taking stock of one another and feeling grateful for the way things are and not how they could’ve been.

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Eating mac and cheese on the floor, enjoying a cold sodie pop and cider while we watch Netflix via the PS3. “I feel like a real American!”

Will have to keep you posted on how we fare through next week and the next; I’m sure the chronicles of physical therapy will bring more ups and downs. But as of this moment, I sit here, grateful for the weirdness, the normalcy, and all the cheezy blogposts in between.

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wedding dress shopping

Wedding dress shopping is a really interesting phenomenon. The experience of shopping for your Perfect Dress parallels a lot of what they say that your Perfect Romance is supposed to be like.

“Supposed to be” — key words that turn on alarm bells in my head, cause of this season I’m in, you know.

Are you supposed to have that THIS-IS-IT feeling that all the TV show brides-to-be talk about? Are you supposed to cry tears of joy? Are you supposed to ring that bell as you commit to your dress, hoot and holler and make everyone’s heads turn with your choice?

Are you supposed to be flooded with emotion? Are you looking for a tingle in your tummy? Will there be a light bulb moment over your disheveled little head?

I’m skeptical. As I have been, throughout this entire wedding planning process. Just questioning all the “supposed to do’s” and “supposed to be’s” because there are endless ways to spend your money on this single (admittedly, very special,) day.

This high-stakes decisionmaking based on a fleety feeling is also an interesting kind of logic, because, how the heck are you supposed to know what “perfect” feels like, if you’ve never found the perfect wedding dress before? How are you supposed to know what “bridal” feels like, if you’ve never been a bride before? How are you supposed to feel about hemlines and trains when you’ve never ever worn a dress for gettin’ married in before? I don’t have any personal context for any of these questions.

They’re all borrowed ideas, you know. Those ideas in your head of what you think you’re supposed to look and feel like. From TV shows and Pinterest boards and wedding blogs — they hail from all corners of the internet, in loud, ringing voices. But you’ve never actually been here before — it’s totally new territory — so it’s probably an okay thing that you feel awkward and a lil out of place in those expensive white dresses. As a first-time, usually mostly casual kind of gal, my bride-to-be-ness feels a little uncomfortable and discouraging in some of these dresses.

But I totally do get that tingly feeling sometimes while shopping — about the perfect pair of jeans, cuffed to just the right leg length, or a silky dress in mustard yellow. So the feeling itself is real, is attainable. I know that. It must be the context that’s throwing things off.

[Western] Weddings — and all things wedding related — are probably one of the most hyped up of human experiences. They hit that sweet spot of a marketing perfect storm, swirling somewhere between Specialness and Ubiquity — lots of people have them, but all with the hopes of only doing it once. With the exception of wedding planners, you’ll never get to practice enough times to get good at the thing, but there’s incredible pressure for you to present, sometimes to hundreds of guests, a Perfect event.

The only hope, really, is to remember yourself and to remember your main purpose (psst: it’s to get married and to have enough money left over so that you can live life after the wedding day too). And ask, once in a while, along the way:

Who are you, and how do you normally dress? Is that the way you want to present yourself at your wedding, as your normal-days self? Or are you looking for something different?

And, seriously, how do you LOOK in the dress? If ya look good and ya know it, you’ll feel it. (Clap your hands!) And that’s a virtuous cycle, if I’ve ever seen one.

And, of yeah — if you don’t know what it is that looks good on you, try on lots of different silhouettes, cause what your heart leaps at might surprise you. Those feelings are sneaky.

What the heck. What am I doing here. Shopping for wedding dresses. Blogging about the experience. Okay the blogging part, that feels right. Is it still you, ladisonmee?? When did you become a lady who shops for wedding dresses and has feelings about different kinds of white fabric? Life is a mystery.


Update, 3/4/17:

Found it.

Had the feeling.

Don’t care that I am a foolish girl; I’m excited for this dress.

Emotional support cred goes to RH on the journeys to and from Annapolis on this drizzly Saturday.

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and props to mompops Lee, who dashed all the way up to nova to inspect my rash purchase and promptly took it home to Charlottesville to get second opinions on how to get the thing altered to fit me. I am well loved.