So it’s been almost two weeks since my tonsillectomy and today was the first day that I actually felt like a functional human being. Eating/swallowing is still really weird, and right now I’m actually in some pain which is unusual, but for the most part, things are slowly progressing back to normal.

I apologize for my last blog. I can’t even imagine what it said and I’m way too much of a chicken to go back and read it. I do know that when I wrote it, I felt like I was at the end of my emotional rope. Between the month with my dad in and out of CCU (and then coordinating care for him when he was home) and then the surgery (and all of its pain, narcotics, and side effects), I basically lost my mind.

The silver lining (besides a measly 7 pound weight loss) is that I learned something about life. About myself. Nothing particularly amazing or new …. Probably everyone has learned this lesson at some point …. But this past week was my turn.

 

I am all alone in this world.

 

Yes, I have two amazing, wonderful, spectacular, sassarific daughters. Yes, I have a family who (for the most part) loves me. Yes, I have a hilariously wonderful partner-in-crime. Yes, I have kick-ass friends who send flowers and cards and check up on me.

But you know what? At two o’clock in the morning, when I haven’t eaten and haven’t slept and am in so much pain that tears are literally rolling down my face, it is just me. Only me. There is no one to ease that burden; there is no one to carry that cross. There is just me, Jenny. Just me to muddle through. Just me to search out a coping skill. Just me to find my own life-line. Just me.

And, I’ll be honest: that realization kinda pissed me off. And made my heart ache. And drove home the idea of why Jesus/faith is so important to so many people. Because if you believe in Him, you would never feel alone. It made me realize why my faith was so strong for so long—because I had a relatively shitty time for quite awhile and at least I felt less alone.

This is where my Jesus friends will try to bring me back around to Jesus. I’m not there, yet. Just walk with me, anyway.

Right now, I feel like going back to Jesus would be almost a crutch. I’m not entirely sure I believe He was who He says He was/is and to just start believing again because I’m afraid feels wrong to me. Every major faith has its own Jesus figure. I’m just not ready to buy the whole shebang.

BUT, this is not a doom and gloom thing, here. It’s true; it’s depressing to realize I’m all alone. But, in some way, it’s also kind of freeing. I can’t rely on someone/anyone to ease these burdens. True, good support systems help. That’s a fact. However, there is also a lot of crap in life (like agony at 2am) that NO ONE can alleviate. No one. That’s all on me. I’ve long known that fact about my happiness in general (“Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” Abe Lincoln), but the realization on a larger scale has hit home.

 

I wanted G to fix it. I wanted him to be here, in my house, and fix it.

I wanted my girls to fix it. I wanted them to stop being teenagers and fix it.

I wanted my family to fix it. I wanted them to reach out to me and fix it.

 

That doesn’t happen. In this case, it couldn’t happen. The only fixing could be done by me. The only way out was through. (“When you’re going through hell, keep going.” Winston Churchill) And all I could do was crawl, hour by hour at times, through the post-op. It sucked. It really, really sucked. But you know what? I made it. I don’t know how the hell I made it, but I made it.

And now I’m left with some sort of melancholy hanging around my psyche. During those wee hours of agonizing pain, I thought a lot of my mom and her cancer. When she found out she was sick, she started keeping a journal. My mom wasn’t a complainer, AT ALL, but there were some entries sprinkled throughout where she bemoaned my dad’s absence in her journey. Don’t get me wrong, my dad was there for her. He really was. His heart was breaking. Even so, some of that journey my mom had to make all on her own. People get overwhelmed, scared, discouraged. Most people aren’t evil but may not be equipped to deal with such intensity. Most people cannot deal with such intensity. Some hours we are alone.

I felt connected to my mom in those quiet, painful moments on my couch. I felt connected to her like I never have before. No, I don’t have cancer. My experience is nowhere near as terrifying as hers. But I tasted a piece of what she must have gone through. A sip. And I know that she must’ve had the same realization that I did: some journeys are for our souls alone. There’s kinship and connection in those moments.

At the end of the day, isn’t that what we’re all looking for? A connection? A chance to be heard, to be understood? In truth, those are the large motivations for me becoming a psych nurse. This past week, nuances to those universal truths were revealed to me. We aren’t all connected in all moments. Sometimes, no one understands. Occasionally, we really are all alone on parts of our journey.

This doesn’t mean nihilism or despair must ensue. It’s in those moments, those moments when we have only ourselves to lean on, when we learn what it is to be human. And though we may not be connected to one or two or twelve human beings during those times, we are in fact deeply connected to the whole of humanity.

And that, albeit scary and difficult, is a pretty awesome thing.