In a world of eerily
flawless social media lives, deceiving hashtags, and selfies always
taken at the perfect angle, I want to get real with you. This year,
my life has been a #hotmess, and 2018 has completely #kickedmybutt.
Friends, this blog is a dose of realness for you – and hopefully
also a dose of faith amidst the mess. (That means you've got to read
to the end if you want to hear the good part.)
To put things lightly, my
year hasn't gone quite as expected. I made the transition out of
2017 by blowing the transmission in my car and entered 2018 by being
poisoned, finding out I had skin cancer, and breaking up with my
boyfriend of two years. It's crazy how some seasons of life seem to
go like this. They play out like a bad movie, and you just keep
wondering if the happy ending is ever going to come.
Let's start at month one:
January. I was ecstatic to have an opportunity to travel to Uganda,
my former home of several years, to visit the village where I used to
reside. Since moving back to the U.S. in 2015, I've visited often
and always look forward to my reunions with Ugandan friends and
family. On January 7th of this year, I arrived in Amoroto
village and entered my little mud hut – the Ugandan home I proudly
own. After three days of exhausting travel, I was ready to unpack,
get settled, and finally sleep. However, while being inside the hut
for maybe five or ten minutes, I started to feel a horrible itching
sensation inside my ears. The itching slowly started to spread, and
I realized it was moving to my face and neck, then my stomach and
torso, then everywhere.
I ran to my friend
Connie's hut (who had travelled with me) and banged on her door.
Groggily, she climbed down from her bunk bed and opened her door,
half-awake.
"Connie, look at me!
What is happening???" By this time, I was covered in hives and
had massive welts under my arms.
Thankfully, Connie is a
nurse and had come to Uganda equipped with Benadryl. She gave me a
triple dose and said we should see if taking an antihistamine would
calm this freaky allergic reaction. A few minutes passed, and she
asked if I felt any relief. The itching was the worst I'd ever
experienced, and I felt like it was becoming harder and harder to
breathe.
"I'm not feeling
better," I stated worriedly. "I feel like I can't breathe.
I feel like – like my lungs are closing."
Connie said we needed to
get to a hospital immediately, and we woke up our Ugandan friend
Robert to explain the urgency of the situation. He couldn't find the
keys to his car, so he quickly hotwired it – yes, you read that
right – and we sped off to the hospital.
During the car ride,
Robert explained that a missionary had stayed in my home and filled
it with poison to kill rats. He'd returned to his home country a
month prior and had sealed up my hut. The tin roof and intense
African sun created a sauna-like environment inside my house, and I'd
probably ingested major rat poison fumes. I was trying not to panic,
because it was already so hard to breathe. I knew if I panicked or
even cried, it would get even harder. Robert was solemn, focused on
getting us to the hospital as quickly as possible. Connie remained
calm, quietly assuring me we would make it before it was too late.
At one point, the car
broke down, and I thought that moment might be the difference between
life and death for me. I remember turning to Connie and asking her,
"Am I going to die tonight?"
"No," she
replied calmly. "We're going to make it. You're going to be
fine." (She later admitted that she was freaking out inside and
was looking for a pen in the car so that she could conduct an
emergency tracheotomy whenever I stopped breathing. Fortunately, she
was able to stay outwardly calm, which helped me also stay calm when
I needed it most.)
Thankfully, Ugandans can
fix anything, and the car was soon running again.
#africansuperpowers Robert continued speeding on until we pulled
into the parking lot of Bethesda Hospital. My lungs hadn't closed
yet. We. Made. It.
Long story short, after
having steroids shot straight into my veins, puking out some poison,
and breathing through a nebulizer, my lungs fully opened up again.
Air had never felt so good.
Three weeks later, I flew
back to California and decided to get checked by an American doctor
because I was still having trouble taking in deep breaths. I was
given a lung function test where I blew into a little machine that
looked like a kazoo. If you have a strong lung capacity, you can
blow up to the 800 mark on the lung kazoo (whatever the heck that
means), but to pass, you only need to score 400. I scored 250.
Pulmonary tests and five months of lung detox treatments soon
followed.
Now we enter month two:
February. While getting my lungs checked, my primary doctor
expressed concern about a tiny red mark on my face that looked like a
patch of dry skin. She told me I needed to go to a dermatologist
immediately. The soonest appointment was on Valentine's Day, which
didn't seem to matter much until halfway through the appointment when
I realized what was happening. The doctor told me she needed to take
a biopsy but was already certain the mark was skin cancer. She cut
off a chunk of skin and put a big, cumbersome bandage across my
cheek. Before sending me off with my ugly face bandage to celebrate
Valentine's Day with my boyfriend, she sat me down for a moment. She
put her hand on my arm and looked at me with so much sympathy that I
suddenly felt scared. "Normally I wait until later in the
process to have this talk," she began. She paused and gave me a
worried smile. "But you're young and your skin is still pretty,
so I want to just be honest with you now. The mark on your face
looks small, but there's probably a lot more going on under the skin.
Even though the cancer itself isn't very serious, the surgery is
going to leave a scar." She paused. "A big scar.
I'll refer you to a plastic surgeon, but honestly, it won't matter.
It's going to be big. I'm so sorry."
"How big do you
mean?" I asked.
She spread out her index
finger to her thumb, about four inches long. "Pretty big."
A four-inch scar on a leg
is noticeable. A four-inch scar on a face is all you notice.
This brings me to month
three: March. I met with Orange County's cockiest plastic surgeon a
few weeks later, who greeted me with a gruff, "Okay, where is
it?"
I sheepishly pointed to my
cheek as he had his assistant snap pictures of my face before even
asking my name. He looked at my skin in horror and immediately
declared, "That is gonna leave a scar! I'll tell you right now.
I'm a plastic surgeon, and I can't make that look small. That is
really going to leave a mark! That is going to SCAAAAAR!!!"
His dramatic declaration
made me feel like I'd probably look like a pirate after my surgery.
#ahoymatey But what could I do? If a Newport Beach plastic surgeon
couldn't help me, no one could. I came to grips with the fact that I
had two choices. I could let cancer keep growing inside my face. Or
I could remove cancer and look ugly. I figured I better go with
option two.
Now comes month four:
April. On April 24th, I spent seven hours at Hoag
Hospital and had a successful skin procedure. I left bandaged up,
exhausted, and in terrible pain – but also thankful it was just
"baby cancer" that could be removed in one sitting. A week
later, the stitches were taken out. I was expecting the worst after
all the pre-surgery talk. The mark wasn't nearly as big as the
doctor had originally anticipated. However, my skin was awkwardly
sewn up like a triangle and looked bizarre in the middle of my face.
I stared in the mirror at the doctor's office, confused as to why
they'd chosen to make my cheek look like a geometry lesson.
#dangisosceles My face didn't look like my face
anymore. I walked to my car, closed the door, and cried.
But the pinnacle of my
pain really struck in month five: May. A week after getting my
stitches out, I faced the biggest loss of the year – something far
more painful than having my lungs close or face cut open. I lost the
man I thought I was going to marry. I want to be careful with my
words here, because I don't want to dishonor him in any way. I won't
mention his name; I'll simply say we'd been together for two years,
and deciding to split wasn't easy for either of us. We loved each
other and talked about possibly getting married this year; but unfortunately, I
began to realize his romantic statements were more abstract dreams
than concrete decisions. When it came to actual steps forward,
nothing seemed to be moving. The thought of marrying me terrified
him, and I could see that committing to forever with me was a burden he
could not carry. Again, this is not meant as a criticism to
him (or me); there was simply something in the dynamic between us that made things
hard when they should have been easy and natural. Regardless, no one
wants to feel like a weight on the shoulders of someone you love, and
my heart ached at this reality. I realized I was losing my goofy,
joyful self because I felt hurt and frustrated all the time. With no other
choice, I said goodbye.
Jus three days after the
breakup, I went back to Hoag Hospital for a second procedure. In the
midst of heartbreak, it only seemed fitting that this procedure was
torture. In order to prevent any future skin cancer on my face, I
was zapped with a blue light that burned away any precancerous cells.
I sat in a pitch-black room while a strange machine burned my face
for sixteen minutes and forty seconds of agony. I literally felt
like I was inside a flame. All I could think about was how horrible
it must be for people who burn to death. I wanted to scream, but
pride kept me quiet.
I spent the next 48 hours
in darkness. I was told any contact with light – not just the sun,
any light source at all – could burn me and permanently
damage my skin. I wasn't even supposed to use a phone because the
light on a screen could burn me. So I spent two full days with no
light, a fresh scar on my face, a layer of skin missing, and a broken
heart with nothing to distract me - no TV, no laptop, no phone, no
being outside. All I could do was sit and wait and face the reality
that things were broken. My lungs were broken; my face was broken;
my heart was broken.
Then comes month six:
June. Two weeks later, I hopped on a plane to be a bridesmaid in a
friend's wedding in Ohio. You want to know the best cure for a
breakup? Be in someone else's wedding. #justkidding Though happy
to celebrate my dear friend, it felt strange to be travelling without
the companion I thought would have been by my side for the wedding.
Additionally, the cost of flights, a dress, hotel, rental car, etc.
kept adding up, and I started to stress about finances. How ironic
that I'd thought I'd be spending my money on a honeymoon this year.
Instead, all my extra spending money has gone towards medical bills
and other peoples' weddings.
If I stop here, you'll
probably feel sorry for me. Please don't. Fortunately, this is not the
end of the story. And I don't feel sorry for myself. You see, in
the midst of the worst circumstances, there's always hope. There's
always light; there's always joy; there's always God's goodness.
Let's look back on my year as I fill in some holes that make the
story a bit different:
Blowing my transmission
right before I left for Uganda seemed like a financial nightmare –
that is, until my pastor (who's also my boss) called me and said it
was taken care of. I was very confused because I hadn't told him
what happened. Before I'd let him know about my car, someone else
from my church had already told him, and he'd arranged for a friend
to fix my transmission while I was in Africa. I didn't pay a single
penny for my transmission and came home to a good-as-new car after my
trip.
Having my lungs close was
pretty freaky, but God reminded me that He's got me and that He's in
the details. My friend Connie doesn't normally doesn't bring
Benadryl with her when she travels, only other basic medications.
However, for some weird reason, before our January trip, she felt a
strong prompting to bring it. I can't be sure, but I wonder if
taking that medicine is what kept my lungs from completely closing on
the way to the hospital. I wonder if that was God's strange way of
protecting me.
Also, while resting and
recovering in Uganda, I had an encounter with God so beautiful that it almost feels cheap to describe it in mere words. I
saw a vision of Jesus embracing me, and it was so real and powerful
that I just wept in God's awesome presence. I could feel Him hugging
me and comforting me; I've never experienced anything like it. I'm
not sure if I would have had such an intense experience if things
hadn't gotten quite so desperate.
When I got back to
California, my friend Ashley (who's also a nurse), just-so-happened
to be working a new job where she was learning a ton about natural
detoxes. She told her boss about my lung situation, and he
generously gave me five month's worth of nebulizer treatments that
Ashley helped me administer at home. Normally, those treatments
would require bi-weekly doctor's visits and thousands of dollars. I
paid just ninety bucks, and my lungs are completely back to normal.
And that rude plastic
surgeon who told me how huge my scar would be? Guess what, he's not
the one who did my surgery. Right after my consultation with him, I
bumped into Mona, an old client of mine, at the gym on a day that I
normally wouldn't be there. Mona is a doctor and had heard about my
health issues from one of my friends. She pushed me to fight for a
Mohs surgeon, a doctor who is trained in a specialized cancer removal
technique that leaves the smallest scarring possible. Mona helped
connect me to the doctor who ended up performing my surgery and
texted me throughout the entire process, checking in on me and
answering questions. The doctor I ended up with was voted "Most
Compassionate Doctor in Orange County."
After my surgery, a girl
at my church who doesn't even know me very well me gave me an expensive microderm
abrasion roller made by a high-end skin care company. She said she wanted to give it to me for free because it
would make a drastic difference in the appearance of the scar. And
as for the weird triangle? It's actually starting to fade and blends
in with my natural smile lines because of the odd way it's shaped. A
few weeks ago, a stranger complimented me on the cute dimple on my
cheek. #butitsaweirdscar #geometryforthewin
Oh, and on the day of my
blue-light treatment, I wasn't alone. My friend Amy sat with me at
Hoag Hospital for six hours while I waited to be treated, and
she patiently and joyfully chatted with me despite me being anxious and
sad about my breakup. She even sent me home with glow sticks and a
fidget spinner to entertain me while I had to be in the dark.
I don't think it's a mere
coincidence that one of my girlfriends, who lives three blocks from my
apartment, went through an almost identical breakup to mine a couple
of years ago. She's coached me through the whole process and has
been an incredible adventure buddy. This summer, we've been pursuing
homeless ministry together, a missions trip to Mexico, and lots of
hiking/beaching/exploring. It's been an amazing summer.
And this brings us to
month seven: July. Things have started to turn around. After
spending my extra money on medical bills and multiple weddings, I
gave up on the idea that I would ever be able to take a real
vacation. Clearly, there would be no honeymoon for me this year, but
I still desperately wanted to get away. My two bosses were aware of
what a hard year it'd been and asked me what I needed to feel
refreshed. I explained that my ex-boyfriend had given me boat passes
to Catalina Island and I still wanted to go even though I couldn't go
with him. One of my bosses connected me to a couple who owns a house
on Catalina Island who let me and two girlfriends stay there for
free. I was also unexpectedly given $300 to spend on whatever I
wanted while in Catalina. Our girls island getaway was more than I
dreamed. It was the perfect balance of rest and adventure. We drove
a golf cart around the island, took a speedboat ride to a beautiful
bay, went snorkeling, and climbed to the top of a mountain. We also
sunbathed, rested, worshipped, read, and ate tons of good food.
It's funny that Catalina
marked this turning point, because the island had become symbolic for
me months prior. In probably March or April, I was overwhelmed by
how many things were going downhill and felt lost in confusion. I
decided to go to the beach, my favorite place to get away and clear
my head. As I walked along the ocean, I looked out into the
distance. Often, you can see Catalina Island pretty clearly from the
Orange County coastline, but some days are too foggy to see much of
anything. As I saw a blurry glimpse of the island in the distance, I
heard God's voice whisper, "Not all hope is lost."
I
wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but I heard it again and again
throughout my walk along the sand. I remembered that even though I
could barely make out Catalina in the distance and even though I'd
never been there, I was still certain that it was there. I had
complete faith the island existed even on the days when it was too
foggy to see it at all. I remembered that God's promises were much
the same. Sometimes they seemed so far away; sometimes I couldn't
see them at all. But whether I could see them or not, they were as
real as Catalina, which stood out in the sea no matter what the
weather looked like from my perspective on the shore. And I heard
the voice whisper into my heart again, "Not all hope is
lost."
All
these months later, it was really special to finally make it out to
the island. One night while sitting atop the house's deck in
Catalina, looking down at the harbor, I remembered my walk on the
beach back in March or April. I remembered how far away and blurry Catalina had looked that
day. And I realized – I was here. The once blurry view was now a
tangible experience. I had swum in Catalina's waves, eaten fish from
its waters, touched its sand. The promise was no longer in the
distance. I was inside of it.
While
in Catalina, I started to dream about what I want my life to be. I
realized that when I die, I don't want people to say that I was great
or my life was wonderful. Instead, I just want people to say, "Her
life was beautiful." Messy, wild, unpredictable - but
beautiful. I want them to see Jesus in my life; I want them to see
His beauty. I want them to see how He's made broken cars, broken
lungs, broken faces, and broken hearts into something incredibly
beautiful.
Sometimes
I see other people and wonder why they look like perfectly carved
pieces of glass – completely flawless and unblemished. But in the
end, I prefer to be more like a mosaic – fragments that have been
shattered and broken but pieced back together into a captivating
piece of art.
The
end product doesn't mean the shattering process isn't painful. To be
honest, I still have "off" health days and feel discouraged
when I think about how much physical trauma my body's been through this
year. I still have days when I miss my ex-boyfriend or grieve our
dreams together that will no longer come to pass. I still have days
when I feel sad that I never got to say goodbye to his family. I
still get frustrated when I think about how much money I've lost on
medical bills. BUT I can also say that I genuinely feel grateful and
full of hope. I've learned so much during this season and have felt
extremely loved by God and by my amazing friends. I believe the
future is bright, and I'm excited for a better season ahead.
Wherever
you are in your life's journey, I want to remind you that the mess is
never the end of the story. There are times that try us, scar us,
break us – but the end product is only that much more beautiful.
Whether your life looks like month one or month seven, God is there
with you. He loves you. He sees you. He won't necessarily spare
you from pain; but He will reveal His love in the mess and make you into something beautiful. If I
can make it, so can you. #wereallgonnamakeit