In Sickness and Health.

We continue to struggle to adjust to our new reality. We are walking on thin ice and any wrong step puts the whole house into tears. Brock continues to do therapy twice a week and makes subtle improvements. I was able to get Brock a referral for a new endocrinologist who I am hopeful will be more personable and helpful. We are also anxiously awaiting to hear from the doctor in Australia who will decide if Brock is a good candidate for TMS therapy. The neurosurgeon said not to put too much hope in this option, because there is no evidence that this therapy would benefit Brock and his circumstances…but I can’t help it. I am grasping for anything to help make forward progress. I feel as though I am in a waiting room. I am tired of hearing “joy is coming” or “one day you will see the bigger picture.” These words feel like salt in a still-open wound. Although they hold a lot of truth, when standing in the pouring rain of suffering, they don’t help. I want to sit in the raw, ugly, honest deep hurt only found in the dark depths of pain and trial. I was listening to a podcast today…which I rarely do anymore (my mind can’t take in much else lately), but it encouraged writing down and vocalizing the swirling doubts and questions instead of pushing them away; because that’s what people need to hear. It is also what I need, I need to accept and recognize these feelings in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other. All I hear is a loud, ticking clock hanging on the wall as I sit and wait. I have been sitting in this waiting room for over two months now and I am tired of it. The doors have swung wide open, faithfully guiding us to this point—and now, here I sit in the silence, with just a ticking clock of unanswered questions.

When standing at the wedding altar, looking into your beloved’s eyes, so full of love and anticipation for the journey ahead—nervously uttering the words “for richer or poorer; in sickness and health,” you don’t fully comprehend the weight and magnitude of what you are promising. Of course I will still love you on a tight budget. I will walk faithfully beside you when you are sick or need a surgery, heck I will even serve you soup with a cheerful smile. For a lot of people, that might be all the more those words ever mean (until death do you part), but for me, these words have a whole new depth. I am not just a wife anymore; I am a caretaker. I am taking care of my husband in ways I never dreamt those vows would mean. I carry the responsibility of finances, medical decisions, and the emotional and physical well being of the whole family—all on my shoulders. I don’t have a spouse to seek parenting help from, I don’t have a counter partner to bounce different ideas off of, it’s just me. I am alone. I have an amazing family surrounding me and supporting me, but at the end of the day, it’s not the same as a spouse. I love the community around me; I am continually rendered speechless at the support I have received and the way everyone has pitched in to help our family, but a lot of this day-to-day burden I have to bear alone. I know technically I am never alone, God is always with me and I preach this truth to my children, but I don’t want this cliche truth right now. Life feels dark and lonely, and as I walk into Christmas and the joy of the season, I am choosing not to just see the baby Jesus, but also the Jesus sweating blood in the garden of Gethsemane as he awaited trial. The Jesus crying out on the cross “my God, my God why have you forsaken me?” The Jesus that came to this earth to sympathize with my deepest pain and save us from eternal agony. I tearfully yell “where are you God?, and what are You doing in all of this?”. The questions are never ending. It’s hard writing these feelings down, but with each post my prayer is that someone somewhere knows they are not alone in the pain of waiting. In the agony of believing for more but accepting what is. Our paster recently said “God’s never late, but in my opinion, he misses a lot of opportunities to be early” and it spoke right to my soul. Any time God, here I sit waiting. I need eyes to see in this darkness of uncertainty.

How can you join us in prayer? For wisdom, healing, and DIRECTION for Brock. For me to have new eyes to see Brock through and raised hands to the Lord even though I feel like I am drowning. Understanding and peace for the kids to process everything. Let God's voice be louder then the fear and frustration. I am humbled by everyones prayers and support it gives me strength to wake up and face each day.