Confusion and Pain (part 3)

Jason walks in as I am rocking back and forth on my knees, arms wrapped around my middle, moans escaping from my lips. I try to control my breathing, as tears run down my face.

 

“Oh Mer.”, he utters as he rushes to my side. 

 

“I can’t do this anymore!”, I cry out in gasps. 

 

He holds me as we rock back and forth together, whispering words of hope into my ear. 

 

“We are going to get to the bottom of this. This will not last forever. I’m here. You’re going to be ok.”                                  

 

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These episodes of extreme pain began to control and dominate my life over the months following the loss of Beau River. There was so much confusion about what was happening to my body as we saw doctor after doctor… 

 

“You’re probably really tired. You have four young children, are outside of your home culture, and in language school. You should try to rest more.” 

 

“Hmm. Your uterus is enlarged on ultrasound, but you just had a miscarriage three months ago, so its’ probably just from that. Things will return to normal.”

 

“But why am I having such severe pain??”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe endometriosis?”

 

“I’ve had four natural childbirths and I’m telling you that I wake from sleep feeling like I’m crowning a baby. Something is wrong!”

 

“Well, you kind of forget what childbirth pain is like after you have a baby.”

 

“Maybe you should see a urologist? We can send a referral.”

 

“It looks like there are no appointments available for three months.”

                                     

 

By mid-June, 2019, I have been to the emergency room 4 times for severe pain, seen 7 different doctors, been on 6 rounds of antibiotics for possible UTIs, had 3 ultrasounds, countless blood draws, and am taking antispasmodics and pain medication multiple times per day. The antispasmodics help me function a bit, but I am also losing weight, forcing myself to eat 3 times a day through nausea, and becoming desperate for some relief and answers. 

 

With only a few weeks left of our 10 months of language school, I am unable to finish. I drop out of classes to try and ‘rest’, but instead spend my time pacing my apartment. I manage extreme pain by singing, hanging laundry, stretching, napping, sitting in the sun, and then back to laying on the couch or bed… I feel like a tortured and caged animal, stuck in agony and confusion. 

 

“What is wrong with me?!”

 

Throughout these four months, life continues. We take the kids to school, make meals, study and practice French, travel to southern France, and even visit Paris for a few days. There are moments of beautiful memories during this time, but they are often overshadowed by attacks of pain, and my attempts to not ‘ruin’ moments and experiences. 

 

It is an intense battle for hope.

During our trip to Southern France with friends, Jason and I get away for a night, to a castle turned hotel in a stunningly beautiful historic town in southern France. We have an amazing 3 course meal and good evening together, but then I awake the next morning with severe pain. Once again, we go searching for an emergency room or clinic. We find one that diagnoses another ‘probable UTI’ and prescribes antibiotics and stronger antispasmodics. The medication provides some relief, but the pain steals my energy for the remainder of the trip. 

---- 

 

While in Paris for 3 days with our four little ones, I have a severe bout of pain while traveling on a tour bus.

 

I work through it, fighting to keep my composure, until we arrive back to our hotel, where I fall apart in a heap on the bed. 

 

“Should I take you to an ER again?”, Jason asks softly as he sits beside me, picking up his phone to look for the nearest hospital. 

 

“Why?! What good will it do?? I just finished another round of antibiotics a couple days ago. Could this truly be ANOTHER UTI?? I will spend our last day in Paris managing pain in a waiting room, only to have the same labs drawn and be given the same medication I just completed. How long can we keep doing this?!”

 

He silently rubs my back. 

 

“You’re right. I just don’t know what else to do.”

 

The kids’ are beginning to bicker in the other room, while running around loudly, expending their pent up energy. 

“Why don’t I take them to get some food and you can try to rest? I’ll bring you something back.”

 

“Sure, that’s fine. Thank you.”

 

Alone in a small hotel room in Paris, I curl up in a ball on the bed, taking slow deep breaths, my tears of pain, frustration, and fear pour out profusely, falling onto the pages of my open Bible. 

"God, please help me! Are you even there??"

There is a warm orange glow in the room, the afternoon sun coming through the thin white curtains. My breathing slows and my tears stop, as a calm I can’t explain envelopes me. 

 

The pain doesn’t go away. I don’t receive any specific word or promise from God. 

I am simply held. 

 

 

The next day, we return to Albertville and continue life for another month. I feel like I’m being held and carried by God through each long day and night, even as the pain continues and my health deteriorates. 

 

Until one day, after being sent home again from the emergency room, with the same medication and a 3 month waiting list to see another specialist, I hear Jason say, 

 

“We have to get you home. I can’t keep watching you suffer like this.”

 

His eyes are filled with tears. 

 

We buy tickets and make plans. I will fly back to America with two of the kids and a dear friend. Jason will follow in two weeks with the other two kids, finishing final exams and wrapping up our year in France.

There is no way I could have done this trip (or this year!) without our dear Ruby. 

Giving my last presentation in french

Ruby also giving hers.

    

Our dear teachers were so supportive.

My dearest language helper. I miss her.