My mom is in the hospital again. This has become a monthly occurrence, it seems.

I don't want to lose my mom, but the simple fact is, I will at some point. I just always thought I would be older, a "grown woman," perhaps with teenaged, or even grown, children of my own. I definitely didn't think I might be barely 30, childless (though not by my own choice), with my life on complete tenterhooks. I thought my mom would be a lot older than 59. Seeing her so ill, every time, I wonder, "What is the point of no return?" Where is the point at which I know it's truly the beginning of the end, that this is going to end, and soon? Because I keep thinking, every time, that this is it. Is this it?

I keep telling God, "I cannot handle this. I am not ready for this," and I feel like He answers, "You will be, if I want you to." That probably sounds more threatening than I hear it; His voice is more matter-of-fact than ominous.

And little by little, He breaks my heart every day, seeing parts of my mom that might never be restored. It hurts me that I cannot hug her with a real hug, because I will hurt her; she's too fragile. It hurts me that we cannot share a meal because cancer eating away at her makes her too nauseated to eat. It hurts me to think of all the things I want to do with her that we might not get to do. It hurts me that she is uncomfortable, all of the time. It hurts me, mainly because It. Hurts. Her. A lot.

Why does God let people experience such pain? I know that He could heal her in a second if He chose to. I know that His not healing her does not make Him any less good. But, why her? Why us? Why now? My mom is not even 60. We have so much life ahead of us. We have so many things to do.

Every time I think I'm at the end of my rope, there is a little progress, a single step in the right direction. It doesn't feel like enough, but at the same time it feels like everything. I got to talk to her on the phone today. I hadn't talked on the phone with her in weeks, it felt like, because she's been too weak or sick or tired. Even though I saw her yesterday at the hospital (while she was very ill), talking on the phone felt like a mile in the right direction. Was it? Or was it just a momentary comfort for us both?

I write so many of these blogs I never publish, because (1) they're depressing and (2) I don't know if my mom or others would like me talking about her illness so brazenly. I guess I write them for myself, because I need the reminder, that I know God sees us. My mom was always telling me, "He is El Roi: the God Who Sees." It's comforting and maddening at the same time.

Trials

The funny thing about hardship is how it alters you. The last few years I feel I've aged 100. My face shows it; it's hard for me to see photos of myself because the tense lines around my eyes jump out at me. My smile seems forced, even when it doesn't feel forced.

There was a time--around 2003-2005--when I thought, "I'm so happy, it should be illegal. It can't be right to be this happy." I actually felt paranoid because of the joy I felt at having a wonderful husband, loving family, a job that challenged me, a safe place to live. There were minor hardships, and things weren't perfect. But I was so content; I thought for sure either Sean or I were going to die because why else would we be so happy when others were struggling?

I'm reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Anne of the Island:

"Life seems like a cup of glory held to my lips just now. But there must be some bitterness in it--there is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. ... I'm sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and sorrow--though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that we admit it."

Reading back through journal entries reveals that I thought 2006 and 2007 sucked, as far as years go. Now I know they were gray years, but not hard ones. My career faltered, but I persevered and found a new place for myself, one where I could be content with the work God placed in front of me and the freedom He allows. Those years, I felt myself struggling to remain rooted--but what's been going on since that time has caused me to feel untethered, lost.

Dealing with my mom's illness has made me a different person. I might've salvaged enough self-preservation to make it through with my personality intact, to keep the friendships I had, to be able to socialize easily with others. But, the double-whammy of finding out I was struggling with infertility at the same time kind of wrecked all chances I had of remaining the same person. Out of this hardship came this extreme feeling of isolation--because that's what infertility does; every case is different; and it's such a *personal* issue, it makes normal social interaction seem foreign. It covers everything.

Many people say, "I wouldn't trade the hardships I've had because they made me who I am." But I would trade them. I've been changed indelibly; so that, if tomorrow my problems all dissolved--my infertility cured, my mom healed--I would still not be able to return to the other side of the suffering. Jesus prayed, "may this cup be taken from me," (Matthew 26:39), and I've prayed that prayer. I feel those words more than ever. But even if God does take it, I will not, cannot be the same as I was. I'm starting to feel that's okay, too... if I could help someone else who is going through something similar... if I knew I could, maybe that would be a bright spot in the hardship. I'm going to keep praying for that opportunity, and that I can emerge on the other side of this someday being able to say, I didn't lose faith; I didn't doubt God's provision and love, even when I felt so alone.