The One Who Heals You

Well, this week I spent a few days resting and recovering from a minor surgery I had Monday morning. I was truly dreading the whole day. I hate hospitals…and needles…and drugs. Most of all, I hate drugs being put into my body when there is nothing I can do about it.

As we sat there in pre-op waiting for them to whisk me away to the OR, the anesthesiologist came in to ask me some questions and discuss the procedure in further detail. At the end of her little blab of rehearsed information was over, she asked if I had any questions. Without holding back I simply said “How long after until the IV comes out after the surgery? I do not want any pain meds and I want the anesthesia to stop right away.” Hahaha. She was probably thinking Oh Lord, who does this girl think she is? CONTROL FREAK!!! And yes, maybe I am a bit of a control freak—but it is MY body she is pouring that filth into.

Anyhow, my sweet sis Ashley came to balance me out a bit—her laughing at me and rolling her eyes, sitting over in the corner as I put on my ‘serious face’ and asked a million and one questions and barked orders of what I do and do not want done to me—looking back now, I have to laugh a little bit. I am stubborn sometimes and a bit of a control freak I suppose, especially when it comes to my body. I really do have a deep hatred for lacking control over what is or isn’t done to my body.

It is interesting because this is the first time in my life that I have legitimately cared about what is put into my body when it comes to medications, IV fluids, and anesthesia. After making it through a successful surgery and pushing through recovery without the pain meds that were quickly handed to me upon release, it just hit me how very much my mindset about medication in America has changed over several years. To me this is such a testament to God’s faithfulness and healing power in my life.

Three years ago, I spent almost a month in a hospital bed. I was being pumped full of fluids and food, yet felt only emptier and emptier inside. I was on every medication known to man, but somehow there still seemed to be a new pill added to that little plastic cup they handed me each morning and evening. I gladly swallowed it all down, never thinking twice about what exactly was going into my body—I mean why would I? After all, these are being prescribed to me by a fabulous team of doctors who went to years and years of school. They must know what they are doing—they are trying to help me get better! Right?

Honestly, I am not sure. I mean, I am not here to judge the hearts and motives of medical professionals…I am sure they are doing what they were taught to do and what American society expects them to do. After all, we are a prescription nation.

The most humorous part of this whole situation was that when I was admitted into the hospital, I actually could not swallow any sort of pill. I had just never learned—my mom had always given me chewable meds. So during my first three days of being hospitalized, the doctors sent a physical therapist to teach me how to swallow pills. I HATED that lady because I had no desire to even attempt to swallow the stupid pills they wanted to give me. She actually brought packs of Smarty’s into my room and would cut them up—at first into eighths, then fourths, then halves. Eventually, I could swallow a whole smarty. It was at this point, they began giving me a daily regimen of drugs, some of which were far to big for me to swallow. They told me I didn’t have a choice—I would just have to try until I got it. Eventually, I learned to swallow without thinking twice.

I can vividly remember one morning in the hospital when I became frustrated with all of these meds they were giving me, because something was making me feel nauseous morning after morning. When I told the doctor what was happening, instead of trying to figure out what was making me sick, she actually prescribed three new drugs to add to my daily regimen which would treat the side-effects of most of the drugs I was already on. By that point I was taking about thirty pills a day in addition to the meds being fed through my IV.

Just three weeks after being released from this stay in the hospital, it was my very ability to swallow pills that could have ended my life. After an intentional overdose on about fifty pills did not end my life, I realized that God just wasn’t going to let me die—so He would have to teach me how to live. Three, almost four years later, every breath I take is a testimony to His faithfulness in my life. He has shown me how to live—to live life abundantly, as He intended from the start.

For me, part of living out all that life is intended to be, as scripture talks about in John 10:10, is being healthy and taking care of the temple which I get to live in on this earth. The very fact that I am still sitting here today, able to share how God has and continues to redeem my life from the pit, is only possible because I am learning how to care for my body rather then destroying it as I attempted to for so many years.

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”   -John 10:10

I know that I tend to obsess over certain things fairly easily, and by no means do I want to be this crazy, nutso, control-freak when it comes to medicine, vaccines, and food, but I do feel driven to continue to research and learn about these things for the purpose of living life to the full—I know that when my body was full of drugs, prescribed pill after pill to fix my problems, and consumed in binging on and then purging processed foods, I was on the road to death—the opposite of living my life to the full for sure.

I am convinced that this need for “instant gratification” in American society today feeds the drug industry and explains why millions are dying from diseases everyday. You cannot take pills, that are created from chemicals and toxins, for years and years and never expect there to be a consequence—we need to get back to the basics of feeding our bodies whole grains, fruits, veggies, and lean proteins. We need to be active and sleep enough at night time. I am not perfect at this to say the least—I am addicted to frozen yogurt and somehow I always manage to stay up late (blogging!), and sometimes I take Tylenol for bad cramps or a headache. But I do know that I know that I know one thing—medicating the problem does not fix it. In fact, so many medications will alter the way the body functions to the point where you will find yourself taking more pills to silence the side effects of the initial pills. An endless cycle that banks millions of dollars everyday in this country. Medicine has saved many lives over the decades and can be used for good, however I have seen in my life and those around me that very often medication can also have far greater consequences then benefits.  

Praise God for wise medical professionals and cures to disease and medications when helpful. With that being said, we must remember who it is that we serve as followers of Christ. Though the world tells us differently, we must not forget that we know JEHOVAH RAPHA…God our HEALER. I mean, we know the MAKER of the UNIVERSE. We know the One who knit us together in the womb—so who would know better how to heal, nourish, and restore our emotional, physical and spiritual health than the One who made us in the first place?

“There the LORD issued a ruling and instruction for them and put them to the test. He said, “If you listen carefully to the LORD your God and do what is right in his eyes, if you pay attention to his commands and keep all his decrees, I will not bring on you any of the diseases I brought on the Egyptians, for I am the LORD, who heals you.” -Exodus 15:26

Testimony Tuesday: What am I Missing?

Upon arriving at Cardinal Glennon Hospital, something went off in me as I soon realized I was in fact not going to wake up from this nightmare. This was really happening and there was nothing I could do about it. The smell of sickness and anti-disinfectant flooded my nostrils, causing my stomach to churn in dread. Over the next several hours, I was questioned, poked, and prodded by an overwhelmingly steady flow of doctors, nurses, techs, and treatment teams, not much more then a blur of faces I would soon hope to forget. Eventually I made it through the seemingly endless admission process and was moved a room on the third floor.

After awhile, my head fell back slowly, as the bristly dirty-blonde mess on my head brushed the pillow. I breathed. In and out. In and out. Oddly aware of the way my body was functioning in that moment, I watched as my stomach moved up and down. After a bit, I reached down with one hand. My palm rested on the full of my stomach. Wow, am I really still alive? I watched as my hand moved up and down, up and down with the beat of my heart, consistency of my breathing, it just hit me—I was still alive. As I gazed upon the wall and watched the little hand jump from one dash to the next, my body began to relax.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

I heard the voices whispering back and forth. I could have depicted the whole conversation, word for word. The tone heightened at times, in exasperation, lowered in times of defeat. Eventually, I heard the shuffling of a chair, a jacket maybe. The swing of the door and a clash as it shut. She needed some air. Back and forth they went, for hours. I wasn’t listening though.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

What did it matter anyway? I mean, whatever little plan they were scheming over there, wasn’t going to fix me. Just because it didn’t work this time, do they really think I wouldn’t try it again?

The mind is a crazy thing. There is no guidebook, no map to help you trek through it with. Maybe that’s why I spent so much time lost in mine. Regardless, I had made my mind up about six months ago. I knew what my life had become. I refused to continue to live if this was all my life was going to be forever. Death was the only escape from the hell that had become my reality.

“Well, how are you feeling?” asked Dr. Guerra as she glided into my room as if she owned the place. 

“I just took a look at your most recent set of labs and ultrasound results. Your heart is holding up surprisingly well considering all you’ve put it through with the overdose. Unfortunately, your potassium is at a record low and your…” she continued her medical mumbo-jumbo  for a while, telling me all of the reasons I had to stop this behavior and all of the consequences I’d soon face if I didn’t--the most consequential being death.

I honestly didn’t care whether I lived or died, I just wanted it all to go away.  I wanted to be free; I just didn’t know how to stop. This method had become the only way I could cope through day-to-day life.  Just to get that bit of relief; to not have to feel anything for a few moments in time.  This behavior enabled me to feel in control of one thing when everything else seemed so out of control. Seven years had passed by now, since I began struggling. I had willingly given up everything good in my life to follow this addiction, never imagining I could end up in a hospital bed just waiting to die.

My first night in the hospital was spent tossing and turning, constant beeping, distant voices, wailing cries of pain, ceaseless shivering (despite all the layers of blankets) as a result of the bolus, and a lingering fear of accidentally disturbing one of the several needles lodged into my arm and wrists. And then there was the minor disturbance of a nurse coming in every hour round the clock to check my temp and vitals, making sure my heart was still pumping? After a night of more exhaustion then rest, I was woken up at five-o-clock in the morning by a shooting pain in my finger, as the nurse stood beside my bed drawing my blood. This would become my life for the next three weeks.

However, none of this compared to the pain I experienced eating six meals a day. The control I once sought in my seven-year battle with an eating disorder was being pulled away from me and I couldn’t handle it. Despite the fact the my body was on the verge of shutting down as a result of the continual restricting and purging, all I wanted was to be thin and in control, two things the doctors were robbing me of. I felt like no one could understand the pain I lived in.

I knew that when I went back home, I would simply go right back into my old behaviors, the same ones which brought me here. Believe it or not, as the nurses prepared to discharge me a few weeks later, I actually heard two of the nurses making bets on how long it would be before I ended up back here in the hospital. I had tried to stop so many times. With all of my strength, I had fought for my self. For the sake of my family, my friends, my dreams and ambitions, I wanted to stop killing myself. So why did I always go back? For many years, I had battled through this question, wondering where the disconnect was. What was I missing?

Once I realized the strength to fight for my life, to overcome battles and struggles that we all face, did not come from myself or others, I was left pondering—where does it come from? Over the years I have come to learn that strength for true and lasting freedom from any struggle, lies solely in Jesus Christ and an intimate relationship with Him. Deeply contrasted by the more common emphasis on finding one’s ‘inner strength,’ Because humans are sinners, they are always going to mess up and fall short. Rather then looking inside oneself for some sort of greater strength, it’s like there is an answer bigger then oneself, bigger then other people even.

Jesus is bigger then man; He is God! Jesus is the perfect, sinless Son of God; He will never leave anyone or let anyone down. Jesus is not temporary satisfaction, but instead He provides eternal purpose and unspeakable joy. Jesus provides a source of strength incomparable to those in which the world often attempts to implement in overcoming addictions. Hope is not some far-off desire, but an alive and motivating reality that comes naturally in knowing Christ intimately. 

Looking back, I never wanted to die, I just didn’t want to live if this was how my life was going to be forever; I was hopeless, purposeless, hurting, broken, and slowly dying. Three years ago, as I lay in that hospital bed waiting to die, I never ever could have imagined I could have the privilege of walking in such freedom and redemption today.

I still don’t know why things happen how they do. I don’t understand why painful things happened to me in my early years that led to years of torment for which I pleaded to end in death. I don’t know why sometimes, days are really hard to battle through and other days are easy.

However, I do know that in my weakness, God’s power is made perfect. I do know that apart from Him, I am just a hopeless sinner in desperate need of a Savior. I do know that I spent seven years of my life chasing death and it is solely by coming to know Jesus as my Lord and Savior that I am living life today. Not just living life, as in surviving or making it through, but experiencing all that life is intended to be! I do know that today I have a purpose and passion to love on other women who are passionately pursing death and to tell them that there is only one way to experience life, but that it is so worth it—that there is no cost too high to pursue Jesus Christ.  

“By faith Moses, when he became of age, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God than to enjoy the passing pleasures of sin, esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt; for he looked to the reward.” — Hebrews 11:24–26

“Then Jesus said to His disciples, ‘If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.’” — Matthew 16:24

“Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Whoever therefore wants to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God.” — James 4:4