I will (choose to) see the goodness of God

Photo Credit: Amy Murgatroyd Photography

We're now on day 3 of inpatient chemo.  We've known about this tumor for 25 days, and our worlds have been completely turned upside down.  Our kids are melting and missing Daddy, and I am running between home and hospital, and torn between their grief and my own.  Our "normal" right now feels ill-fitting and uncomfortable - but it will be our normal for the next 5-6 months, so we have to get used to it.  

It's easy, sometimes, when your life turns upside down, and crisis hits, to feel like the world stops moving.  To feel like you're drowning under the weight of grief.  You walk past sunshine and people smiling, and it just seems rude.  Like, how can your life be so normal, you be so happy, when mine is so wrong right now. How can you not know?  How is my tsunami/earthquake/grief not rocking your world too? Other times, everything else seems like a blur outside of my tunnel vision centered on what's going on in our lives - passing by, irrelevant to our world, which has shrunk down dramatically in this post-tumor life.

I had a moment the other day, walking to get the boys from school, on a bright sunny day - way too many people smiling, me in tunnel vision mode - and I was stopped by two random people asking for money or signatures, for themselves, or for their cause.  I was polite, but frustrated - angry even.  In my mind, the dialogue was "How can you ask me to care for someone else's children/family?  I'm overwhelmed with caring for my own right now and I don't know how we'll make it through this."

Not a wrong thought.  Not an inaccurate thought, certainly an understandable thought.

But, as I kept walking, I had the very clear thought, like the voice of God gently whispering - "You have to make a choice now, whether you will be consumed by this, or whether you will lift up your head and see others, without judgment, wherever they are."

You have to make a choice.

Lift up your head.

You have to make a choice.

Here's the reality - my world right now is very small and it has to be.  I care deeply and passionately about issues of justice and compassion in the world - I love being able to care for others - but I simply don't have the bandwidth or emotional energy to invest heavily there right now.  My world is centered on caring for my husband and my kids, and occasionally myself.  And that's the way it needs to be right now, simply to make it through.  I am so thankful for the literally hundreds of people who are supporting us, praying for us, and caring for us, to enable me to do just that.  That is a debt of gratitude that I cannot ever repay.

BUT.

I have a choice on whether I am consumed by it, or whether I lift up my head to others.

Sometimes lifting up my head simply means raising tear-stained eyes to look into the face of another and receive grace and care from them, rather than drowning under the weight that we/I carry, alone.  

Other times, lifting up my head means seeing others where they are and rejoicing with them when they rejoice, and grieving with them when they grieve, without comparing sorrows or begrudging joys.  

Sorrow and joy, they are not incompatible.

In life, they both exist in the same places and spaces.   One moment, you're laughing at an 11 month olds drunken stagger walk - the next, you're awoken by the alarms from your husband's chemo drip and the panic that something is wrong.   One moment you're snickering at something your 4 year old rhymed with kitchen, the next you're wailing when he tells you out of the blue that "it will be okay if Daddy dies because you'll still be here with us, Mommy."  One moment you're laughing about how chemo is the most expensive haircut/vasectomy/couples getaway ever.  The next you're holding your 3 year old as he sobs because he misses you so much and you're undone by not being able to be everything to everyone.

It's not either or.  It never has been.  And when we are consumed by one, unable to see anyone else - our lives are simpler, but far less complexly beautiful.  And we miss so many opportunities to see the goodness of God and others.

Your joy - if you are in a season of joy - is worth celebrating, even if we are in a hard season.   Your babies are beautiful, and celebrating them, it adds to our joy.  Your accomplishments and triumphs and delights - when I look up at you - they add to my joy.

Your sorrow - no matter if it's large or small - is worth grieving, even if we are in a easier/harder season.  With tear-stained eyes, we can grieve them together.  In God's economy, grief is not weighted heavier or lighter - it is simply grief.  I might not have the bandwidth to carry you in your grief, but I can pray for you as you share, and I can weep with you as you weep.

And on days when I can bear no more weight, I always have a choice to lift up my eyes to you and make the choice to share it with you, rather than be consumed by it.  I might not share in depth - many times that's not the right decision or the right relationship to do so - but I can smile, or cry, and not simply walk by alone.  

"Ok God," I said.  "I will lift up my head.  I will make the choice not to let this consume me.  And I will trust you, that you see me in my grief and overwhelmed state."

I tell you this now as well, friend.  This cancer, chemo, and care - it will determine much of my life for the next 5-6 months.  But I will make the choice (daily, hourly, minute-ly?) not to let it suck me into a solitary pit.  I will look up, look to you, look at you, and embrace the complexity of joy and sorrow.  I will not do this alone, isolated with only what's happening to me/us in my view.

I got home that day to find three completely random checks in the mail, and a home-cooked meal from a friend who wanted to love us in our grief - more than covering all of our needs for that week.  And a message about delivering groceries for the week.

God laughed a little bit at me, and I wept with those tears of joy, knowing that my Father in Heaven sees me, and knows me - and our friends care for us, and carry us - and invites me into the complexity.

Lift up your head.  And you will see goodness [[and]] grief, and understand love.

T+13 days - thankful in the midst

To say that these last two weeks have been some of the hardest of our lives would not be an overstatement.  Our world has been turned upside down and still isn't upright.  We have no idea what comes next - although we have an inkling that it will likely not be easy - nor are we guaranteed that we will make it through it (although we are hoping, praying, and holding onto that with everything in our beings).  We are still a mess at the moment - and that's okay - cancer sucks and it knocks the ever-living wind out of you when you meet it face to face.  We're not glossing over things - we know that this is scary and a big deal - but neither are we devoid of hope in the slightest - and doctors agree that there is reason for optimism, for which we are grateful.  Even so, it feels like traversing a road that one never wished to travel.

Even in the midst of these hellish last two weeks, there are countless things that we are thankful for.  Jon suggested that we keep track of them, so here's my week 2 attempt to do so.  [I'm not writing thank you notes right now (I'm sorry!), and I'm sure I've forgotten some - but just know we are so thankful for all the love and encouragement we have received!]

We are thankful...

... that we didn't move out of area, as we thought we might this past summer.  Even though on paper it made far more sense to do so, all of our promising opportunities fell through, and so we found ourselves still here when this crisis hit.  Still here, with an easy PCP to call when minor symptoms persisted (had we moved, I doubt we would have had a PCP or even called because we'd still be in transition).  Still here with a wonderful community of friends and family who have literally fed and carried us these past two weeks.  Still here with neighbors who can and have babysat on the drop of a hat.  Still here with a job that has been incredibly gracious and basically said "do what you need to do to get well" and a full slate of vacation days and sick days - and coworkers who pray for us and feed us and pray with us.   Still here in one of the top medical epicenters in the country, with top cancer care facilities close to our home, should it prove to be cancer.   Minutes from the airport for any friends and family who fly in.  What felt like God's no - that we mourned significantly this summer - has turned into a place of profound gratitude.

...  that there was a last minute cancellation/opening for Jon to see his doctor that fateful Thursday night.  Otherwise, the next appointment would have been weeks from now in late October.

... for the countless people (including strangers) who have fed us, cried with us, sent money to us, prayed for us, held us, organized help for us, and watched our kids for us on the drop of a hat in the days since we first learned of this tumor.  Each one of you has made our load lighter and our days brighter.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

... for my sister-friend who has held me while I screamed, has taken time off of work to care for us and our kids, and expertly organized an army of people to feed and care for us - all while renovating her house and pregnant with her first baby.  When we decided to be roommates a decade ago, I never knew how profoundly blessed I/we would be by you - both in this crisis, and in the years prior to it.

... for the elevator doors opening at a divine moment, two weeks ago at church, so that we bumped into an oncology acquaintance who we don't see often - she has since networked us to the people who will most likely be our care team in the months to follow. For the oncologists and doctors we know who have offered to connect us to specialists and experts in the field, at the best hospitals, once we have a definite diagnosis.  Who have looked at our scans and talked us through procedures and big words and scary options and given us informed hope.

... for Jon's brother flying up here on short notice to be with us when he went in for the biopsy - and helped us as he healed and hiccuped - and the rest of our families who have also also volunteered to come any time and help in any way.  We know you want to be here, will be here on the drop of a hat, and we are so thankful for you.

... for the gregarious MFM doctor in the pre-op stall next to ours who was in for an emergency gallbladder removal.  She was enthralled by her engorged gallbladder and kept offering to show it to anyone who would look - and giggling about how she loved it so much she wanted to keep it.  She was mildly drunk on her pre-op meds and she kept us laughing through the curtains with her tales and antics - through what was a very long and anxious wait for the surgery.

...  for my friend who dropped everything and came and sat with me at the hospital while I waited for Jon to come out of surgery, and then went to pick up his meds so that I could just take him home.

... for our surgeon, Dr G, who, while no nonsense, personally took the time to answer all our questions and make sure that we were doing ok, even at the end of his long day.  He didn't have my phone number, so he walked two different floors of the building to locate me after the surgery, and then sat with me to patiently ensure that I understood and had my questions answered.

... for sunny days and cooler temperatures this past week.  They are small blessings, but they have made this week a little easier to bear.

While we have much to lament and plead for mercy in, we also have much to be thankful for.  We are not alone.  And we are so so very thankful.

T+1 week: biopsy day

Sept 29, 2017

We're at the hospital for Jon's biopsy today.

Five floors above me, they're administering general anesthesia and gently putting my husband to sleep.  Cutting a two inch wide hole in his chest and removing several square centimeters of his tumor from his chest ("don't worry, you won't miss it; you've got more than enough" quips the Resident assisting...)

You've got more than enough.

15 cms by 11 cms by 8 cms.  He's basically got a brick in his chest.

Way the hell too much.

I've never hated something so small (and so inconceivably big) so much.

I'm sitting in the lobby, drinking coffee and watching the sun sink lower into the horizon in a beautiful sunset.  Fifteen more minutes until my phone should ring and I should hear that Jon is out of surgery and heading into recovery.  The alone time that my mama heart has often longed for is mine in this moment and yet I would give anything not to have to have it.

I feel small in the wake of the past week, and scared of the tide of the future.  And yet at times, the present feels perfectly normal.  Time stands still and yet screeches by at a million miles an hour.  Waiting. Waiting.  Waiting.  Alone, yet more surrounded by friends and family than every before.  Screaming at the heavens, into space, into nothingness - yet intimately embraced by a God that has never been closer.  This whole crisis takes everything I thought I knew and throws into a blender swirling out ugly and beautiful chaos.

Too much, too big, too long, too short, too small, too little.  Enough?  Enough.

Waiting to see what comes next.

Upside Down - T+48 hours

I'm washing water bottles and refilling them.  Bleaching high chair straps and washing the grime off of them.  Changing diapers and wiping faces.  Disciplining and hugging children.

The sun is shining.  Everything feels normal.  Looks normal.

And yet.

Fabric lies uncut for projects that are now delayed.  We haven't been to work since Thursday and we're 100% okay with that.  I keep forgetting to cook dinner - tonight, I pried a completely frozen steak off of splintering styrofoam and nuked it to thaw 20 minutes before we hoped to eat - and laundry lies unfolded.  We've cried more hours in the day than ever before, and we hold each other as if today was the last, even though we don't know what the future holds yet.

Everything is wrong.  Everything is hurting.

And yet, life around us continues on, normally.

The last 48 hours have turned our lives upside down.

For most of the summer, my husband has had very minor symptoms in his chest - mild reflux, pressure on his chest, and some discomfort when he breathed deeply.  He mentioned it to his PCP in June, and they pursued antacids and a routine course of treatment - and we didn't think much of it.  He was stressed about work and we were processing some big decisions, so we figured it was anxiety and stress, or maybe some minor lingering bronchitis.  But when it didn't resolve, he scheduled a follow-up for this past Thursday evening.

His doctor ran a chest x-ray, among other tests, and called him within fifteen minutes of him leaving the office to tell him that he had a abnormal mass in his lung area.  A CAT scan the next morning confirmed that it was a large tumor - six inches by three inches - located on his thymus or lymph node near his sternum.  [For perspective, a dollar bill is 6 inches long and 2.5 inches wide.]  We have an appointment scheduled for Tuesday the 26th with a Thoracic Surgery and Pulmonary Intervention Specialist - and hopefully at that point we will know more.  We are anticipating numerous scans, tests, and biopsies to determine what the mass is, and whether it's benign or cancerous.  We are guessing, most likely, at very least, we're looking at a surgery to remove the mass.

Everything looks and feels normal on the outside.  My husband looks (and feels, for the most part) perfectly healthy. But everything else feels upside down.

Stinky, Stanky, Stunk... or, Rasputin dies once more

Every time we travel, we come home to a stinky house.

Without fail, when we walk in the door after a day or more away, weary from the road, we are greeted with that sweet, sweet aroma of home... a la dead animal.  And it reeks.

Even when we take out the trash, wash all the dishes, double flush the toilet, and leave the house impeccably clean (by our kid-house standards).  "Never leave me again," our house pleads.  Serious separation anxiety, that one.

This last time was so bad - and so inexplicable - that we panicked a bit and polled a few willing-to-be-honest, super-sniffer, regular-guest friends to ensure that we hadn't gone nose blind and it didn't smell like that *all* the time.  Assured that no, it doesn't smell like dead animal all the time - just occasionally the goes-with-the-territory odors of sour milk, poop, and kid feet - we started to dig a little deeper to figure out what might be causing the stench.  And that's when my adventures began.

The smell seemed to center around the dishwasher, trash, and toilet area, so, armed with my elbow high gloves, Clorox, a screw driver, and a wrench - and finding nothing in the trash or toilet area - I dove into the dishwasher.

Now our dishwasher is an old {old} cheap dishwasher, which is nailed into our kitchen counter - and apparently has not been moved out for about a decade.  As I un-nailed it, and pulled it out, I discovered why it was nailed in - it's not balanced.  Pull it out, un-nailed, and it tips over.  First mistake.  Also, entirely related, I discovered just how much water remains in the dishwasher, after it has finished washing and drying the dishes.

As I waded through the rising waters in the kitchen, to begin cleaning out the decades' worth of dust bunnies behind the dishwasher, I found remnants of another life - specifically a small mouse life - so far gone that he was nothing more than a skeleton on a glue trap that we had not placed [i.e. more than 7 years old].

I also found catnip (we've never had a cat), multiple mouse poison packs, and several large holes by the pipes with "WELCOME MICE" signs draped across their entrances, as small trumpets welcomed the hordes of mice entering the land of the free with smiles and cheers.  One of the dust bunnies was so mature that he actually greeted me in proper French.  [Some liberties might have been taken in this description.]  And don't worry, Port Authority shut down those holes with steel wool, pronto.

Also, despite the chaos behind the dishwasher, I promise I do clean my house.  Please don't revoke my membership in the Good Housewives club just yet...

But amazingly, no stench was found.

So into the dishwasher I dove.

Now, the food trap in the back has been stuck since we moved in - meaning, I clean it out fairly often, but have not been able to remove it to clean under it.  But the stench was vaguely emanating from that location, so my screw-driver, wrench and I dove in.

It was stuck, and it was stuck down good.  But it wasn't my first war against the house.

A few broken segments later, plus lots of elbow grease, and I won the battle.

As I lifted up the trap, I discovered what, on first glance, appeared to be strands of disgusting, disintegrating hair or stringy meat - the anchor that had held down the grate.  And also, by all olfactory signs, the source of the stench.

As I unwound it, strand by slimy strand, pulling solid portions out of the pipes, it soon became apparent that this was not what it had initially appeared, but rather...

a rotting,
liquefied,
decomposing

*mouse*

... the innards of which had woven their way around my dishwasher trap after his unfortunate demise, apparently several months ago.

EWW to the double EWWW.  EWW. EWWW.  EWW.  And in case you missed it, EWWW.

Thank the Lord for Clorox and elbow length gloves.

And while it's not my first time touching a decaying rodent [now you really will revoke my Decently Clean Human Beings membership] man, I hope it's my last.  Also, everything in my house has now been cloroxed, so you really have no worries.

It appears that the water that remains in the dishwasher had covered the decomposing mouse, diminishing the scent.  Until, of course, we were out of town for a few days and some of the water evaporated, releasing our smelly little friend's signature odor.

Also, EWW.

As I related this story to a few friends, my friend Jenn said, "You should blog about this!  I'm sure there's some deeper metaphor or lesson in it."

Well, friends, here's my pearl of wisdom for you:

"Don't let mice die in your dishwasher" and "Invest in Clorox" - because following this experience, I will be increasing the value of their stock exponentially.

KD out.

Offended, Woke, Working on it

I remember the first time I "woke up" just the tiniest bit.

It was 2005 or 2006, and I was at an conference called "Race Matters." I was in a small group - half white, half black - of peers from my college and neighboring schools.

We were discussing why we were there, and our backgrounds and experience with race coming in.  And I said (minority friends, can you guess?):

I don't really have a problem with race so I'm not really sure why I'm here.  I might have even thrown in an "I have black friends" for good measure  ... blah blah blah (I don't remember the rest).  Something sterilized and positive sounding.

And for the first time in my life, at 20-21 years old, the people around me didn't just smile and nod.  Instead they gently pushed back against my statement and challenged me to look deeper.

I was offended.  Angry even.

I was a "good" person.  I did have minority friends - not just periphery, but very dear.  I was intentional about learning about other cultures and appreciating them.  My family didn't have a lot of (read: any) wealth, so clearly I couldn't be privileged.  I didn't say overtly racist things and I didn't actively think white people were better than others.  Besides, racism was over, right?

But I had never really thought about race, racism, and the experiences of others of a different race than my own.  I had never asked my black or brown friends.  And I observed cultures, but my listening skills were only beginning to develop.  I had never considered the ways in which my culture and my race shaped my experience or my benefits.  Privilege meant only one thing to me - money - and I didn't have it, so I didn't dig any deeper.  If you had asked me what my culture was, I couldn't have given you an answer.  And I had never been under the leadership of someone who wasn't white and didn't see a problem with that.

I was offended, but I stayed.  I begrudgingly listened.  And in listening, I *heard* little bits of other peoples stories.  And even though I didn't fully think I needed to at that point, I committed to continue to learn and listen - a journey which I am still actively on.

That was 12 or 13 years ago.

In the years since then, I have bumbled through a lot of different experiences with race, racism, and culture.  I've done it poorly many times.  I've been apathetic and unengaged many more [that's one of my places of privileges, btw].  I'm guilty of being vague, safe, savior-esque, ignorant, and "holier than thou."

But I've also listened a lot.  Been intentional with learning more about other people's experiences, and [all more of] my own history.  And tried to learn the fine balance of speaking up and speaking out, and shutting up to make room for others to speak and empowering their voices.

Because I am convinced that race does matter.  That our cultures, our races, they matter deeply to the heart of the Christian God - and are beautiful to him for their reflections of different aspects of His heart.  And pursuit of Him means pursuit of racial justice and reconciliation.

Because I am convinced that racism is alive and well in our country, within our infrastructure, our justice system, our culture and our hearts.  Last weekend's events in #Charlottesville are nothing new - it's just the brooding subsurface-level white supremacy that's been there since our founding, unhooded and laid bare.  It's easier to judge neo-Nazi's with torches than the micro-aggressions that occur daily, but they are no more significant.  This is not a political post in the slightest - while I personally align left, and I think the left acknowledges some of the issues more - racism is not a partisan problem, despite what both sides say.

I haven't arrived and I don't know what I'm doing.  I have to apologize and repent more often than not.  But I'm committed to this journey of listening, learning, heeding the corrections of friends who are wiser than I, speaking up against racism, teaching my kids about power, race and true justice, and seeking to empower minority voices.

I'm a stay-at-home mom right now.  My days are made up of trying to keep my daughter from swimming in the toilet and my sons from ninja jumping off or onto tall things [I failed one of those today].  I don't go to rallies, and I don't have many public forums - this blog [that I haven't written on in 3 months] is one of the only.   That's not an excuse, that's just reality right now.

My role in the greater picture is small and my voice insignificant.  But it is missed, when it's not there.

Because while my role in the Great Big Battle Against Racism and Injustice is small, my role in my kids' lives [two white sons and a white daughter] is pretty big.  

I'm part of a local church that doesn't say a lot about race and God's multicultural kingdom, even though it values that - and I know my pastors' email addresses.

I have friends that I hang out with weekly, as we try to stop our kids from licking green line trains and somersaulting off of things, and occasionally we get a few sentences in between rescues - and we get to challenge each other and learn from one another because we're in regular relationship with one another.

My point is this (and it's mostly for white people like me):

Your voice and your power matters.  We each have places where what we say and do [or don't] matters.  Social media is included in that, but shouldn't be the only place we think of.

You don't have to have it figured out to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem.  Don't expect that you *will* figure it all out.  Start with learning and listening.  Try to do so from non-white sources. Ask - which books are you reading? which articles?  who wrote them? who do you repost?  whose voices are you hearing?  whose authority are you under?  who do you respect? who are you around?  Do you validate or question other people's experiences, when you don't understand them?

Recognize that action does not have to be grandiose or "solve" things [because, white people, we can't do that].  Just as micro-aggressions are a part of the problem, micro-actions can also be part of the solution.

Do you have kids? (What did you tell them about Charlottesville? Ferguson? Charleston?) What do you tell them about race and power or kids with different names?  Who's pictured in their storybooks?  Who wrote their story books?  Who do you schedule playdates with on the playground?

Do you speak up when your friend makes that joke or posts that meme? (I didn't last time.)  Do you speak up, when the Big Bad Racist Things happen?  When you pray, do you ask God to show you your own heart and convict you of ways that you gravitate towards white leadership [people, culture, movies, insert your own option]? Have you talked to your boss/coworkers/pastor/friends about their words or silence on the matter?

Everyone has a starting place - a moment where being "woke" begins - and that involves seeing the problem more clearly and owning it.  And for those of us who are white, often times that feels offensive, because it requires we own our own identities, complicity, [sin] and ignorance.

After many years of campus ministry, I came to the conclusion that being offended is not necessarily a bad thing - it's a starting place.  What you do from there determines whether it builds anger and frustration or leads to reconciliation and growth.  In humility, we grow.  In pride, we barricade ourselves from relationship and the truth that can help set us free.

I'm glad I stayed that weekend.  And when your moment comes, I hope you will too.

on healthcare, love your sick friend

Y'all.

It's been a long three weeks of sickness in our house.  We've had the mother of all colds, fevers, double ear infections, croup, suspected pneumonia (it wasn't), eye infections, 5ths disease, and topped  it all off with a cough that clears the room.  We've thought we were heading towards healthy, only to regress or get something new while traveling far away from home.  All five of us have had something, and the little 3/5ths of the family have had more than one something.  This is out of the ordinary for us - we are typically pretty healthy, and rarely head to the doctors outside of regular check-ups.   My kid who had perfect attendance before this, missed 3 days of school in a row.  In the midst of that, there have been countless calls/trips to the doctors office, more sleepless nights than I can count, and more prescriptions than our annual average.

We are tired.  Very very tired.  And still trying to get the littlest ones healthy again.

In the midst of all that, as a parent, there are numerous moments of decision - with croup, while staying in our friends house out of state, what do we do?  With this cough, do we go in or do we wait it out?  With this fever, do I medicate, or do I let the fever burn out the disease?  What is actually hurting my child who can't articulate his/her pain?  What information do I need to tell the doctor this time?  [Oh my God, will I ever sleep again?]

The one decision that I'm glad we never had to make is - can we afford to take them to the doctors office if they need it?  We are thankful to have good jobs, and good insurance, and great doctors. [As an aside, if you are soon-to-be a parent, the BEST thing you can do is find a pediatrician that has a helpful 24-7 nurses line, and weekend hours.  Trust me.]  While copays and deductibles are not fun, they are infinitely cheaper than full-pay, and the decision to take them in or not has (thankfully) not been "can we afford it."

Today, I am exceedingly sorry to anyone [all of our family] and everyone [half the state of Virginia] whom we might have infected with our diseases.  And I am exceedingly thankful for health insurance, enabling me to provide good care for my children in some stressful weeks.

I grew up without health insurance - in part because my parents were self-employed.  In part because one of my parents has a pre-existing condition which caused them to be dropped from or ineligible for most, if not all, pre-ACA health insurance policies.

I am, and have been, by-in-large, very healthy.  I do not feel like my lack of health insurance growing up (largely) negatively impacted me.  I went to the doctors rarely, but really didn't suffer from that.  I learned to ask questions about what care was actually needed, versus suggested.  I have no issues with resistance to antibiotics because I've used them so infrequently.  I have a healthy respect for the body's ability to heal a lot of things, by itself.  And I have a better understanding of the generous rate cuts of (some) physicians for cash pay patients.  For these things, I am very grateful.

However,  I also know that -

- The stress of finances often influenced healthcare decisions for my parents.
- My parents always did what was needed to get us healthy - but that was costly to them.
- I grew up scared of serious illness because instead of consulting with a medical professional, we googled symptoms and illnesses.  And I grew up thinking of medical care as a luxury rather than as a readily affordable option.  Even for the most serious of issues, you needed to know what you had, and know that it was serious, before you went in.
- When I had my first serious injury in college, requiring stitches, the first question I asked was "how much will this cost?" rather than "can you stop the bleeding?" The nurses thought I was having an anxiety attack because of my duress in considering what they considered basic care. In the end, I opted out of stitches, because of the cost.
- My parents still don't have healthcare, because despite ACA's intended benefit to them, the premiums are still too high, and they see themselves as healthy and not needing it, after 30+ years without it.

Where am I going with this?

Access to quality healthcare is a good thing.  It's not the end-all-be-all - and life can go on for many without it - I am a testimony to that.  But it is tremendously beneficial when you do have it and need it.  And we haves, we often are blissfully unaware of what life looks like for the have-nots.

Healthcare is also a complicated thing.  I don't have a strong sense of what the wisest system of healthcare is - single payer, multi-payer, group funded, government, private, etc.  I don't fully understand all the issues contained within it.  I know that there are ways that medical treatment is overused and abused and that can lead to complications that I don't know how to address.   I did a math project in college on the spread of nosocomial infections, and drug resistant diseases, and I could barely spell it, let alone solve it.  I know that there are vast portions of the populations that lack basic healthcare and that is costly to them and society as a whole in many ways - even while providing coverage through a centralized plan is also vastly expensive.  I also know that there are many non-medicinal treatments, holistic medicine etc., that should be considered somehow (but how?) in the grand scheme of things.

I have much to learn and much more to understand, on both sides.

What I do know is this:

Quality health(care) is often *often* influenced by finances. When you do have good insurance, or financial means, it is far easier to pursue good health(care) and maintain good health.  Even if that just means that you regularly maintain routine healthcare, early screenings, specialized diet, etc., eliminating some of the needs for urgent care later down the road.  This is not a luck thing or a hard work thing.  This is a privilege thing.  Yes, you might work hard for that money/job/coverage - but there are millions of other people who work equally hard for minimum wage and aren't afforded the same healthcare options.  And yes, you might be healthy now, and make healthy lifestyle choices, but disease strikes without warning - sometimes when a diseased family like mine has to fly back to their hometown on your Jetblue flight [sorry again], or sometimes more seriously when despite all your good life choices, your test results come back positive for cancer.  If and when that happens, your finances (followed by support network) are more likely than anything else to influence your care.

Pre-existing conditions are a real B.  And conditionalizing coverage based on them shows a priority for financial gain rather than human decency.  It is all well and good when those are numbers.  But when those are people with names and faces - me, my parent, my friend - it lacks human compassion and decency.  Insurance is not required to be moral, but healthcare is supposed to be based on a system of protecting life and preventing harm - and our current insurance "business" model is antithetical to that.

As a parent, who deeply loves her kids, the thought that the health of my children (or any child) might not be *affordable* - might be a luxury only afforded to those with means - that is unfathomable.  I understand the consumeristic desire to only pay for what *we* use - I am one of the cheapest humans known to mankind and I hate paying extra for things that I don't personally use.  But at the same time, come on people.  We have got to be more human than that. Whether you think that's the role of the government or the church or "someone else" - we've got to figure out a way to "care for the sick" and not prioritize healthcare for those who "have" over those who don't.  If we want to be "pro-life" - let's be fully pro-life and let's figure out a way to make basic healthcare more easily accessible to all.

Politics aside [because does either side fully know how to solve it?], healthcare matters.  Good health can be an idol, it can be an obsession, but when it is gone, we all grieve the loss of it.  Today, in the midst of all our diseases, I do not take for granted our health or our healthcare.  But in light of that, I long for the day when the healthcare that I enjoy will be accessible for all - however that might come to pass.

Call me a liberal, tar me and feather me, but I hold these things to be self-evident - that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are unalienable rights for all humankind.  And that good care of health falls within those.

If you need me, I'll be over here, spooning my Kleenex box.