Unprepared - un·pre·pared /ˌənprəˈperd/ adjective not ready or able to deal with something. "she was totally unprepared for what happened next"
The word unprepared arose in a conversation I had with one of my sisters / friends / hairdresser several weeks ago. She was talking about her child and how she always envisioned being the "cool mom", but now doesn't see herself in that role. The conversation evolved into how neither of us see ourselves as what we thought we would be at this point in our life. She then said she wasn't prepared to be at the age of ordering compression socks, but she had just ordered her first pair. I looked at her with complete understanding and responded, "I'm not prepared for my undies to be acting as a tourniquet on my FUPA, but here we are." Of course, we both start giggling, crying, and peeing on ourselves.....I mean we are both moms. After the above conversation, I really started looking back at my life differently, and realized I've always been unprepared!
I look back at the lanky teenager I was in high school trying to fit in. Yes, I had friends. Yes, I was a majorette. No, I wasn't prepared for all of the drama and hurt that came along with my poor decisions and judgement. I wasn't ready for all of the "daddy issues" I would end up with from wondering why my biological dad didn't love me. These were compounded when my mom and adopted dad divorced when I was in high school. I certainly wasn't prepared for the backlash I received after my mom caught me skipping church and having sex with my then boyfriend. My self worth wasn't prepared for all the rumors I heard about myself at school after the sex incident either.
My twenties were my most unprepared years! What was I thinking? I was barely old enough to drink alcohol when I became a registered nurse at a level 1 trauma center in Neuro intensive care. I was making life changing decisions, not only for myself, but for my patients and their families. Now I was a young nurse learning how to REALLY be a nurse now that I was out of school. School teaches you pharmacology and anatomy, but nothing can prepare you for the sound of ribs cracking the first time you perform CPR, or watching a child die.
A year later, I became a clueless wife. I mean we talked about getting married for the first time after drinking too many shots. No doubt we loved each other. We always had; we were just babies. Neither of us knew how to communicate. I only knew I needed attention and would get it from flirting and later from marital indiscretions. We truly were just 'playing house' and trying to figure it out together.
Mid-twenties, we had children. I don't think there is any amount of preparation one can do to become a parent! Trust me when I say I screwed up at every turn possible when it came to being a mother. Also trust me when I say I love my boys more than I will ever be able to show or describe. We were not only babies getting married; we were babies having babies. The only thing we had figured out was our love for our family.
We made it to our thirties. I honestly thought life was over! I had a horrible time turning 30. My friends threw me a big party and even had a stripper for me. Our boys were at fun ages for most of our thirties. We loved watching them play ball. We both loved working out. I was a running machine. Unfortunately, this is when my 1st signs of my BPD (borderline personality disorder) started manifesting. I finally obtained my dream job as a flight nurse and my life turned into a soap opera / Jerry Springer episode. Eventually, we divorced at the age of 39. Nothing could have prepared me for the feelings of failure and self-hatred my divorce caused.
Our forties came along and I thought we finally had everything figured out. We remarried at age 41. For a recap of ages 41-46, please read previous blogs. After everything we had been through, I thought it had to be smooth sailing from this point. I had FINALLY matured some. Perry and I had finally started working on our communication. He was also working on his emotions, or lack of. I had survived a substantial suicide attempt. I had been putting in the work with a psychiatrist and a counselor to help with BPD and my depression. We both had a relationship with our boys. Life was good, until WHAM! God definitely has a sense of humor!
I had been feeling poorly. I was gaining weight. I was extremely tired. I tried to exercise more but couldn't because I was too short of breath to do much. I went to my primary MD multiple times for these symptoms. I was told it was my depression. I was told it was menopause. I had labs drawn to check for autoimmune disorders and for my thyroid. Everything was normal. My depression was getting worse because I thought I was just going crazy. Perry and I had plans to travel to St. Lucia for our re-anniversary in November, 2018. The week prior to our trip, one of my friends and co-workers, commented on my breathing. I was working at the Gardendale Surgery Center doing pre-op and PACU at this time. Thankfully she asked the anesthesiologist his opinion. After asking several questions about my medical history, the anesthesiologist said he would feel better if I would go see a friend of his in cardiology before we went out of the Country. My depression and menopause diagnosis turned out to be heart failure. My aortic valve was replaced November 7, 2018, which was the day we were scheduled to fly to St. Lucia.
After heart surgery, I had complications with sternal infections and post-pump depression (it is a real thing). For 2 years after my heart surgery, I continued to complain about being short of breath. It became a battle of the Dr's egos. The cardiac physicians did a few tests and declared my heart fixed. The pulmonary physicians were treating my asthma, but didn't feel it was the cause of continued shortness of breath. Meanwhile, I was hospitalized twice with respiratory failure. I received second and third opinions, until I was at the point of thinking I was crazy again. Finally, a precious and brilliant pulmonologist at UAB Hospital did a gas exchange test on me while making me ride a bicycle. He determined I had chronotropic incompetency. Basically, I had scar tissue on my heart from the surgery and my heart rate wasn't responding appropriately causing my breathing issues. I received a pacemaker August 2021 to correct this.
Now we're in our 50's. I'm thinking surely we're prepared for anything life throws at us. I was wrong again! I started having some of the same symptoms I had in 2018 - weight gain and fatigue, but this time I had headaches too. I decided this time it was menopause. I went for my six month diabetes check up with my endocrinologist when he noticed some of my labs looked off. He ordered a MRI of my head. I was 100% not prepared at how difficult it is to schedule a MRI when you have a pacemaker! I'm sure you've guessed by now, there is a tumor. It's located on my pituitary gland. I wasn't ready for that! The treatment is surgery and / or radiation. These type tumors are called adenoma's and are known to be benign. I've been back to the endocrinologist for more labs. My follow up appointment is in 3 weeks. More than likely, it will be another surgery to remove it.
I tell you my story and my medical history to say this: my scars (physical and emotional) will forever be present to remind me of my past. They will remind me that I am no longer that girl constantly seeking attention. They will remind me of the strength I have found in God and myself. They will remind me of the importance of true friendship. They remind me I did the best I could with what knowledge and resources I had. They remind me the only thing I can do now is the next right thing, day after day, even if I make a bad decision. My next decision needs to be the decision that is right for me and my loved ones. It's the pursuit of being the best version of myself because perfection isn't obtainable. I don't think preparedness is either, if I'm being honest.
My scars and my story remind me, my identity is more than that of a BPD patient. My identity is also not as an alleged child abuser, or a suicide failure. I am a child of God thanks to His unfailing love, mercy and grace. Lysa Terkeurst once said, "My imperfections are safely tucked in God's perfections."
Will my medical history ever change? No..... Surgeries can't be undone. I definitely wouldn't want my faulty heart valve put back in or a leaking femoral artery bleeding back into my pelvis. Will my psych history ever change? No..... I will always be that girl who will be able to write a book - Memoirs of a Crazy Blonde, A Mental Health Manifesto. I can only focus on what my medical and psych issues have positively done for me. I am a better wife, mother, and daughter. I truly feel they have made me a better patient, and also a better nurse while I was still working. I feel I have become more appreciative of true friends. I have learned to forgive easier. I have finally learned to let things go. For now, I will continue my pursuit to find self acceptance and love.
BPD
CARDIAC DEPRESSION
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