The journey
We each have a story . . . a tale of how circumstances formed us into who we are today. The older I get, the more I realize my story has many chapters and many influencers. Some chapters are beautiful and I want to show them to the whole world. Others are terribly difficult and I want to keep them hidden out of both fear and self-preservation. Broadcasting the hard parts of my story means admitting them to myself. Interwoven with grief and fear, this process often takes time. Today something sparked in me to share a chapter of my story, one that has been full of heartache and frustration. As with any good story, we must start at the beginning:
I remember the first time I saw my dad cry. I was 9 years old and he had gotten a really bad cold. Due to his hearing loss in one ear in college, colds always had a frightening effect on him. He would begin to feel this fullness in his ears, thus causing a further loss of hearing in his one good ear. As an only child, I often witnessed more than my share of "grown-up" conversations. That day I overheard my parents muffled voices and cracked open their door just enough to see my dad, with tears streaming down his face, whisper to my mom, "Cindy, what if it is happening? What if I really begin to lose my hearing in my only good ear? What would we do?" I walked out and started to think through what would actually happen if my dad went completely deaf. Tears soaked my pillow that night because all the possible realities from that equation were simply too much for my tiny 9 year old heart to bear.
Years later, I look back and wonder what I would have done if I knew what lay ahead.
Fast forward a few years and my hero began to get a ringing in his ears along with a slight, but steady decrease in hearing in his good ear. The doctors diagnosed him with Menier's disease, a disorder of the inner ear characterized by episodes of vertigo, tinnitus (ringing), and hearing loss. They say the hearing loss comes and goes for sometime, alternating between ears, then becomes permanent. The first notable time that my dad was de-habilitated was on my 8th grade graduation weekend. He was extremely dizzy the day of and had to ride separately. Little did I know this soon was going to become our reality.
Throughout high school the symptoms became more frequent, then worsened. Soon, we could not have music in the house or watch TV as a family. We no longer went with family friends out to eat because the noise was simply too overwhelming for dad. By my junior year, Dad has constant roaring in his ears, was dizzy weekly, and losing hope. The entire extended family on my mom's side had planned a trip to Disney world in November of 2012. Just a few days before our trip, my dad had an emergency appendectomy. The surgery weirdly caused his hearing frequencies to switch and suddenly, he was almost 100% deaf. He called us on the phone (barely..) and told us he was going to apply for a cochlear implant. Mom and I just stared at each other as he, on speaker phone, explained the details of what was to come. A cochlear implant had always been an understood "worst case scenario, last ditch effort" sort of thing. The fact that he was so convinced of his need for it showed the depth of his loss.
He really was at the end of his rope. The Lord provided and 1 short month later, Dad had a cochlear implant. It's ironic because everyone thought (and we secretly hoped) the implant would fix everything. Our grief was cloaked in the misconception that his bionic ear was the ticket back to life as it was.
Thus began the journey of Dad learning how to hear again out of an ear which had been silent since college. Nothing happened overnight, but change began to slowly occur. Soon he could talk to us--like have a real conversation-- without us having to s-l-o-w-l-y s-a-y e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i--n-g. It still was not perfect, but it was better. We could have music on downstairs without him shying away to his room. He even began to sing along, and though incredibly off key, it was one of the sweetest things I've heard. My dad and I started watching The Walking Dead together, just us. We sat all snuggled up on the coach and as it begin to play, I realized it was the first time we had simply watched TV together for as long as I could remember. Yes, we used subtitles and it was sort of distracting, but I cried after the first episode was over. I cried not because the zombies were gross, but because it felt as though I was getting my dad back.
A few nights ago, I stormed into the kitchen, wondering when dinner would be ready. My impatience and hunger lit a fire inside of me and I was on the verge of being pretty rude to my mom when suddenly I felt my dad holding my hand and waist. He began spinning me around and around in the kitchen while singing in his off key, but handsome voice, "Sometimes you gotta dance...sometimes you just gotta dance." I melted. He knew exactly how to calm me down and make me laugh.
I treasure those moments... they will forever be etched in my mind. I store them away for days like today...days when the unfairness and brutality of Minere's knocks my dad to his knees. He has been dizzy and nauseated for days with few breaks. I'm not used to this new level of the sickness because I have been in college then at Pinecove for the summer. A lot has changed in the past year. For example, my entire senior year I loved eating lunch at home because it meant sitting and talking for hours with my favorite person. My dad gets me..always has..always will. Today I came home from work to eat lunch and he tried to sit down with me while I ate. I could tell he really wanted to be with me...really wanted to be present and engaged.
But the dark circles under his eyes, the smell of throw up on his breathe, his white knuckles gripping the chair---those things overshadowed his desire to be with me. His disease stole him back to his room to sit in isolation and misery.
I wanted to scream and cry and throw a tantrum all at once at the unfairness of the entire situation. It's not fair. More than that, it's not how life is meant to be lived. No man should live in fear, wondering when his body is going to allow him to truly live, or going to trap him in loneliness. We explain to him that it is not his fault. When mom and I have to change plans and be flexible with our schedules due to his random dizzy spells, he feels so guilty. He is tempted to believe we are mad at him for being absent and disabled.
That is so far from the truth.
We are angry and worn out with the injustice of his suffering, not the sufferer himself. It is beginning to really resinate with each of us the way Dad was years ago is no more. Our reality and who he has become is quite different. As I told him last night, grief has no time table. We are all feeling the loss and reality of dad's disability in very different and very real ways. We are being challenged to press into Jesus amidst the daily and painful reminder that this world is not our home. We are learning how to allow each other the space to process and heal differently. We say many "I'm sorry"s and "I love you"s. Our life is so different behind closed doors than what might meet the eye. Yes, we love each other and we are in this together, but it is a moment by moment choice to not completely lose it.
I am writing this incredibly honest and vulnerable blog, not to get your pity, but because our family is in great need of believers to pray. Beg the Father to have mercy and allow my dad, my hero, to live a day again untainted by dizziness, nausea, and further hearing loss.
Please don't read this and walk away discouraged. This long and aching season has grown our family in immeasurable ways. We know our Father in ways that would not have been possible if it weren't for this suffering. Instead, cling to Jesus with us. Seek the Lord of our behalf. Pray earnestly for healing, if it be God's will. But most of all, pray that we would not forget who God is. When the dishes are piled high and the house is silent due to dad's illness, and mom and I are working as hard as we can, it is easy to wallow in the injustice of our lives.
No, this isn't how life is supposed to be. But God is still good.
We are trying to believe that, but cannot do it alone. As C.S. Lewis wrote, " We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious we discover loneliness. We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything . . . even ourselves."
This is not a beautiful description of our family. There have been many tears, cuss words, and sleepless nights. Yet, instead of barricading ourselves behind fear and self-pity, I am choosing to be real . . . to be vulnerable with my story on behalf of all of us. I know God has a purpose in all this. We are trying to choose Him, because after all, "security is not found in the absence of danger, but in the presence of Jesus."
I remember the first time I saw my dad cry. I was 9 years old and he had gotten a really bad cold. Due to his hearing loss in one ear in college, colds always had a frightening effect on him. He would begin to feel this fullness in his ears, thus causing a further loss of hearing in his one good ear. As an only child, I often witnessed more than my share of "grown-up" conversations. That day I overheard my parents muffled voices and cracked open their door just enough to see my dad, with tears streaming down his face, whisper to my mom, "Cindy, what if it is happening? What if I really begin to lose my hearing in my only good ear? What would we do?" I walked out and started to think through what would actually happen if my dad went completely deaf. Tears soaked my pillow that night because all the possible realities from that equation were simply too much for my tiny 9 year old heart to bear.
Years later, I look back and wonder what I would have done if I knew what lay ahead.
Fast forward a few years and my hero began to get a ringing in his ears along with a slight, but steady decrease in hearing in his good ear. The doctors diagnosed him with Menier's disease, a disorder of the inner ear characterized by episodes of vertigo, tinnitus (ringing), and hearing loss. They say the hearing loss comes and goes for sometime, alternating between ears, then becomes permanent. The first notable time that my dad was de-habilitated was on my 8th grade graduation weekend. He was extremely dizzy the day of and had to ride separately. Little did I know this soon was going to become our reality.
Throughout high school the symptoms became more frequent, then worsened. Soon, we could not have music in the house or watch TV as a family. We no longer went with family friends out to eat because the noise was simply too overwhelming for dad. By my junior year, Dad has constant roaring in his ears, was dizzy weekly, and losing hope. The entire extended family on my mom's side had planned a trip to Disney world in November of 2012. Just a few days before our trip, my dad had an emergency appendectomy. The surgery weirdly caused his hearing frequencies to switch and suddenly, he was almost 100% deaf. He called us on the phone (barely..) and told us he was going to apply for a cochlear implant. Mom and I just stared at each other as he, on speaker phone, explained the details of what was to come. A cochlear implant had always been an understood "worst case scenario, last ditch effort" sort of thing. The fact that he was so convinced of his need for it showed the depth of his loss.
He really was at the end of his rope. The Lord provided and 1 short month later, Dad had a cochlear implant. It's ironic because everyone thought (and we secretly hoped) the implant would fix everything. Our grief was cloaked in the misconception that his bionic ear was the ticket back to life as it was.
Thus began the journey of Dad learning how to hear again out of an ear which had been silent since college. Nothing happened overnight, but change began to slowly occur. Soon he could talk to us--like have a real conversation-- without us having to s-l-o-w-l-y s-a-y e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i--n-g. It still was not perfect, but it was better. We could have music on downstairs without him shying away to his room. He even began to sing along, and though incredibly off key, it was one of the sweetest things I've heard. My dad and I started watching The Walking Dead together, just us. We sat all snuggled up on the coach and as it begin to play, I realized it was the first time we had simply watched TV together for as long as I could remember. Yes, we used subtitles and it was sort of distracting, but I cried after the first episode was over. I cried not because the zombies were gross, but because it felt as though I was getting my dad back.
A few nights ago, I stormed into the kitchen, wondering when dinner would be ready. My impatience and hunger lit a fire inside of me and I was on the verge of being pretty rude to my mom when suddenly I felt my dad holding my hand and waist. He began spinning me around and around in the kitchen while singing in his off key, but handsome voice, "Sometimes you gotta dance...sometimes you just gotta dance." I melted. He knew exactly how to calm me down and make me laugh.
I treasure those moments... they will forever be etched in my mind. I store them away for days like today...days when the unfairness and brutality of Minere's knocks my dad to his knees. He has been dizzy and nauseated for days with few breaks. I'm not used to this new level of the sickness because I have been in college then at Pinecove for the summer. A lot has changed in the past year. For example, my entire senior year I loved eating lunch at home because it meant sitting and talking for hours with my favorite person. My dad gets me..always has..always will. Today I came home from work to eat lunch and he tried to sit down with me while I ate. I could tell he really wanted to be with me...really wanted to be present and engaged.
But the dark circles under his eyes, the smell of throw up on his breathe, his white knuckles gripping the chair---those things overshadowed his desire to be with me. His disease stole him back to his room to sit in isolation and misery.
I wanted to scream and cry and throw a tantrum all at once at the unfairness of the entire situation. It's not fair. More than that, it's not how life is meant to be lived. No man should live in fear, wondering when his body is going to allow him to truly live, or going to trap him in loneliness. We explain to him that it is not his fault. When mom and I have to change plans and be flexible with our schedules due to his random dizzy spells, he feels so guilty. He is tempted to believe we are mad at him for being absent and disabled.
That is so far from the truth.
We are angry and worn out with the injustice of his suffering, not the sufferer himself. It is beginning to really resinate with each of us the way Dad was years ago is no more. Our reality and who he has become is quite different. As I told him last night, grief has no time table. We are all feeling the loss and reality of dad's disability in very different and very real ways. We are being challenged to press into Jesus amidst the daily and painful reminder that this world is not our home. We are learning how to allow each other the space to process and heal differently. We say many "I'm sorry"s and "I love you"s. Our life is so different behind closed doors than what might meet the eye. Yes, we love each other and we are in this together, but it is a moment by moment choice to not completely lose it.
I am writing this incredibly honest and vulnerable blog, not to get your pity, but because our family is in great need of believers to pray. Beg the Father to have mercy and allow my dad, my hero, to live a day again untainted by dizziness, nausea, and further hearing loss.
Please don't read this and walk away discouraged. This long and aching season has grown our family in immeasurable ways. We know our Father in ways that would not have been possible if it weren't for this suffering. Instead, cling to Jesus with us. Seek the Lord of our behalf. Pray earnestly for healing, if it be God's will. But most of all, pray that we would not forget who God is. When the dishes are piled high and the house is silent due to dad's illness, and mom and I are working as hard as we can, it is easy to wallow in the injustice of our lives.
No, this isn't how life is supposed to be. But God is still good.
We are trying to believe that, but cannot do it alone. As C.S. Lewis wrote, " We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious we discover loneliness. We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything . . . even ourselves."
This is not a beautiful description of our family. There have been many tears, cuss words, and sleepless nights. Yet, instead of barricading ourselves behind fear and self-pity, I am choosing to be real . . . to be vulnerable with my story on behalf of all of us. I know God has a purpose in all this. We are trying to choose Him, because after all, "security is not found in the absence of danger, but in the presence of Jesus."
