Chronic Pain – Build Mental Strength. Live Beyond Pain.

We’re driving on the dirt road to our favorite camping spot. The weather is warm enough that I can have the window down and not get cold. That’s my favorite. I love fresh mountain air, and I hate being cold. It hurts my body to be cold. I put my hand out of the window and see the beautiful pine trees and aspens. Oh, I love this place! It fills my soul with peace.

I reflect on all that I have to be grateful for—

My husband and my hero, Brandon
Our boys, Leo and Talon
We have a nice comfortable trailer that Brandon fixed up for us
We have time to go camping together
I’m healthy enough to go with them
The sun is shining…

Life is good. With all its trials lately, life is still good!

My eyes focus on my face in the side mirror of the truck. I’m 36 years old now. How did that happen? Do I look 36? I’ve always looked younger than my age. I wonder if that’s still true. I have my long brownish-red hair in a braid. I was born with blonde hair, which turned brown in adolescence. Then, in my 20s, it started to get auburn highlights. Random strangers will sometimes comment on me being a redhead, and I’m always taken aback. I wouldn’t say that I have red hair, but in the sun, it definitely has auburn in it.

I start to critique my reflection. I notice my big forehead, which my four sisters always make fun of. I smile at the memories. We are brutal about each other’s insecurities. I’m getting more pronounced crow’s feet by my eyes; I wonder if that should bother me? I see so many girls being worried about wrinkles that I’m tempted to jump on the band wagon. But honestly, I have enough to worry about with my body. Wrinkles are the least of my worries.

I’ve always had thick eyebrows. Luckily, it’s “in” to have thicker eyebrows. I started plucking my uni-brow in grade school, for heaven’s sake. I’m glad that my eyebrow maintenance takes less time these days. I have blue eyes and long eyelashes. Two of my sisters got naturally long, curly eyelashes. Mine are annoyingly straight.

My nose is a little crooked. If I look up slightly, it’s more noticeable. When I was in elementary school, I used to push on the tip of my nose, thinking I could make it less crooked and pointy.

My teeth were straight at one time, but my front bottom teeth have gone a little crooked. I have one front tooth that is starting to turn slightly yellow. When I was eight years old, I was trying to do a back flip on a swing and accidentally kneed myself in the mouth. My tooth cut my knee open, and my knee knocked my tooth way back. My dad had to trick me and pull my tooth back into place. My knee still has an oddly shaped heart scar, and my tooth is slowly dying.

I have acne scarring on both cheeks. I wish so badly that I could make those disappear. I turn my head slightly to the left and look at the straight scar, about an inch long, on my right cheek. It was my first noticeable scar. My thoughts go back to the first time I remember studying myself in the mirror.

BIRTHMARK

When I was four or five years old, I was playing outside in the snow with my two older siblings. We were throwing snowballs at each other, and I got one in the face. My oldest brother, Jon, told me that I had some mud stuck on my face, so I went inside and looked in the mirror. Sure enough, there was a brown spot as big as a dime on my right cheek that wouldn’t come off, no matter how much I scrubbed! That was the first time I remember noticing that I looked a little different than other kids. I yelled for my mom to come help me. She came in, and I told her what happened. She cleaned the soap off my face and sat me on her lap. Then, she explained that I was born with a birthmark on my cheek. She also told me it was an angel’s kiss. I thought it must have been a boy angel because my birthmark was brown.

When I started school, kids would often ask what was on my cheek. I would get shy, mumble something about it being a birthmark or an angel’s kiss, and turn my face away, hoping they would just forget about me. I was always super embarrassed whenever my birthmark came up. Maybe I didn’t like the attention, or maybe I didn’t like my birthmark, but either way, I came to dislike the way I looked. As an adult, I can see that kids were just curious. As a kid, I was just embarrassed and wanted it to go away.

At the end of fifth grade, we lived in Mesquite, NV, and we were going to be moving to Hurricane, UT, that summer. I asked my parents if we could get my birthmark removed before I went to a new school. We had moved a few times previously, and it was not fun being the “new girl.” It was worse being the “new girl with a big brown mole on her face.” Adults and children would typically try to avoid looking at it, or they would ask about it. Both were equally embarrassing to me.

I don’t remember how much I had to ask or beg, but my mom took me to a dermatologist, and made an appointment to get it removed. I was so excited! I remember looking at my face in the side mirror of the van, just like I am right now, and imagining what I would look like without my birthmark. I had to have stitches for a few weeks and couldn’t participate in our end-of-the-year water day, but that was okay because I was finally going to be like everybody else. No one at my new school would even know that I was born with a birthmark.

After I had it removed, I remember looking in the side mirror of the van and liking that I looked like a normal kid. I gained a little confidence! I felt like I could look people in the eye and smile at them without fear of them zoning in on my birthmark.

It kind of makes me sad for that little girl. I wish I had been strong enough or confident enough to just own it. I wish I hadn’t cared what other people thought or said. I don’t regret getting my birthmark removed. Maybe that still makes me weak. But I feel like I have more empathy and compassion for others because of it.

“I love it up here!” Brandon says as he sticks his hand out the window too. He pulls me from my thoughts about my childhood.

“Mmm, me too,” I say as I look over at Brandon and think about the first time I saw him, around this time of year, 17 years ago. I had just graduated high school, turned 19, and was about to start college…

Oatmeal Accident

“Here’s your food. Do you want any sauce with that?”

We’re grabbing food from Taco Time before heading up the mountain to go camping. Brandon and I are a little annoyed with each other because packing and leaving always takes longer than we hope for. I’m an anxious over-packer. Also, I’m six months pregnant and moving slower these days.

“Yes, mild sauce, please,” I say as I grab a fat stack of napkins. Thinking, we should make sure the truck’s glove box is stocked.

“Have a great night,” the employee says as she puts the sauce packets in the paper bag.

“Thanks, you too!” She doesn’t hear me as she’s already on to her next task. I gather everything and take it back out to the truck. We didn’t want to get Leo out and I didn’t know what I wanted so I went in to order the food.

We picked Taco Time because it’s right next to the freeway entrance. As Brandon navigates the truck and camp trailer out of the parking lot, I get a soft taco out for Leo, unwrap it, turn around as best as I can with my big belly, and set it on his lap in his car seat. Leo is three years old and can sort of handle a taco by himself now. However, he’s a picky eater, so there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll actually eat it.

I turn back around and start to get our food out of the bag when the truck starts slightly fishtailing. I drop the food back into the bag and look around, suddenly on high alert. We’re getting on the freeway, about to merge, but the truck keeps fishtailing. Brandon speeds up to try to regain control of the trailer, but instead, the fishtailing worsens.

It feels like my heart is in my throat. I look at Brandon for reassurance, but he looks worried as he is furiously working on the steering wheel to keep us straight. Anxiously, I glance out the window and see that all the cars around us have slowed down and moved away.

We’re now fishtailing violently across multiple lanes. Brandon is trying his hardest to gain control. Speeding up didn’t work and he knows that slowing down usually makes the fishtailing worse. He yells, “Get ready to crash!”

A whimper escapes me. I’m so scared, but I can’t talk or cry. I look out the windshield to see what we might crash into. The right side of the freeway slopes down a hill lined with big trees. If we crash, we’ll likely flip when we hit that hill. Will the trees stop us from rolling, or will they be what kills us? I try to imagine how this might go down so I can prepare. What can I do?

I whip my head around to look at Leo. He’s frozen, his wide eyes filled with confusion. He has the taco in his hand. Was he really going to eat it? As fast as I can, I grab the taco, wrap it back up, and put it in the bag. Because if we flip, we don’t want tacos flying around and making a mess, do we?

Time slows down. Each second stretches endlessly as we whip back and forth across the highway. I look at Leo once more. He’s securely buckled in a five-point harness—I hope his car seat does its job. I can’t do anything else for him. I turn around and make sure my seat belt is positioned correctly under my pregnant belly. I place one arm over my belly and grip the door handle with the other.

I sound like I’m hyperventilating. I want to scream and cry, but all that comes out is more scared, whimpering sounds. I glance at Brandon again, and I can tell he’s scared. That terrifies me even more. I typically look to him for guidance and strength. What do I do when he’s struggling? I feel so helpless! In my panic, I somehow find my voice and yell, “Heavenly Father, please help me!” It’s the loudest and most desperate prayer I’ve ever uttered.

There isn’t enough time to think about anything else to say. Are we slowing down? It’s hard to tell, but something feels different.

I stay silent and hopeful as we continue whipping across the freeway. Come on, come on, come on, I silently chant.

Brandon’s arms and hands work fast and furiously, gripping the steering wheel to keep us on the road. He looks slightly more confident as the jerking starts to ease. I don’t know what changed, but somehow, we manage to slow down enough to safely pull off onto the shoulder.

A few seconds later, traffic resumes as if nothing happened. Inside the truck, we sit motionless, staring straight ahead. My arms and legs feel numb from the panic. I still can’t breathe. I look back at Leo—he’s scared but okay. I look at my belly—it’s hard as a rock from a Braxton Hicks contraction, but my baby is safe. I look at Brandon. He meets my gaze with a strained but relieved expression. He grabs my hand and asks, “Are you okay?”

I squeeze his hand tight and break down sobbing!

After I cry for a while, Leo starts to get antsy. We decide to drive to my parents’ house to regroup. We stick to the back roads and go slow. I can’t stop crying, clinging to Brandon’s hand the entire time.

When we park at my parents’ house, we check the trailer for damage. As we open the door and peek inside, we’re met with chaos. Brandon helps Leo and I inside, and we take a closer look. Everything is covered in oatmeal! The food and dishes from the cupboards are scattered all over, and oatmeal is all over our bedding, luggage, countertops, and floor. It looks like someone threw an oatmeal confetti party in our trailer. That’s why Leo named this experience “The Oatmeal Accident.”

This was a terrifying experience. I will never forget the moment when I truly believed I could die. The clearest thought came to me: I can’t die yet—I haven’t written down my life experiences!

I was surprised that this was my first thought in the face of death. I know keeping a journal is important, but I’ve never been good at it. In fact, I totally suck at it.

But I realized that I don’t want to die and just disappear. I want my family and future generations to know me, to know my trials and how I’ve navigated them. I keep a lot inside; there’s so much I don’t talk about. I suffer in silence, it’s what I do.

The Oatmeal Accident was a massive wake-up call—I have a purpose on this earth. I need to record my life experiences! That was almost nine years ago.

I’ve felt hundreds of impressions to share my story. I wrote a lot of it four years ago, during a difficult trial. But writing it down and putting it on the internet are two very different things. Both require courage, but in different ways.

At first, I didn’t plan to share my story with strangers, but I’ve been inspired by people who bravely shared theirs:

– Kim White (@kimcankickit)

– Collin Kartchner (@collinkartchner)

– Chelsea Anderson (@heartsofzion, formerly Rock and Lily)

They’ve all passed away. Kim from cancer. Collin from a sudden heart problem. Chelsea from a brain aneurysm.

And yet, they continue to inspire me every day. I want to honor their courage and pay it forward.

I’m trying to be brave like they were.

So… here we go!

Category: Chronic Pain

PRESENT DAY: SUMMER 2018

Why I’m starting a blog…