Where my head is now

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I wrote down these thoughts on January 11, 2017, the day after I learned that getting Chiari decompression surgery was my best (and likely only) option if I wanted to fight this pain that bookends my days.  
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Every second is precious. I'm alone. Have I always been alone? At least in my questions of pain, of suffering, of the broken situations that consistently reveal their ugly mugs I am. I'm only alone so far as I keep this to myself.  If I don't invite people in, I'll be stuck navigating this wilderness with no help and no compass. Amy is with me every step of the journey.

I'm sitting at the Blue Line, a glorious hole in the wall hockey-themed bar as I wait for Amy in the River Market in KC wondering if I could stomach the pain for now or for an extended period of time. Can I buck up and be tough? Is it more brave to have my melon cracked open and sewn back together? What's the right move here?  Everyone in this place moves about me, clueless to my turmoil.  But I keep learning that everyone has their own discontent, their own pain.

The doctor said if you can still do 80% of what you want in your life then don't get the surgery. Do I ever want to work out at the gym again? Is it important to wrestle with my kids? Play basketball with them? Rake leaves? Swim in the ocean? Hike a mountain or ride a bike?

The questions aren't about survival but about experiences. They are of love and of living a dynamic life.

I will move forward with Chiari decompression surgery and rest assured God's grace is sufficient to get me through this. I want this to be behind me so badly. But I'm so nervous to have this procedure.  Weirdly, this is both a surrender and a fight. 

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