Mental Fog

October 2020

A couple of days ago, a friend from the neighborhood stopped by. Our conversation went something like this:

Friend: How did Aaron's appointment go yesterday?

Me: Yesterday? Oh yes, yesterday was Thursday, right? Aaron did go to an appointment yesterday. Let me try to remember . . . yes, it went well . . . I think.

That pretty much sums up the way my brain is processing things lately--slowly, as if I'm always coming out of a fog. It is unlike me to lose my grasp on time; I am one who religiously tracks the passage of minutes and hours and days. 

But recently, the edges of everything have become a bit blurred. Moments fade into and out of each other. Unplanned trips to the hospital push other activities to the side. We've lost our anchors that help us identify the day.

Even our scheduled appointments have been little help in maintaining consistency this week. We were supposed to go to the hospital on Monday and Thursday, but we ended up going on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. So when my friend asked how Aaron's appointment was "yesterday," I had a moment of confusion because, yes, he had gone to the hospital the day before, but he was also there at that very moment, so what day was it anyway?

We have spent the week putting out fires. We resolve one crisis only to have another pop up. Aaron's loose tooth came out in the middle of the night on Tuesday. He had been wanting to pull it out because it was annoying him and making it hard to eat, but his doctors told him to leave it alone because they didn't want him to bleed. But somehow, even being careful, it still came out. Aaron had just received platelets that day, but he still bled most of the night.

On Thursday night, it was the new back molar that wouldn't stop bleeding. And on Friday, it was a bad headache that didn't go away until after a blood transfusion. 

Yesterday morning, Mike and I left the kids doing Saturday jobs, and we went on a long walk in the glorious spring sunshine. We ran into someone we knew, and when they asked how Aaron was, we said, "At this very moment, he's doing fine. But that could change before we even get home." It's that constant tension of never knowing what's coming next that is leaving us feeling exhausted.

But yesterday actually was a good day. From start to finish, it felt so luxuriously normal. Aaron felt good all day. The pain in his mouth even diminished slightly. Max and Bradley played with friends. Mike and Clark went out for ice cream cones. Aaron watched a basketball game. I cleaned my bedroom and seamed up a sweater I've been working on. Ian took a long nap. It just felt so good to be home. 

I have this heightened sense of gratitude. Even in the midst of all of these hard things, I am acutely aware of our blessings. I feel like I'm not even consciously doing it. The gratitude is just there, filling me up and gently softening the blows. I look around and I feel this lightness and hope that I know are not coming from me.  I believe this is a direct answer to the many prayers that have been offered on our behalf. 

As far as real news, I don't have much to offer. Although we feel this sense of urgency to get going with a transplant because we are in crisis mode so much of the time, we also know that it will be to Aaron's advantage to wait for all of the test results to come back so we can make the best possible decision. 

From an outsider's perspective, it might look like the ball isn't rolling or that our doctor's have let things come to a standstill, but that isn't the case at all. In fact, we have several parallel paths moving forward at this very moment to expedite the process as much as possible. I'm not sharing a lot of details, mostly because we haven't come to a firm decision yet, and it's hard to have people assume we're doing one thing just because it has been mentioned as a possibility. I'm sorry for the vagueness--I will definitely give you the full rundown of the plan when it is locked into place. For now, I can tell you that Maxwell had another blood draw on Friday for more tests (he has a strong aversion to needles, but corralled his fears), and we are still 3-4 weeks out from a transplant date.

This week I came across an old talk from President Hinckley that he gave in 1971. He quoted a mantra that a naval officer carried with him during all of his expeditions:

"I believe I am always divinely guided.

I believe I will always take the right road.

I believe God will always make a way where there is no way."

I have repeated these phrases over and over in my mind this week. They have become a type of meditation for me. I am using them to "fan the flame of my faith," as Elder Holland advised. This hope doesn't feel misplaced or naive. It is vibrant and alive. It pulses in me. I can't shake it; I don't want to shake it. I am going to continue to repeat these words and let them carry me forward through these challenging days.