A new set of numbers?

It is so, so easy for me to define myself in the numbers I see on the scale each morning. I can tell you exact ones along my journey: 135 pounds the first time I started working with a nutritionist, 151.2 pounds when I began Jenny Craig; 118 pounds when I left for college, 110 pounds when I was diagnosed as anorexic; 121 pounds two days before my wedding, 118 pounds two days after; 130 pounds the morning of our D&C, 134 pounds the morning of my hysteroscopy. In a recent therapy appointment, when my (wonderful) therapist said "so, you said it was tough when you saw 133.6 on the scale," I grimaced immediately; she was wrong, as I'd said 132.4, and that's a very big difference.*

Other numbers seem insignificant to me. When my therapist asked about my BMI, I had to admit that it falls within the healthy range, but I shrugged it off; it's above the middle of that range, so I refuse to believe that it's worthy of any kind of praise. (Besides, what if it just continues to grow? That fear claws at me daily.) Clothing sizes also plague me; a 6 seems to define success, while an 8 is alright, but a 10 is failure. Who made these arbitrary definitions of success? And exactly what sort of success am I measuring?

Wearing a size 6 doesn't make me teach a more effective lesson on the complicated Fool of King Lear to my seniors, nor does it make me a better advisor to the ten girls I love so much. Being under 130 pounds doesn't make me better able to love or care for my husband, and it certainly doesn't make me a better daughter, sister, or friend. None of these numbers will make me a better mother--in fact, my obsession with them may just have a detrimental impact on a future child, particularly if a daughter picks up on my compulsive behaviors.

And so, this week, I was challenged not once but twice to think of numbers in a new light. First, a nurse during my pre-op hospital appointment took my bloodwork, looked at me, and said, "are you a runner?" I scoffed; not only do I hate running, but I hardly think I have the body anyone would believe is willing to wake at the crack of dawn to pound the pavement. She continued, "an athlete, then? Your blood pressure is excellent: 99/57." I shrugged again, prepared to shuttle the compliment into the back corner of my mind--until my surgery Thursday. I woke up in PACU (Post-Anesthesiology Care Unit), eyes blurry and abdomen sore. The nurse quickly came over and said, "We've been wondering--you're a runner?" Groggy still, I shook my head. "An athlete, then? Your resting heart rate was just 40-50 BPM--excellent." What? Again with the athlete? Again with the assumption that me--the person in this body--could be athletic? Strong? Healthy? Beautiful?

And so, as the "twilight" sedation slipped away and I returned, I began to think. What if the 134 pounds I weighed in at that morning at the hospital was okay? What if I stopped thinking my healthy/beautiful/successful range was under 130 pounds? What if I accepted that I am not every petite, 5'4" woman, that I have curves, that I can be who I am and still be healthy (I'll never think of myself as an athlete, I don't think), still be beautiful, still be sexy to my husband?

I won't lie--I haven't accepted it yet. And I'm not certain if or when I will. But even the glimmer of a possibility, even the hope of believing I'm beautiful today--instead of tomorrow when I starve myself, or the next day when I weigh 129.8, or next week when I'm a size 6--is enough right now.

What if I'm actually enough--right now? That's a heady thought.

* I'd like to add a cautionary note at the end of this post: I know just how much of a catalyst numbers can be for one struggling with any kind of weight issues, but particularly for those with eating disorders. I don't share the numbers in this post for any kind of comparison or competition but merely to express just what a prominent place they hold in my mind, just how clearly I can remember numbers from 3 or 10 or 16 years ago. Instead of wanting to exacerbate issues for those of you who read this blog and struggle with the same things, I want to help those of you who don't face these battles understand just how much they consume the lives of those of us who do.

An Army of Warriors

In past years, when something major was about to take place in my life, I usually called two people: my mom and one of my best friends, S. They're the two people I know who pray by buckling on the full suit of spiritual armor, and they have an army who they'll call out on my behalf. As a result, it's no surprise that both of them (and S's mom, and my mom's prayer buddies) will be praying for Jeff and me at 6AM tomorrow morning when we head to the hospital for my hysteroscopy.

But here's the cool thing: for the first time in many, many years, I, too, have amassed an army of prayer warriors who are coming out in full battle regalia tonight and into the morning. They range from the wives and mothers in my small group to single women at our church, from close friends who live far away to the incredible women in my online support group who have also experienced losses and the surgeries that can follow. For the first time in a long time, I'm going into this one with my "feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the Gospel of peace" (Ephesians 6:15).

And so, when I think of rising bright and early tomorrow morning, putting on my comfortable clothes and preparing to be poked with needles and put into "twilight sedation" while Jeff anxiously awaits updates, I have no fear. Swimming in my head aren't images of hospital gowns and cold operating tables; instead, I envision that awesome scene in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. 

Do you remember it? The battle's being waged at Helm's Deep, and things aren't looking good. The army of Rohan and the lone hero Aragorn are doing their best to resist the onslaught of Saruman, but it's not going well--not by a long shot. And then, all of a sudden, there's this bright light from the East pouring over the exhausted, hopeless armies: Gandalf has arrived with his train of reinforcements prepared to wage battle on behalf of their friends and allies.

Thanks for waging fearsome prayer battles on my behalf tomorrow, friends. I'm so blessed to be surrounded by such a fierce army.

UPDATE, 8pm: Surgery was swift, simple, and successful! The doctor is pleased with the outcome, there were no surprises, and Jeff, S, and M have spent the day ordering me back onto the sofa while they pamper me to ridiculously wonderful levels. Once again, I thank our God for you, sweet friends, who have been supporting me from near and far.

Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning. (Psalm 30.5)

It's one of my favorite songs we sing at our church, and, ever since our loss nearly seven months ago, it's been these opening chords that bring tears to my eyes. (And, yes, I still do measure time according to our loss. It's difficult not to do so.) I have to remember that, no matter how much weeping these times of darkness bring, there is joy that will come in the morning.

Those of you who read this blog know far too much of the night that has faced us in recent months, so allow me a moment to tell you some of the joy that has come in the light:

- One of my best friends--not trying to conceive herself--asked for a detailed update on our current situation so she could better pray for us.
- A friend I haven't seen in two years--a young mom herself--stumbled upon this blog and wrote a note of encouragement, solidarity, and love.
- My mum and I had the most incredible two days of "mother-daughter time," during which she told anyone who would listen--time and time again--how she loves me and prays for me daily.
- The girls in my online support group wrote messages of love and encouragement upon hearing the latest in our TTCAL (Trying to Conceive After a Loss) journey.

At Reston Community Church, there's another song that I love, too, though it's more fitting of Easter, perhaps. Its lyrics say this:

"Oh death! Where is your sting?
Oh hell! Where is your victory?
Oh church! Come stand in the light!
The glory of God has defeated the night!
Our God is not dead--He's alive! He's alive!"
(verses from 1 Corinthians 15:55)

I think this was played one of our first Sundays ever at RCC, but it still makes me stand up and shout--it is a battle cry that I want all the forces of darkness and weeping to hear the world over. I can't conquer darkness, but I know there is One who can. I can't erase suffering, but I know there is One who will. I can't eliminate despair, but I know there is One who does. Therein lies my joy.

One final thought: today, I was rereading a wonderful contemporary novel: Karma, by Cathy Ostlere. Towards the end of the story, the protagonist--who herself has seen so much suffering--posits this:

"But life is an enormous force. It doesn't let go easily."

No, it doesn't. Especially not when I am surrounded by evidence of such joy, such mornings, such LIFE. Thank you, all, for being tangible, real evidence that there are mornings to come that will bring joy I cannot yet fathom.