Finding Christmas Glory in a Foggy, Hazy World

After I fill a cup with coffee in the morning, Eggs follows me to where I sit on the floor. There, I savor caffeine while batting her with my free hand.

This morning was no different, except that as we played, I rehashed an odd dream. Still lost in the intense emotion that woke me, I tried to shake it loose as the kitty pounced and clawed.

It took time. Lots of time.

When I left to teach, a drizzly wet permeated the air. So I drove through a virtual pea soup, feeling emotionally lost in the same.

For some reason, I occasionally dream that my first husband never died, but instead, went to live somewhere else. Sometimes he moved in with a friend. Sometimes he retreated to a care facility to not be a burden.

Either way, when he shows up after so many years, I fight to understand where he's been and how his reappearance reconciles with my present reality.

It freaks me out every time.

As I wake and push through the mental fog, I remember being at his side the day he died and slowly awaken to daylight... and reality. And by the time I roll out of bed, I normally move on without thought. However, the version I dreamed last night was so real and intense, it stayed with me most of the morning.

As I talked it through with Don, I was able to connect the feeling I had in the dream to what haunted me yesterday. For after two and half hours in a genetic doctor's office, every potential diagnosis I've had in the last five years had been tossed about and basically disregarded.

Medical pea soup, indeed.

It's too complicated to explain in detail. Let's just say Sam and I both had muscle biopsies and spinal taps by a reputable doctor that confirmed mitochondrial disease in 2009 and 2010.

Fast forward a few years and the reputable doctor fell out of favor with much of the mitochondrial disease medical community. Thus his science is no longer accepted in some circles and his diagnosis' now questioned.

As a result, my neurologist sent me for an entirely new genetic work up last spring. While a few more blood tests need to be completed to understand the results of my genome sequencing, when I left the office Wednesday, the geneticist proposed that I suffer with a hypermobility syndrome that can't be confirmed with any testing. Since he has a patient who manages a similar disease by dancing, he suggested I exercise more.

And that's where I mentally derailed.

I had just walked through the halls of the Emory clinic with my walker to support a friend. By the time I reached my car, my right leg turned inward and my ankle felt like it hung loose like a rag doll.

Exercise more? Just dance? I left with whirling thoughts.


As many chronically ill can attest, living with an un-diagnosable illness creates a unique stress. Because doctors are like designers. They have their own medical tastes, preferred diagnosis’, and background of experience that influences their opinion. If I detailed all the contradictory advice I’ve been given in the last ten years, it would make your head spin too.

While I worked to reconcile the latest information with my reality,
a call from my youngest son, Sam, saved me.

“Mom, I don’t think he’s right about the exercise," he began. "You’ve lived an active life and have gone downhill. You haven’t just been a sedentary writer who doesn’t move enough.”

His acknowledgment pierced the crazy place.

“Thanks, Sam. That means a lot coming from you.”

“You’re not just looking for a name for this thing,” he continued. “You want to know how to live.”

And those words, my dear friends, helped me breathe again. Because deep down, that's really all I want. I want to know how to keep living in the haze of medical oddness.

What about you? This world serves up a healthy dose of virtual pea soup every day. We swim through the thick muck posted in the news and experienced by friends and family alike. It’s easy to feel crazy, unsettled, and quite confused by it all.

Like we're just living a bad dream.

A host of theories attempt to explain the discord. Opinions abound. But at times, the voices simply turn into a cacophony of babble.

Which is why I rest assured, knowing a baby was born, in a stable, at a most inconvenient time.

You could say my voice simply adds to the noise. But when I contemplate that baby’s life given for mine, a supernatural exchange takes place in my soul.

Pea soup turns to crystal waters. Hope springs forth. And an eternal perspective transforms my momentary difficulty into a manageable annoyance.

I don’t enjoy bad dreams. Or living with a seemingly un-diagnosable physical ailment. I don't like confusion, heartache, or facing unknowns.

But when I quiet myself, look to the manger, and sing Silent Night, I'm transformed by the miracle of Emmanuel, God with us.

"Arise, shine, your light has come..." (Isaiah 60: 1 NIV).

This song just made me weep. I hope it encourages you too.




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