seasons

​It’s no secret that I am so excited for the change in seasons. I love the fall in Oregon. I truly love everything about the fall – the cooler temperatures, the rain, sweaters, and football games. My favorite part about autumn where I live is the obvious shift in the position of the sun in the sky – which makes the light so filtered and beautiful, especially in the afternoon. But there’s nothing like the glorious palate of colors as the leaves change to red, orange and bright yellow against a blue sky. It’s so spectacular, and I can’t wait for it every year. But this year I’m even more excited – as this spring and summer were rough for me physically and emotionally. I’m so ready for a change.  
 
The beautiful thing about the changes that the trees go through in the fall is that the color and drama that manifests is actually a visual signal that the leaves are dying. As the trees are losing their current covering, the brilliant color and dramatic changes that occur are actually part of the process – a symbol of death and future renewal. And just like the leaves, so many things in life have a way of being breathtaking and theatrical as they change. Shunt surgery is one example. As the shunt begins to malfunction, life slowly starts to shift. That’s like the first hint of fall color. Then there’s a lot of appointments, decisions, and usually pain. Like the brilliant colors of the leaves, the situation is ever changing. Physically and mentally I battle, and I go through a roller coaster of medical attention and a firestorm of frustration that finally ends with brain surgery. As the actual act of having surgery has become more frequent for me in the past few years, it feels like letting go and accepting that we’re to that point again. Mentally I fight so hard against it, right up until I hear the final decision from my neurosurgeon. Then I melt down and cry, accept where I’m at, and finally let go. I feel like the whole timeline of the shunt malfunction or failure is like the fall leaves in the sense that there is a process that has a lot of phases. The colors of my pain and emotion become more and more intense, until they finally let go and the surgery happens – like the leaves falling. This process is necessary in order to reset physically and mentally and start over again. 
 
As much as the fiery colors of anger and frustration before shunt surgery are like the fall leaves, the depression and anxiety afterwards are like the grays of winter. When I get home from the hospital, there are quiet days where I’m alone in my healing. I’m sleeping a lot, and everyone has returned to their daily routines. It’s not that I don’t see or talk to anyone, but there is a lot less interaction for a certain period of time. This isolation is necessary, as the rest is crucial to healing body, nervous system, and mind. Accepting that there are seasons of emotion that accompany my physical challenges has been an area that I’ve had to actively work on in the past few years. Even though I am a positive and driven person, I have had learn to go through these seasons appreciating them for what they are – for what I am becoming in the changes. Knowing each period of difficulty doesn’t last forever keeps me moving – and has allowed me to slow down and acknowledge where I’m at in the process. 
 
My surgeries and shunt infection this summer felt like a multiple-round all-out prize fight. I got knocked down six times-- but got up seven. I was strong going into the arena and somehow, I was stronger when I left-- but my body and heart were beat to a pulp, literally and figuratively. Even though I was grateful for the journey and everyone who took incredible care of me during the process, I was affected in ways I couldn’t see. Trauma and antibiotics changed my body on a molecular level, and about a week after my last surgery, I experienced my first panic attack.  The anxiety symptoms in the weeks that followed were exhausting, frustrating and completely foreign to me.  I spent hours walking and praying, begging God for understanding. When my chest would tighten and my heart would race out of control, movement was one of the only things that helped. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, but I knew I could. I felt like I was dying, but I knew I wasn’t. My mind was at peace, but my physical body was raging. I was experiencing the aftermath of everything that I had gone through – and I was very aware of it. I worked with my doctors to understand and treat what was going on, and eventually the season passed. But those few weeks felt like the ultimate end to fall, the time when after all the leaves have turned colors and held on through the rainstorms in autumn, they finally let go – and fall to the ground in a final show of surrender. My brain was done. And I acknowledged it, I appreciated the process, and I have allowed myself to move into a period of winter – of quiet and solitude. I’m processing through sadness and grief, sitting in the monochromatic feelings, knowing that the cold and lonely days will pass if I continue to move through them. 
 
As time goes, I’m trying my best to be present in my healing. There is value in this time of quiet, because I need it to regenerate and reset. Everything in nature was designed to experience this cycle – it’s natural, and it’s absolutely crucial to forward progress. When the spring comes and the new growth pushes through, I will rejoice in that change as well. I’m always amazed when violet colored crocuses will poke their way through half frozen ground – the first sign that spring is coming. And before I know it, little pink and white blossoms will open on the fruit trees and parts of the Willamette Valley feel like a bed of cotton candy. The ultimate example of finding beauty in the broken moments is knowing that none of this is possible without those months where everything lies dormant. As I reflect on the fall, and move through the winter, I will remain grateful for the process, and continue to seek peace despite the hurt I’ve experienced.
 
We were made for seasons. 
We’ll be ok. 

- am
for hadassah - xo 

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