The current acceptable term in many evangelical and charismatic Christian communities is "spiritual warfare."
Most of the people I know, however--including myself--have always said, "Oh! That's such a Jenn story!"
I never really considered that those two things might be the same thing, and maybe they're not, but yesterday I was whalloped again by what still more people might term my chronic bad luck. I was supposed to get to Starbucks by 5.00 a.m. to open the store for the day. I have a very long and steep driveway, so most of the winter, every winter, I park at the top of the driveway by the road, so I can get out and on my way with as little fuss as possible.
Yesterday quite a lot of fuss was possible. It took me over half an hour to get my car to move two feet. I threw a fairly extended temper tantrum in my car while moving was not happening. When I finally got to work and we opened the store (late), I tripped over a step-stool which I couldn't see because I was carrying a four-liter container of iced coffee, and went flying, landing on the stool and the cement-block floor such that I now have a bruise on each elbow and one knee. (I didn't spill the iced coffee, though.)
I was trying to imagine how to explain yet more ridiculous occurrences to the Milk Guy--you know, since I'm supposedly in touch with the Lord of the everything--and I imagined saying, "The elemental spirits of the universe don't like me because I love Jesus too much."
But that didn't sound quite right, because it makes it sound like my love for Jesus is all impressive and everything, and I'm pretty sure it's not--particularly as I had just spent a half hour that morning screaming at Him. (Sometimes I wonder how this relationship was worth it to Him.)
Then I started imagining that maybe Satan and God were having all these bets like they did with Job about how I would respond to certain difficulties. But I thought if that were true, it can't be all that gratifying to God in this case, since I go kind of ballistic every time the littlest thing happens to remind me that I'm not in control. I don't need to have big huge dramatic things happen (except cancer, evidently--but I mostly seem to be dealing with that just fine, I guess)--because I make them into huge dramatic things myself. And if these things are supposed to teach me to be more stoical or something, that doesn't seem to be working, either, and then maybe somebody in this dynamic is insane, because isn't the definition of insanity to do the same thing over and over and expect different results?
Anyway, I don't know what it is, but the upshot of this latest spate of excess of annoyance was that it made me start wondering about spiritual warfare, whether that's what has been going on lately or not. We talk about spiritual warfare as if it's personal, and I wonder if it really is? And if it is, then it's kind of incredible--it's almost an amazing praise of God and even a compliment to us, if you think about it. Because if it didn't matter how much Jesus loves us--and I mean us individually as well as corporately--and if it didn't matter how much we love Him . . . if that back-and-forth love wasn't going to make some difference in the world and the universe . . . well, then--I would think life would be a whole lot easier, and no one in any dimension would have to expend a whole lot of effort.
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Friday, January 09, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas
The balloon ended up deflating in a flood of tears rather than a round of screaming, and the techs who did my first radiation treatment this afternoon (who were women, and not the guys of the initial visit) thought I was crying because I was upset about the treatment.
I suppose there might have been something in that. But mostly it's because I feel that, like the Milk Guy's appliances, my circuits are fried--by a whole lot of little things rather than one big thing. And added to that is guilt. Huge amounts of guilt.
I live in a "developed" country. I am not homeless. I have healthcare. I have friends with electricity and food and . . . heck, I haven't had to cook or go grocery shopping in weeks. The Nurse Practitioner's comment kind of rankles, because I want to be selfless, but apparently only on my own terms. I used to think I would go On The Mission Field for the rest of my life and maybe live somewhere less "developed" than this country and, you know . . . have to boil water or something. I've been in many different countries and managed the hole-in-the-ground toilets and eating mystery foods with my fingers and washing my face in a bowl of water and wearing the same clothes days in a row, and it didn't bother me at all. But I chose to go there and do those things, and those were the things that were "done" in certain locations.
Those things aren't generally done here, and I had no control over the circumstances bringing them about. It's not like a camping trip, which I don't enjoy much either, but which I can choose and modulate a little. And so everything in me revolts (as it does in many people, I've observed). I can listen to myself and think I sound absolutely pathetic, and yet I'm still a bundle of nerves because I can't flick a lightswitch and see the entire room.
I feel that the timing of this "ordeal" (which I feel is an unfair word, because this could have been so much worse--it's no Katrina) is sort of interesting. By which I mean, it's making me think of Christmas a little differently. Usually there's all this talk about "the true meaning of Christmas" and to some extent, I usually squint my brain every year and try to remind myself that the birth of Jesus is so much more important than the Christmas tree and that it wasn't all pretty and cozy and lights. Not . . . that there's anything wrong with that.
This year I'm probably about as distracted from the birth of Christ as I've ever been, but I can't pretend I'm not interacting with it on some level all the same. There's so much going on in my life right now, and there's this kind of deprivation, and there's a very distinct (if presently guilt-inducing) reminder that Christmas is actually about inconvenience and deprivation. Jesus gave up all his glory (light! weightiness! splendour!) and schlepped around in a Roman-occupied "under-developed" country for thirty-some years, talking to a bunch of people who often didn't get what He was talking about. And Mary and Joseph gave up their reputations, and had to pack up their lives and trek down to Bethlehem, and then down to Egypt, and their lives were in upheaval for, oh . . . pretty much the rest of them.
Jesus kind of does that, I think. I suspect Mary and Joseph had to come to terms with that more than once. Unless, of course, they had no controlling tendencies at all . . . I kind of doubt it. But maybe I'm just thinking like that to make myself feel better.
I suppose there might have been something in that. But mostly it's because I feel that, like the Milk Guy's appliances, my circuits are fried--by a whole lot of little things rather than one big thing. And added to that is guilt. Huge amounts of guilt.
I live in a "developed" country. I am not homeless. I have healthcare. I have friends with electricity and food and . . . heck, I haven't had to cook or go grocery shopping in weeks. The Nurse Practitioner's comment kind of rankles, because I want to be selfless, but apparently only on my own terms. I used to think I would go On The Mission Field for the rest of my life and maybe live somewhere less "developed" than this country and, you know . . . have to boil water or something. I've been in many different countries and managed the hole-in-the-ground toilets and eating mystery foods with my fingers and washing my face in a bowl of water and wearing the same clothes days in a row, and it didn't bother me at all. But I chose to go there and do those things, and those were the things that were "done" in certain locations.
Those things aren't generally done here, and I had no control over the circumstances bringing them about. It's not like a camping trip, which I don't enjoy much either, but which I can choose and modulate a little. And so everything in me revolts (as it does in many people, I've observed). I can listen to myself and think I sound absolutely pathetic, and yet I'm still a bundle of nerves because I can't flick a lightswitch and see the entire room.
I feel that the timing of this "ordeal" (which I feel is an unfair word, because this could have been so much worse--it's no Katrina) is sort of interesting. By which I mean, it's making me think of Christmas a little differently. Usually there's all this talk about "the true meaning of Christmas" and to some extent, I usually squint my brain every year and try to remind myself that the birth of Jesus is so much more important than the Christmas tree and that it wasn't all pretty and cozy and lights. Not . . . that there's anything wrong with that.
This year I'm probably about as distracted from the birth of Christ as I've ever been, but I can't pretend I'm not interacting with it on some level all the same. There's so much going on in my life right now, and there's this kind of deprivation, and there's a very distinct (if presently guilt-inducing) reminder that Christmas is actually about inconvenience and deprivation. Jesus gave up all his glory (light! weightiness! splendour!) and schlepped around in a Roman-occupied "under-developed" country for thirty-some years, talking to a bunch of people who often didn't get what He was talking about. And Mary and Joseph gave up their reputations, and had to pack up their lives and trek down to Bethlehem, and then down to Egypt, and their lives were in upheaval for, oh . . . pretty much the rest of them.
Jesus kind of does that, I think. I suspect Mary and Joseph had to come to terms with that more than once. Unless, of course, they had no controlling tendencies at all . . . I kind of doubt it. But maybe I'm just thinking like that to make myself feel better.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Fed Up
On Friday I was going to write a post that went a little something like this:
"I have decided that I think that auto insurance and health insurance plans should merge. I do not think I should have to pay more money this year for ailing anything."
I figured by this you would know that I was having car trouble.
It turned out, though, that I wasn't having car trouble. I was just stupid. I don't want to tell you what I did, because then the full extent of my idiocy would be on the internet for all to read, and I need to retain at least some self-respect . . .
But anyway, before I found out all that, and before I could whinge about it, we had an ice storm. As the Milk Guy said, "I used to kind of like ice storms. They made things all shiny."
Yeah. Not anymore. I lay in my bed all night on Thursday (after the power had already gone out), listening to tree after after tree losing life and limb. You might know I kind of like trees. I felt like crying for them. I was also scared out of my brains that one of them was going to fall on my house.
It's kind of surprising one didn't. The yard is a wreck. The road is a wreck. I would like to know why I voted to keep our state tax, when so far nothing has been done (except by neighbours) to take care of the trees leaning on power lines and the branches dangling precariously above the road. I'm immensely grateful my mom has been here during this ordeal, or I might actually have lost my mind, being in the house and dealing with this all by myself. (It hasn't been totally by myself, as it turns out, and as I will likely describe later, but it would have felt a lot more like it without Mom.) Still, I feel mighty close to losing my mind anyway. Fortunately there's a woodstove in the house, and people around who do have power, but meanwhile, we're filling up water bottles at friends's houses, flushing our toilets with water from a creek, washing dishes when we have to, showering elsewhere, and stumbling around in the dark. It doesn't look like things will get better any time soon.
I have a whole lot of processing going on in my head, but suffice it to say that right this second? This ordeal is bugging me a whole lot more than the cancer diagnosis ever did.
Plus, yesterday my exhaust system started dragging on the ground. Maybe I do have car trouble after all.
"I have decided that I think that auto insurance and health insurance plans should merge. I do not think I should have to pay more money this year for ailing anything."
I figured by this you would know that I was having car trouble.
It turned out, though, that I wasn't having car trouble. I was just stupid. I don't want to tell you what I did, because then the full extent of my idiocy would be on the internet for all to read, and I need to retain at least some self-respect . . .
But anyway, before I found out all that, and before I could whinge about it, we had an ice storm. As the Milk Guy said, "I used to kind of like ice storms. They made things all shiny."
Yeah. Not anymore. I lay in my bed all night on Thursday (after the power had already gone out), listening to tree after after tree losing life and limb. You might know I kind of like trees. I felt like crying for them. I was also scared out of my brains that one of them was going to fall on my house.
It's kind of surprising one didn't. The yard is a wreck. The road is a wreck. I would like to know why I voted to keep our state tax, when so far nothing has been done (except by neighbours) to take care of the trees leaning on power lines and the branches dangling precariously above the road. I'm immensely grateful my mom has been here during this ordeal, or I might actually have lost my mind, being in the house and dealing with this all by myself. (It hasn't been totally by myself, as it turns out, and as I will likely describe later, but it would have felt a lot more like it without Mom.) Still, I feel mighty close to losing my mind anyway. Fortunately there's a woodstove in the house, and people around who do have power, but meanwhile, we're filling up water bottles at friends's houses, flushing our toilets with water from a creek, washing dishes when we have to, showering elsewhere, and stumbling around in the dark. It doesn't look like things will get better any time soon.
I have a whole lot of processing going on in my head, but suffice it to say that right this second? This ordeal is bugging me a whole lot more than the cancer diagnosis ever did.
Plus, yesterday my exhaust system started dragging on the ground. Maybe I do have car trouble after all.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Why Do We Do This, Again?
The Milk Guy says that if there's a God, He must be a cosmic Sadist.
I never really know how to respond to this when he brings it up, because frankly, sometimes I think things like that myself, and so I have no idea how to explain how Christians (generally) view trials, without sounding like we have made ourselves into Masochists-for-the-God.
Here are some cases in point:
1. Pretty much all the Old Testament prophecies. God's people are not cooperating with Him. He gets mad. He causes or allows (depending on your theology--but the words in the Bible usually sound like "causes") really horrific things to happen to them. Today I read in Zechariah 14.2 (NRSV) "For I will gather all the nations against Jerusalem to battle, and the city shall be taken and the houses looted and the women raped . . . " It actually goes on from there, but the rape thing alone causes me to recoil so violently, I kind of lost track of the rest of it. He mercifully allows some people to be spared these monstrosities, and then He restores them, and they're supposed to (and do, at least for a time) return to Him with love in their hearts because He essentially beat the stuffing out of them. Or . . . that's what it reads like.
2. I'm reading an autobiography of an English evangelist, whose prayer as a child was that she could get into the center of God's heart. Or something like that. She had a fairly difficult childhood and then suffered some serious health issues (and miracles) as an adult, and at the end of the second-to-last chapter, she renewed her request to God that she be satisfied with only Him. Three weeks later, her husband of 30 years, who had been involved in ministry with her, left her for another woman. What?!
3. I've prayed similar prayers, and meant them, and I've even asked God to do whatever it takes (even to me) to cause certain people to come to know Him. Now I have cancer? I don't know if that's "what it takes," but I do know there's some way that this is supposed to draw me closer to Him.
Don't get me wrong. I love the Old Testament prophets (although I've decided I don't like Zechariah all that much), and I think the prayer for God and God alone is probably the best one we can pray. (It's also pretty audacious, if you think about it, and so the fact that we can pray it is pretty amazing.) I love that God wants to relate to us enough to open Himself up to our rage--to the point of His own death in Jesus. I know (at least intellectually, although sometimes that's all it feels like) that He doesn't ask us to do anything He didn't live through Himself, or experience along with us. I've sensed His presence with me in this cancer adventure and I've seen Him answer prayers in surprising ways and I know He's been faithful to me through my whole life.
I also understand that if He tried to coax us to Him with blessings all the time, it wouldn't work. We just get distracted. All right, I get distracted, okay? I get all caught up in the blessing and start to treat it, instead of Him, like God.
I'm just saying that causing or allowing the rape of the people He chose when He hates rape, or answering Jennifer Rees Larcombe's prayer through a divorce when He hates divorce, is downright baffling, and I don't really know how to argue with the Milk Guy when he says, "You talk like everything God does is perfect. But He makes bad stuff happen, too. You have to take the good with the bad."
"As for God, His way is perfect," but I do see the Milk Guy's point. For all I said about "It's all good," God's perfect way often feels really bad. And even if I am settled in myself that I have about as complicated a relationship with God as I do with the Milk Guy but that it's good; even when I feel that I can trust in God when I suspect He might hurt me and that I love Him even when He does; even when I know that I am free (thanks to Jesus) to argue with God and that somehow through all this turmoil it will bring me closer to Him, I really don't know how to explain that to anybody without its sounding like I have some kind of psychological malfunction that causes me to seek out pain. I don't. I really don't like pain.
So . . . why do we do this, again?
I never really know how to respond to this when he brings it up, because frankly, sometimes I think things like that myself, and so I have no idea how to explain how Christians (generally) view trials, without sounding like we have made ourselves into Masochists-for-the-God.
Here are some cases in point:
1. Pretty much all the Old Testament prophecies. God's people are not cooperating with Him. He gets mad. He causes or allows (depending on your theology--but the words in the Bible usually sound like "causes") really horrific things to happen to them. Today I read in Zechariah 14.2 (NRSV) "For I will gather all the nations against Jerusalem to battle, and the city shall be taken and the houses looted and the women raped . . . " It actually goes on from there, but the rape thing alone causes me to recoil so violently, I kind of lost track of the rest of it. He mercifully allows some people to be spared these monstrosities, and then He restores them, and they're supposed to (and do, at least for a time) return to Him with love in their hearts because He essentially beat the stuffing out of them. Or . . . that's what it reads like.
2. I'm reading an autobiography of an English evangelist, whose prayer as a child was that she could get into the center of God's heart. Or something like that. She had a fairly difficult childhood and then suffered some serious health issues (and miracles) as an adult, and at the end of the second-to-last chapter, she renewed her request to God that she be satisfied with only Him. Three weeks later, her husband of 30 years, who had been involved in ministry with her, left her for another woman. What?!
3. I've prayed similar prayers, and meant them, and I've even asked God to do whatever it takes (even to me) to cause certain people to come to know Him. Now I have cancer? I don't know if that's "what it takes," but I do know there's some way that this is supposed to draw me closer to Him.
Don't get me wrong. I love the Old Testament prophets (although I've decided I don't like Zechariah all that much), and I think the prayer for God and God alone is probably the best one we can pray. (It's also pretty audacious, if you think about it, and so the fact that we can pray it is pretty amazing.) I love that God wants to relate to us enough to open Himself up to our rage--to the point of His own death in Jesus. I know (at least intellectually, although sometimes that's all it feels like) that He doesn't ask us to do anything He didn't live through Himself, or experience along with us. I've sensed His presence with me in this cancer adventure and I've seen Him answer prayers in surprising ways and I know He's been faithful to me through my whole life.
I also understand that if He tried to coax us to Him with blessings all the time, it wouldn't work. We just get distracted. All right, I get distracted, okay? I get all caught up in the blessing and start to treat it, instead of Him, like God.
I'm just saying that causing or allowing the rape of the people He chose when He hates rape, or answering Jennifer Rees Larcombe's prayer through a divorce when He hates divorce, is downright baffling, and I don't really know how to argue with the Milk Guy when he says, "You talk like everything God does is perfect. But He makes bad stuff happen, too. You have to take the good with the bad."
"As for God, His way is perfect," but I do see the Milk Guy's point. For all I said about "It's all good," God's perfect way often feels really bad. And even if I am settled in myself that I have about as complicated a relationship with God as I do with the Milk Guy but that it's good; even when I feel that I can trust in God when I suspect He might hurt me and that I love Him even when He does; even when I know that I am free (thanks to Jesus) to argue with God and that somehow through all this turmoil it will bring me closer to Him, I really don't know how to explain that to anybody without its sounding like I have some kind of psychological malfunction that causes me to seek out pain. I don't. I really don't like pain.
So . . . why do we do this, again?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Life's Little Injustices
I'm not really too sure what I think about birth control. I mean I think it's okay with God, but there are some of His people who feel pretty strongly that it isn't, and so sometimes I feel a little insecure in my position that, were I married and were my husband of the same mind-set about this, I would rather adopt children than bear them myself. This has to do with personal inclination as well as some beliefs about over-population and taking care of (widows and) orphans.
One time, however, I was on birth-control pills for another health issue (because my skin is really appallingly flaw-prone, if you must know), and it didn't help anything, and while not helping anything, they also made me dreadfully ill. So I always thought the whole preventing-childbirth thing, should it ever become a live issue in my life, might be kind of a hassle for me as well as being a source of moral confusion.
Given all of these details you never asked for, you would think I might be secretly relieved that chemotherapy is likely to reduce my ability to have children. That way, if I ever do get married, well--maybe I won't have to be as intentional about not having kids.
I'm nothing if not complex and contrary, however. Although my feelings about all these issues have been as delineated above for years, and although I feel exactly the same about them as I write them, I also feel inexplicably disheartened and a little angry that the option is potentially about to be removed from me. I don't want to be "damaged," I guess. I want to be whole, and be able to make these decisions on an equal footing with other people who make them all the time.
And here's the other thing that's ticking me off about the cancer I don't even have anymore: I'm pretty much going to be paying rent on my life for the rest of it. Here's what I mean: For the next year I will be undergoing various significant treatments to reduce my risk of cancer. For the next five years I will be on a hormone suppressant to further reduce my risk of recurrence of specifically hormone-related cancers like the one I just had. But from now until I die or Jesus comes back, I'll have to have check-ups on this area of my body at least twice a year. These aren't simple physicals, and they aren't cheap. I get to pay someone bi-annually to make sure I'm not going to die. I kind of resent this.
Huh. Happy Thanksgiving, eh?
Let's see what I can come up with tomorrow.
One time, however, I was on birth-control pills for another health issue (because my skin is really appallingly flaw-prone, if you must know), and it didn't help anything, and while not helping anything, they also made me dreadfully ill. So I always thought the whole preventing-childbirth thing, should it ever become a live issue in my life, might be kind of a hassle for me as well as being a source of moral confusion.
Given all of these details you never asked for, you would think I might be secretly relieved that chemotherapy is likely to reduce my ability to have children. That way, if I ever do get married, well--maybe I won't have to be as intentional about not having kids.
I'm nothing if not complex and contrary, however. Although my feelings about all these issues have been as delineated above for years, and although I feel exactly the same about them as I write them, I also feel inexplicably disheartened and a little angry that the option is potentially about to be removed from me. I don't want to be "damaged," I guess. I want to be whole, and be able to make these decisions on an equal footing with other people who make them all the time.
And here's the other thing that's ticking me off about the cancer I don't even have anymore: I'm pretty much going to be paying rent on my life for the rest of it. Here's what I mean: For the next year I will be undergoing various significant treatments to reduce my risk of cancer. For the next five years I will be on a hormone suppressant to further reduce my risk of recurrence of specifically hormone-related cancers like the one I just had. But from now until I die or Jesus comes back, I'll have to have check-ups on this area of my body at least twice a year. These aren't simple physicals, and they aren't cheap. I get to pay someone bi-annually to make sure I'm not going to die. I kind of resent this.
Huh. Happy Thanksgiving, eh?
Let's see what I can come up with tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Reaction Is Not Always Equal. Or Opposite.
Some days I discover I'm a control freak. Today might be one of those. I'm just saying.
We were only down a person for half an hour of my entire shift, but since one of our sister stores closed last week, we've been a little busier than usual. Plus, I had one of those stupid six hour shifts which does not give enough time to open the store, do the cash deposit, and take the legally-required "lunch" break all without going over on hours. Trust me. It just doesn't. Today especially.
By the time my relief came in, I was too stressed to be relieved; I felt a little like I did on the day of the Last Straw--nearly hyperventilating and kind of shaking. This time I didn't feel like slamming lockers, but when the safe didn't open as I asked it to, setting me back another few precious minutes, I found myself starting to cry.
This, I told myself, was ridiculous. (Everybody else clearly thought so, too, although they were too polite to say so.) There was absolutely no reason to be so upset or so stressed. These things happen. Once I left, two more people arrived so they had plenty of people to get done the stuff that I hadn't. But I still had to go in the back room and take a deep breath and calm down. And I got neither the cash deposit nor the legally-required lunch break done before it was time for me to go.
I guess I was upset because I was trying so hard to have a good shift turnover for the next person in charge, and no matter how fast I ran up and down my gerbil cage, I just couldn't do it. The money still hadn't gone where it needed to go, the sink was overflowing with dishes and recyclables, the brewed coffee kept running out, the pastry case looked like some pastry-locusts had descended, and my stomach was in knots. (Not to mention growling.) But . . . it still didn't make sense for me to flip out over it that much. It's just that I felt out-of-control, and I don't like that, evidently.
After I left I felt much better, but then I talked to someone in my surgeon's office and found out that he (the surgeon) wants to move my surgery to the 30th instead of the 31st. Not only does this mess up my really good Hallowe'en joke, but it messes up my work schedule, which messes up things for everybody I work with. I was supposed to work that day, and I need those hours, and that pay, and . . . I'm afraid I got a little snippy with Diane. (Poor Diane. I'll bet she gets this all the time.) Also--it didn't help. If I want my particular surgeon to do my surgery (which I do), I have to cooperate with when he is able to do it.
I guess I was upset because this cancer is messing with my plans, and it's opening me up for other people to mess with my plans. It makes me feel helpless, and I don't like that.
Then I had to stop by the hospital to pick up some documents and drop off some documents and try to find the financial counselor's office so I could ask them a question. I couldn't find it, and I wandered down scary hallways past people who looked like they knew where they were and what they were doing, and I had no idea where I was or what I was doing at all. I started to feel like crying again, so I gave up my search and wandered back down all the scary hallways and left. I knew if I went to the desk where the document transfer had occurred and asked for a parking validation, they'd give it to me, but they'd also ask me if I found the financial counselors and I would have to tell them no and feel stupid, and then they'd give me the same directions again and I would want to cry some more. So I paid more for parking than I legitimately should, and went away.
I don't think control should be an issue for Christians. I think we should all just trust Jesus and at the very least keep moving forward with a kind of curiosity to see what happens next. I guess some people do that. I don't, very well. Every once in a while I can. But today wasn't one of those times.
We were only down a person for half an hour of my entire shift, but since one of our sister stores closed last week, we've been a little busier than usual. Plus, I had one of those stupid six hour shifts which does not give enough time to open the store, do the cash deposit, and take the legally-required "lunch" break all without going over on hours. Trust me. It just doesn't. Today especially.
By the time my relief came in, I was too stressed to be relieved; I felt a little like I did on the day of the Last Straw--nearly hyperventilating and kind of shaking. This time I didn't feel like slamming lockers, but when the safe didn't open as I asked it to, setting me back another few precious minutes, I found myself starting to cry.
This, I told myself, was ridiculous. (Everybody else clearly thought so, too, although they were too polite to say so.) There was absolutely no reason to be so upset or so stressed. These things happen. Once I left, two more people arrived so they had plenty of people to get done the stuff that I hadn't. But I still had to go in the back room and take a deep breath and calm down. And I got neither the cash deposit nor the legally-required lunch break done before it was time for me to go.
I guess I was upset because I was trying so hard to have a good shift turnover for the next person in charge, and no matter how fast I ran up and down my gerbil cage, I just couldn't do it. The money still hadn't gone where it needed to go, the sink was overflowing with dishes and recyclables, the brewed coffee kept running out, the pastry case looked like some pastry-locusts had descended, and my stomach was in knots. (Not to mention growling.) But . . . it still didn't make sense for me to flip out over it that much. It's just that I felt out-of-control, and I don't like that, evidently.
After I left I felt much better, but then I talked to someone in my surgeon's office and found out that he (the surgeon) wants to move my surgery to the 30th instead of the 31st. Not only does this mess up my really good Hallowe'en joke, but it messes up my work schedule, which messes up things for everybody I work with. I was supposed to work that day, and I need those hours, and that pay, and . . . I'm afraid I got a little snippy with Diane. (Poor Diane. I'll bet she gets this all the time.) Also--it didn't help. If I want my particular surgeon to do my surgery (which I do), I have to cooperate with when he is able to do it.
I guess I was upset because this cancer is messing with my plans, and it's opening me up for other people to mess with my plans. It makes me feel helpless, and I don't like that.
Then I had to stop by the hospital to pick up some documents and drop off some documents and try to find the financial counselor's office so I could ask them a question. I couldn't find it, and I wandered down scary hallways past people who looked like they knew where they were and what they were doing, and I had no idea where I was or what I was doing at all. I started to feel like crying again, so I gave up my search and wandered back down all the scary hallways and left. I knew if I went to the desk where the document transfer had occurred and asked for a parking validation, they'd give it to me, but they'd also ask me if I found the financial counselors and I would have to tell them no and feel stupid, and then they'd give me the same directions again and I would want to cry some more. So I paid more for parking than I legitimately should, and went away.
I don't think control should be an issue for Christians. I think we should all just trust Jesus and at the very least keep moving forward with a kind of curiosity to see what happens next. I guess some people do that. I don't, very well. Every once in a while I can. But today wasn't one of those times.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Grrr . . .
Today I was angry.
I don't know how to explain the anger precisely. I didn't feel like I wished other people had my disease or anything, but I was reading about factors that indicate risk for breast cancer and I realised that I hardly have any of them. And the ones that I sort of have, I barely have. I found a string of thoughts running like this through my head:
What? I'm supposed to use even less plastic than I already do? I've already thrown out my Starbucks travel mugs and I don't microwave with plastic.
I drink less than one to two glasses of alcohol per day. Probably per week. What are you talking about?
I'm being penalised because I haven't had children and I haven't breast-fed? And the reason I haven't is because I'm not married and I'm trying to live life the way God wants me to?!
(Delete swear words).
I feel really strongly about that last standard. If I could rewind and do this life again, I suspect I would still live up to it. I really believe sex (and child-bearing) is a sacrosanct part of marriage and should only happen within marriage. But the fact is, "really believing" it doesn't decrease longing, and it seriously ticked me off today that by honouring it, I may have increased my chances for this disease.
The fact is, though, that I've never really wanted to have children. And in reality, of course, that one factor probably has very little to do with my getting cancer. I'm not being penalised. I know that. My diagnosis probably has more to do with my trying to protect the environment for a while by drinking out of my Starbucks travel mugs instead of disposing of paper cups all the time.
Thanks a lot.
I don't know how to explain the anger precisely. I didn't feel like I wished other people had my disease or anything, but I was reading about factors that indicate risk for breast cancer and I realised that I hardly have any of them. And the ones that I sort of have, I barely have. I found a string of thoughts running like this through my head:
What? I'm supposed to use even less plastic than I already do? I've already thrown out my Starbucks travel mugs and I don't microwave with plastic.
I drink less than one to two glasses of alcohol per day. Probably per week. What are you talking about?
I'm being penalised because I haven't had children and I haven't breast-fed? And the reason I haven't is because I'm not married and I'm trying to live life the way God wants me to?!
(Delete swear words).
I feel really strongly about that last standard. If I could rewind and do this life again, I suspect I would still live up to it. I really believe sex (and child-bearing) is a sacrosanct part of marriage and should only happen within marriage. But the fact is, "really believing" it doesn't decrease longing, and it seriously ticked me off today that by honouring it, I may have increased my chances for this disease.
The fact is, though, that I've never really wanted to have children. And in reality, of course, that one factor probably has very little to do with my getting cancer. I'm not being penalised. I know that. My diagnosis probably has more to do with my trying to protect the environment for a while by drinking out of my Starbucks travel mugs instead of disposing of paper cups all the time.
Thanks a lot.
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