Do I Really Want to be a Writer?

If I really want to be a writer, I need to take the advice I'm always forcing on my also want-to-be writer husband - I need to dedicate a few hours every day to sitting down and writing, whether I feel like it or not.

Since my last blog I've worked a lot on my new goal of writing a book by doing anything but writing. I've been reading a book about writing sermons, looking through old albums of me growing up with various braces and doctor visits, and even dug up a couple videos of the three months I spent in the hospital in the 6th grade. Now I'm begging my family for a scanner with an automatic feeder for my birthday (it's coming soon!) and planning to convert my videos to data DVD so that I can upload them on this site.

Looking through those pictures and videos brings back all kinds of memories, and I think they will be important tools for helping me to tell my story. Maybe that's the photograper in me speaking.

Anyone who knows me for more than five minutes eventually hears a story or 100 about the three months that I spent in the hospital when I was in the 6th grade, and the events surrounding that experience. It was obviously a life-altering time, because so many of my random thoughts and fears take me back to it. And as a result I will talk about my time there for as long as anyone will listen. It’s funny that, as much as I bring these stories up, I don’t remember writing much about them. Maybe an entry or two in one of my journals – but nothing to represent the substantial effect this time had on me. I'm much more likely to share photographs and my videos with someone. It's faster and easier and never requires me to tap deep into my real feelings.

So with my recent hospital stay, two months spanning from last October until December, how could these old memories be far from my current thoughts? There are so many parallels and so many differences that have bubbled up to the surface and screamed in my face "DEAL WITH ME NOW". Even my second to last day I was forced to deal with these feelings when it became time for my nurse to pull out my PICC line. I had made the mistake a couple days prior of asking "How long is the PICC line, anyway?" The nurse formed the length with her hands, spanning over a foot. A PICC line, in case you don't know, goes from the entry point (which was near my elbow) all the way to your heart, so that the staff can draw blood directly without poking the patient with a needle every time. Mine was inserted while I was unconscious, and as I started to panic about its removal (and proceeded to panic for two days) I was assured time and time again that it wasn't going to hurt. The tube was "floating in my vein" - a comment that did not help reassure me AT ALL. I had become okay with regular blood draws and even stopped putting up a fight about taking blood gases (when they draw blood directly from your artery; my last several draws required 3 to 5 deep attemps). But this PICC line was unfamiliar territory, and sounded insane.

Any conversations about the matter transformed me instantly into that terrified 12 year old girl, who was never warned that 4 to 6 weeks in the hospital could and would turn into three months of blood draws, learning how to walk again, body braces, leg braces, neck braces, an iron lung, a collapsed lung, a tracheotomy, a G-tube and many more rapid changes. They seemed like bullets, zooming past my head as I attempted to duck and dodge, but hit every time.

So here I was, 25 years old but frightened to a point that confused and frustrated my nurse who fully understood the reality of the situation – pulling out this “floating” line was not going to hurt. But all I could think, as I cowered into my chair, was “How could it not hurt?” and “Where is my mommy or Adam? Couldn’t they wait until someone was here to hold my hand?”

Finally I handed over my arm, and clutched onto my loyal companion, Lambert (a stuffed lamb I have had since I was three). She had been right; the only part that hurt was removing all the tape and cleaning where the stitches had held the line in place. It was out before I knew it – and I was 25 again.

I apologized for my behavior, and explained to her that when she was talking to me she was talking to a 12 year old, not the rational 25 year old she expected. She misunderstood me and told another one of my nurses that I told her she had talked down to me. I tried to clear that up later, but I don’t think she understood or believed me. But I guess irrational fears don’t translate well to those who haven’t had similar life experiences.

I often have to fight to be a grown up. It’s so easy to revert in fear and allow others to take control. One of my hospital chaplains, Roger, said that it’s natural when you’re going through a challenging time to suddenly be dealing with feelings from years past. I grew up a lot during this last hospital stay, but obviously I have a lot more to go. Thankfully, God and others are patient with me and nudge me along, so there is hope for me yet.

Thank you for reading.

Question: How do you deal with fear?