At my lowest point in being sick, I’d lost 18 pounds (just for some statistical background, I’m 5’9” and started my pregnancy at 130lbs), was crying every night when I had to give myself a shot, dealing with headache and fatigue as a side effect of my nausea medication, throwing up anything substantial I managed to eat, dragging an IV pole around with me, and fainting if I moved too quick. So, not great.
One day I had a close friend over and while we were talking, someone called to see how I was feeling. My close friend was getting bugged as she listened to my side of the conversation, especially when I said, “Oh, I’m fine. I’m really doing okay. Honestly.” When I got off the phone, she informed me that I was not doing fine and I needed to stop telling people that and stop being so dang prideful (I prefer to call myself "independent," but whatev).
The next time someone asked how I was feeling, I committed to telling the truth—mostly so that I could prove to my friend that I wasn’t prideful (I know, I know, the irony of proving my humility in order to save my pride, let’s not go there.) In this conversation, I started to really open up. If I was going to tell the truth, then it was going to be the whole truth, apparently.
Cause not only was I struggling physically but I was starting to feel really, really sorry for myself. My sickness came right on the heels of news about our oldest son needing surgery again (after already having four surgeries this year), and I began to wonder why I needed be so miserable in my pregnancy when there are so many woman who aren’t. It was easy to feel picked on. Hadn’t my family had a rough enough year already? Did we really need one more thing thrown our way? Had the Lord just forgotten me?
What followed from that conversation was two months of people from my church bringing dinner for my family, cleaning my house, watching my children, taking my children to school and back, and driving me to appointments. People were calling and emailing me to see how I was doing, dropping books off for me and games for the kids. I was blown away by how much help I got with such short notice and by so many people.
And I learned something from this. It’s not so easy is accepting help from other people. It killed me to accept all of this help, but I couldn’t deny that I needed it. I don’t think I even realized how much I needed all of that help and love until it started coming and I didn’t feel so overwhelmed and forgotten anymore.
And although I would not want to live through the past four months again, I’m glad for the things I learned. I may have learned that I’m a prideful person and that I have a hard time accepting help, but I learned something else as well.
I learned that when I was in a dark time and feeling very alone and sorry for myself, the Lord was always aware of me.
We are never forgotten.