The Weight Within

       The heaviness in my chest is a real weight that pushes me backward every day. It’s a game for me to count the time from when I first wake up to when I notice it. Sometimes it is mere minutes. Sometimes, graciously, it is hours. It may leave when I am distracted but it comes back. And some nights it feels strong like an elephant on my chest and I wither underneath the pressure.

       I know what day it came. It was a Saturday evening last fall and I cried so hard I made myself physically sick. I was gripped with emotional pain that burrowed deep. The next day, I felt the unusual weight creep into my system and I thought I could just run it off. No. From that day on, it hasn’t left. I drive through the winding roads, watching the world pass by in flashes of green and sky blue, existing as if everything is normal. I silently wonder if the pressure in my chest will ever leave. Is it here to stay? Is this my forever?

       The heaviness stays with me even as I read quietly in the comfort of my home. All logic says that a peace should wash over me in a quiet wave, and the stress should be carried off too. But I turn pages and maybe laugh or reflect on the author’s brilliant words; but the force hiding in my chest still feels strong like something undefeatable.

       Or I run through my neighborhood, pumping music between my ears and turning up the volume louder. I will the pain to release through my limbs. I run harder, begging it to exhale mixed with my hurried breaths and drift away from its cage within me.

It stays. 

       I breathe steadily; deep breaths that swallow the air and I wish for the calming effect to travel immediately through my body. But each breath just demands another breath. I touch my hand to the bones that chamber the weight. I touch the pressure that remains.

       Anxiety is somewhat a new thing for me. I know that I am not a severe case, that others cry beneath the weight of worse attacks that I will never know. Maybe it is better called stress, but it feels so much worse than that word encompasses. I have never been a “go with the flow” person necessarily, but I have never considered myself an anxious person or even a worrier either. This probably isn’t fair to write this while I am still struggling, but I feel it the deepest right now. So here I share, as I am still fighting in the tumultuous waves of the ocean as opposed to when I am relieved of this burden, resting on shore. And maybe you feel as if you are drowning in the ocean too. I can’t save you. But let’s tread water together.

       I think about how many trials are allowed in a lifetime? Is there a cap that is set- a limit that one person is allowed to suffer? Trials are the worries that race through your brain when the sun goes down and the house is quiet and deceitfully peaceful. Trials are embodied as physical, emotional, spiritual… painful. They last weeks, months or long, heart-breaking years.

       The weight of the trial is occasionally relieved by the healing balm of a friend’s company. Or the sensible words from the mouth of a counselor. Or a vacation that serves as a welcome distraction. But although your eyes drift away from the root problem for a few precious minutes, the pressure in your chest returns shortly. The trial is still there, waiting to steal away your thoughts and resolve.

       All the while, you wonder internally, “Am I crazy? Am I handling this right? What is normal? Do other people worry about this? How do they handle their stress? How do I learn to let go and actually trust God?”

       I do trust God. I do try and slow down. I do know all the verses about stress and anxiety. But it’s almost like a sick joke that is being played on me. All logic screams for me to work harder, try harder, learn, grow and earn and work work work. My livelihood depends on it. Bills must be paid. Goals must be achieved. The image of falling behind dances wickedly through my mind. I must improve. I must prove. This is what I am here to do. This is the task that I have been called to do. I must do it. I can’t let anyone down.

       And at the EXACT same time, my physical body cries for rest, for slowness, for peace. My wounds ache to be healed. I have looked at the trial through every lens and have tried to solve it on my own for months, and now I am exhausted. I yearn for all the craziness to just stop. I want to stop surviving and start living.

       So what voice do I listen to? What do you do when you have tried everything

 and still fall short?

The brutal truth is that the passing of time is the only sure hope of conquering the mountainous terrain of stress and trials. There is no quick fix. In the wide expanse of sun-up to sun-down, you talk with your wise friends, you cry the hot tears and you cling to your faith. And over time, all these things help you get through each day until one day you find the weight in your chest a little lighter. Your head a little clearer. And your gratitude list a little longer. Somehow, someway, God’s grace sustained you and now you are (albeit, unwillingly) a stronger person.

       In the end, I listen to the voice I trust. The voice that tells me to care for myself because no one else will. Logic will always be there. But this massive opportunity to blindly believe that God will provide no matter what life spits my way? This paradox to “rest and trust” in a shouting match with “work hard and do”? This chance is for today. For right now. For this season. If I can trust Him when NOTHING makes sense, then maybe amidst my doubt… I will start to believe the truth.

Malia Crushes Cancer

Megan and Glen Jusczyk were both raised in comfortable American homes, sheltered and warm. They worked hard, both playing Division One soccer and earning scholarships. In their marriage, Megan and Glen worked together in their community in Central Florida, focusing on soccer programs for kids. Success wasn’t handed to them but they had opportunities to go out and achieve their dreams. In a matter of time they would come to see that not everybody is so lucky. 

In April of 2011, a worst-case scenario crossed their paths, invading their comfortable family with a torpedo of pain and emotional torture. Their little girl Malia started complaining about her stomach at a mere two and a half years old. As Mama Megan rubbed her belly every night, she looked into her child’s face and knew something was wrong. A trip to the doctor didn’t prove fruitful until an ultrasound was ordered. Megan and Glen stared at the enemy on the screen: A softball-sized tumor warping through Malia’s insides like an unwanted guest, squeezing the life out of this unsuspecting little girl. Malia was swept up from her home and ushered into the world of doctors, needles and tubes. Megan and Glen were waiting anxiously in the hospital when they saw a line of lab coats walking towards them as if in a scene from a movie. The oncologists delivered the bad news: Stage four neuroblastoma.

Neuroblastoma is an extremely rare childhood cancer, affecting 10 children in every million, usually before the age of 5. The five-year survival rate for high-risk cases (Stage Four) of neuroblastoma is less than 40%. 40% of neuroblastoma patients are younger than 1 year when diagnosed, 35 percent are aged 1-2 years, and 25 percent are older than 2 years when diagnosed.*

Megan and Glen wasted no time and snapped right into GO mode. They researched their options, weighing location and treatment opportunities.  Boston Children’s Hospital had been rated #1 in the world for treating neuroblastoma that year. Since they were both originally from Massachusetts, it was a no-brainer to pack and move there immediately. Megan got a job transfer and worked for the insurance while Glen monitored Malia through her treatment. Neuroblastoma treatment costs at least $40,000 out of pocket, even with good insurance. Megan and Glen’s eyes would be opened to other families going through treatment who didn’t have good insurance or worse; were single parents and couldn’t work.

The whirlwind of chemo began, coupled with a stem cell transplant, blood transfusions and immunotherapy. Malia lay quiet on the bed, receiving every tube and uncomfortable surgery with an understanding that this was the way it had to be. She didn’t throw things. She didn’t scream and say “No”, even though no one would blame her if she did. Her once timid demeanor transformed into a brave fight for her life. Malia toughened up, feeling the seriousness of the situation and finding a will within her to crush this disease.

Megan and Glen clung to relentless optimism. They had no other option, and they refused to let their mind wander to the worst possible outcome. Other kids in the same units left this world and Megan and Glen grieved with those families. Funerals were becoming painfully common. Megan watched her daughter suffer, feeling as if her arms were tied behind her back, unable to help in any way. No one could take Malia’s place, and as a parent, that fact alone tortured her. But they clung to hope with every fiber of their being.

Malia was in treatment until after her 4^th birthday, and in July of 2012 was declared “NED” (No Evidence of Disease). They followed up the treatment with a trial for two more years, and she is now a beautiful 8-year-old leading a normal life with her family in Massachusetts. She pitches on a softball team with ferocity, and even bravely jumps off the high-dive at the pool with a big smile on her face.

In 2012, Glen redirected his existing non-profit organization to focus on their brand new vision. After their ordeal, the Jusczyk’s immediate desire was to stretch their arms wide to love on other families. Megan says, “It was not an option for us to do nothing.” The non-profit is called For Kids’ Sake Foundation and its mission is to raise money for neuroblastoma research and help provide for families suffering through experiences with neuroblastoma. Megan admits that running the non-profit foundation is difficult, and each event may not go as planned. But she says, “I am never going to quit and it is not going to fail.” Megan and Glen’s tenacity shouts loud, and it has paid off immensely. Next month they will be writing a check for $100,000 to go towards neuroblastoma research. Even on the hard days, this family has persevered through.

We all should be grateful for what we have. Our families. Our opportunities. Our health. But Megan and Glen didn’t want to just be grateful. They wanted to make a difference. They carry on their backs the weight of many. Their efforts are the salve and balm to the wounded ones.

For more information and to donate; visit http://maliacrushescancer.com/

*http://maliacrushescancer.com/content/nb-info/Factsheet-NB-1.pdf

This article was written for and posted on the website for AaronStrong Foundation to help spread the word and message of overcoming adversity. 

https://www.beaaronstrong.com/grit-spotlight

Without Her

       My legs pump heavy, pushing me further and further into the forest. The tread of my tennis shoes leave their imprint on crunched brown leaves. The leaves behind watch me run while the trees ahead welcome me deeper into their midst. My breath is jagged with the weight it carries from chest to exhale. The weight of it all. The impossibly tragic thought that this heart could keep beating after being shredded into bits. I wag my arms and shoulders in tune with each step. I feel drips of light sweat seep out of the crooks of my elbows and hurriedly wipe my forehead with the palm of my hand. The salty mess still stings these blue eyes. I ball up my fists tightly, angrily pounding out the last few yards. I see the lake water, sunlight sparkling off the glassy surface in tranquility. Peace might be there but I have to fight a few more seconds to find out. The tears emerge prematurely, fighting with the dripping sweat and my head pounds. I come to the water’s edge with a couple long steps, my bones stretching out and obnoxiously landing in finality.

       Everything hurts. My chest burns hot, legs throb, headache on the brink of explosion. I embrace this physical pain to carry outside of the body what lies within. I raise my hands above my head and cover my ears with my heated arms as if to drown out my thoughts. Why? Why can I get rid of excess energy with a three mile jog, yet the heart has no release? My hands move to my knees and I resist the urge to collapse flat on the leafy bed. The water is there, it is always there tucked between rolling hills lined with forest. It waits for me nearly every day.

       I drag my sweaty ponytail out from its knot and shake my hair loose. My chest still heaves and I know it is time for my haunting ritual. My sore feet bring me to the drop of water on leaf and I cry out into the void with every ounce left. I scream, my lungs reaching out far on the water. I yell words and no words all at the same time. I grab my hair though it hurts and grab my heart though I can’t.

I scream because today is her birthday.

       I want to strangle the air and throw things in the water and scream for hours. But in the end, I just let the tears come as they always do, making their own misguided paths down my face. I crumble, leaning on a stump nearby and smack the flat surface with my frail, shaking hands. I surrender. I let my heart bleed, here in this forest. Here on this stump.

       Every day is another day she is gone. Away from this life, missing every opportunity and freedom every child should know. But today is a day that we used to celebrate life. First it was one year, then eight. I should have held each year tighter, celebrated each birthday as if I knew the truth of its scarcity. She was stolen from me and never got to be nine years old. Her sweet face never reached puberty; her small hands were frozen in time as we laid her to rest. Bits of my shredded heart lie with her.

       I look up at the water, calm and cool unlike me. I rub my hands against the mess of my face that I have created. I breathe quietly, feeling the anguish leave my body in each exhale but knowing that the hollow caverns of my core will always be there. I rise up cautiously and look to the left where a tree similar to Zoe’s favorite climbing tree goes on living without her. And I turn around to go and do the same.

**This fictional short story was submitted into a writing contest based on this picture prompt.