A few weeks ago- more people heard my story as my blog was shared and I nearly had a vulnerability freakout. Listen, this whole blog gives me a vulnerability freakout. But I feel like the Lord has asked me to share what He’s teaching me, and I’m grateful for your words and your care. In the last couple weeks, people approached me that had no idea I was in pain. It’s not that I forgot to tell them- I was just living vicariously through them by how they saw me: normal. Oh how far from normal I am.

But you know what? It’s also been so sweet. Mamas of kids in my ministry saying sweet words of support and sharing their prayers. It’s blessed me.

I have this problem where I feel the desperate need, if you don’t know I have pain, to keep it that way. Once you know, I’m not upset nor do I want to not talk about it….it’s just…I don’t know…there’s something about being able to pretend to be normal, that I love.

But my life is not normal.

Late last night I finally got in to the hospital for round nine. And when the wheel chair turned the corner down the hall I was immediately greeted with “hi Kate!”, waves, hugs and even a “your new home is 7118.” Nothings normal about hospital staff knowing your name or giving hugs or calling a room your new home. But it’s my normal.

I’m overdue for an infusion. Four weeks overdue. And this week has been a constant game of “move the goal post” having to wait a little longer….just a little longer….for real this time just a little longer.

But I now hear the sounds of churning and cranking. Signs of helpful medicine rushing into my veins. It’s a greater sound than an exhausted exhale of relief. This is not normal. But it’s my normal.

“Relief is coming” I remind myself through a whisper as the nausea begins, as the long first night marathon kicks off.

The days and weeks leading up to another infusion are always the achiest. It’s harder to get out of bed in the morning and have my feet touch the ground. My body begins to give warning signs that it’s time for another round-and my body begins to slow way down no matter how fast life speeds up.

And so I would find myself humming more, the melody of a song that’s given me strength. A dear friend reminded me to “sing my way out” because she knows those words are on a letter board in my living room reflecting the desire to sing truth about Jesus or to Jesus and draw near to Him for strength. “Sing your way out…..sing your way out….sing your way out…” I would remind myself in the morning, when I couldn’t seem to let my feet the touch the floor.

And here I am in the hospital saying the same thing “sing your way out….sing your way out…sing your way out” as I wait for the medicine to bring relief and as I wait to get past the first night sickness, first night pokes, first night hoops to jump through.

My neighbor on the left is a screamer- I hear her moans and screams through the walls. Immediately I’m getting a chorus of apologies from staff. But you know- she’s speaking my language. She’s my people. She’s one of us- pain patients -so desperate to get help. I get it. It’s not normal. But it’s my normal. My people are screamers. I happen to just not scream.

9 years ago today, exactly, I began my first ever hospital stay to follow a treatment plan for my pain. I remember on that first day having to get into a pool and wanting to totally scream but none of the other kids did- so I kept my mouth shut. After pool was physical therapy and they were not holding any screams back then. I remember sharing to a therapist that day “I didn’t know we were allowed to scream.” Here we are, 9 years later, and though I know I’m “allowed” to scream, the screamer next door is taking that job for the both of us. Instead I’ll keep singing as I pray “heal her Lord….and heal me. Just fix it Jesus.” Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank.

It’s my normal.

Two nurses come in while I’m definitely-maybe-totally going to vomit. The one is asking what color my nail polish is while I reach for the basin. The other I feel forever bonded to as she was there with me on my very worst and most vulnerable day -she’s come in for a hug and to say hello. It’s a party in the pain room of the girl who’s gonna vom. But it’s sweet. They ask for “Mama Nance” -when’s she coming in-swapping stories with each other of her being a mama bear and kindly yet firmly advocating or just why they love her. And I smile (still ready to vomit) because this weird life I live, we live, there’s a community here that we are a part of. As I begin to get sick this doesn’t stop the party. No, instead one grabs a cool rag and the other dumps the basin…and the party continues in 7118. They tell me they love my music I play and how coming into my room during the day is the room they need to spend the least time in but want to spend the most time in between the kind words, soft (worship) music, and the love of Mama Nance of course. “You’re kind even though your pains so bad,” one says “and you can still laugh.”

“That’s literally only because of Jesus.” I say. “I know biggest Christian cliche but it’s so true. My Jesus holds me together and I sing my way out.” We casually talk about church and how yes, pastors can have tattoos. (Papa George) And I invite them to give church try. And one says she might…..

They sneak me a philly soft pretzel from the break room and five bags of graham crackers when I asked for something to settle my stomach. “Uh..” she laughs as she dumps the snacks she scored for me “we just love you.”

I just smile. I love them too.

It’s not normal. But it’s my normal.

I have about 24 hours total of time here to love them like Jesus and the hours in between …about 5 days….are the ones I don’t remember well because the medicine does its job and I’m a little loopy. Those are the days I need them more. I can’t do anything on my own. Not even bathe or use the bathroom on my own. I’ll depend on these nurses in the in between in crazy ways. They see me at my worst but they still get Jesus. Because if I drop the ball because I’m too loopy or too sleepy—there’s a small army of visitors that picks it up and loves them like Jesus well for me.

This is my mission field.

My broken normal is my mission field. It’s full of broken bodies and worn out nurses who desperately need Jesus. And I’m so grateful that when they walk into this room they get a glimpse of His love because of the worship, the people and the time.

On repeat this week has been the old classic “my God is so big so strong and so mighty…there’s nothing my God cannot do.” Seriously. I keep repeating it. It’s my reminder that He’s not surprised. He’s not scared. He’s not stuck about a decision to make. He is big strong and mighty and there is nothing He cannot do.

He knows the day I’ll be healed this side of Heaven or not. He knows what my screaming neighbors deepest fear is. He knows my anxious heart about this round going smoothly. He knows. And you know what? There’s nothing my God cannot do.

So we pray for sweet neighbor lady for healing. And we pray for a miracle of complete healing in 7118 too. There’s nothing my God cannot do.

Can I tell you the scariest part for me of praying for healing for myself? The fear of disappointment if He says “not yet.”

Right now, however, I’m reminded that even if that happens- it’s not without purpose.

For my not normal life over here in 7118….there are still people who need to hear about Jesus and as long as I’m in pain, I have an “in” to give Him to them. Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank.

The other side of my life.

This is my normal.