Positively (Im)perfect

I am #1in10, and I'm on a mission to spread awareness on proper treatment of endometriosis so other women, I pray, can avoid suffering for the same life-altering span (18 years) as me. Endometriosis is a likely-genetic disease where tissue similar to that of the endometrial tissue in the uterus (which either nourishes a newly-formed baby or is shed through menstruation if conception doesn't occur) grows outside of the uterus; usually in the abdominal cavity, often on other organs within the abdomen, and sometimes rare locations such as the lungs, throat, or even in the brain. This displaced endometriosis tissue responds to hormone fluctuations as well as produces its own estrogen , and causes widespread and progressive acute pain, fatigue, and infertility among many other symptoms.   This is not a small problem. Approximately 10% of women worldwide endure endometriosis (akin to the number of women with diabetes), yet for the majority of women suffering from endometri

"Come and see." These were the words Jesus spoke in last Sunday’s gospel--His response when the apostles first encountered Jesus and asked where He was going. Our priest shared that praying on this passage had led to his vacation, and invited us to try too. “Ask Jesus where He is going and meditate on His response to come and see .” It's no secret that I'm a sucker for some good Ignatian meditation, and I brightened at the idea, thinking of all the ways Jesus might be calling me. Sinking to my knees after communion, I immediately went to my imagination—watching Jesus approach, feeling the possibility of adventure, the magnetic pull to follow. Where are we going? I sang out in my heart.  Where do You want to lead? The Two words that returned shook me from my prayerful, hope-filled reverie: “To Calvary.” Calvary?  I recoiled in fear, grasping to qualify it with some strand of hope—what was that my friend always said? “From the cross alway

Choosing Hope. When I found this article in one of my Endometriosis Facebook groups last week, I intended only to hit "share." But as I started writing words that I hoped would help others listen -- so that God willing, other women may be saved the same length and depth and breadth of unnecessary suffering as me--it was as if a dam broke open. 18 years of suffering poured forth into possibly the longest Facebook "status" I've ever shared. But for good reason. The more I learn along this journey, the more I understand that some information bears repeating. So I've copied both my words and the linked article here in hopes that it will more quickly ripple out to the women who so desperately need it. " Hear me loud and clear. Hear me through the 18 years—more than half my life—of suffering in pain so intense that even morphine barely took the edge off. Hear me as I echo every single word the woman who wrote this article has bravely shared . 

Hey-o... Just chillin here on Easter Saturday, writing from the exact same place I started my Lent on Ash Wednesday... The sick bed. Yep, the same place of suffering, the same no-social-media isolation [only one day away from the end of my fast], the same slow, slow passage of idle hours when I crave the distraction of busyness--especially when there is SO much to be done in preparation for our celebration tomorrow. Aside from my mounting chronic illness woes, I've been fairly free of communicable junk since that fateful Wednesday some 40 odd days ago. Until yesterday. I'm sure it's no coincidence that I am here. Again. [Seriously, God?] Ironically, I waxed poetic just the other day about Jesus proving that He is actively with me in such moments as these, and worse...because I finally shut up and let Him show me . I offered myself anew, even as I felt like the crud was coming on yesterday, thinking, "I can do this with You, Jesus. I will suffe

It was a theme that had haunted me for awhile. A well-intentioned spiritual exercise, recommended by friends and mentors alike--spiritual sages who had all experienced the same need to bring meaning to a situation or a moment in time. "Ask Jesus to show you where He was in that moment." The suggestion, scrawled across the pages of my journal in months past and stamped into my brain as it continued to cross my path, it struck me as a worthy idea, a beautiful practice... ...for someone else. I had approached this sacred practice with eager carelessness, immediately posing the pointed question. "Yeah, where were You?" But I only succeeded in opening a Pandora's box. It seemed that the few times I tried to place Christ at the scene of one of those difficult moments in my life--the moments that brought me to a place of blinding fear or anxiety, the times rife with suffering--my intellect could certainly roll its eyes and tell me that of course

It's been one hell of a "season" lately. Those who know me well know I don't say that lightly. My health continues to go down the pooper; I've made more appointments and gotten more sympathy from no-nonsense medical professionals than I know what to do with. But the only answers are guesses at best, the only suggestions shots in the dark.  I'm tired. So weary.  I'm told I hide it well, which I suppose is good and bad. I don't need to spend my days constantly weighing down the rest of the world with my woes, especially if there are good moments to be had [and there are, so much more than the bad].  But bad moments are also part of this reality. Some days, this endometriosis pain is just a real bleepword--no euphemisms or platitudes about it to soften the blow. The daily, sometimes hourly game of Russian Roulette ("will my body tolerate this food again or not? Will the pain be better or worse if I ____?") is physically and

Tragedy has rocked our world again this week. And undoubtedly we all have our own unique causes for grief or crosses of suffering to carry as we move through Good Friday toward the hope of our own sort of Easter. Yet here we still are today, "Good" Friday, in the midst of it--whatever it is.  Who in their right mind would deign to call it good ? We know that suffering, and ultimately death are a part of life. But culturally we still tend to keep it hidden away in the shadows, to speak of it in hushed tones because it is somehow 'easier' or more 'appropriate.' It can be all the more overwhelming, then, when we are thrown out in the open with suffering and death, when these unpleasant realities not only show their face, but crash through our world in harsh and relentless ways like torture and senseless attacks and prolonged suffering. These realities have not kept to the shadows this Lent. It seems like there is heartbreak all around. Mo

Another Memorial Day is approaching, and with it, mixed feelings that fill the hearts of many service members and their families.  For a large portion of our nation, Memorial Day is simply the unofficial start of summer and a happy chance to escape work on a Monday. But at its heart, Memorial Day is the singular day each year that honors all the men and women who have died in service to our country (not to be confused with Veteran's Day in November, which honors anyone, living or deceased, who has served in the Armed Forces).  Memorial Day began as a local tradition shortly after the Civil War, when loved ones would decorate the graves of deceased service members. It became known as Decoration Day, and eventually May 30th was reserved for the day of remembrance because flowers across the country would be blooming (although Colorado is making a strong case against that this year).  In 1971, Memorial Day was officially declared a national holiday. It remains the

No words can ever do today justice, so mine are few--except to say that you, dear families and souls, are not forgotten. Thirteen or fifty or a thousand years can't erase the significance or their worth. My feelings now more than ever echo those of past years, particularly last year: THE ACHE There is an inexpressible ache for  it  in our world- Etched into the walls of our nations Into the stark white of headstones And the cold steel of ebony bracelets Written into the stories of our hearts Our hearts so weighted Weighted with grief and limping forward on the shoulder of hope Waiting Waiting for the day when other nations Will also collapse at the foot of our graves in tears Run their fingers along the names etched in the walls Offer an embrace so telling that no language barrier could cloud its meaning Waiting For the day when we as a nation will deign to do the same When our tears will water their soil When our ears will open to their stories of tormen

The world feels so heavy right now. People, families, nations. Sickness, death, evil that reaches beyond all restraint. Each of them adding weight as the world bows under the heaviness of its collective suffering. Why, oh why, oh why do we suffer? Oh, how this age-old question haunts us. I doubt most of the time whether I am honestly "qualified" enough to ask it myself. I often debate with myself whether my garden-variety suffering is  really  suffering, with my series of mostly good days, happy moments, kid smiles to assuage the tantrums, and just an overall privileged, stable life. My heart often can't take the weight of the world and all its negativity and sorrows in contrast with my own rosy life. But if I'm honest with myself, I'm facing my own little battle. And it's one that gives me a slightly better glimpse of the bigger battles being waged all around me.  This summer has been, in a word, tiring. It's taken its physical and menta