health

STOP

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

STOP

2019 was the year I lost my best friend, my dog Jude.
I lost my father-in-law to complications of heart disease and cancer.
And I had a heart attack.

Those three things have been devastating. They’ve been heavy. They’ve been lingering. But those three things have also taught me. They’ve taught me that it’s ok to stop.

It’s ok to stop and cry.
It’s ok to stop and let go.
It’s ok to stop and grieve.
It’s ok to stop and ask for help.
It’s ok to stop and slow down.
It’s ok to stop doing it on your own and seek professional help.

And it’s ok to stop running.

That last one has some extra weight to it because running for me means a lot of different things. I run from my emotions. I run from my pain. I run from chaos. And I run, literally. Or at least, I have.

For the past 10 years, I’d say at least four days a week I’d lace up my running shoes and crank out miles. There were times I enjoyed it. There were times I used it to connect with God. There were times it was life-giving. But there were also times I did it just because I felt like I had to.

But then, on a run one day I started having crazy symptoms and ended up having a heart attack later that day. I literally had to stop running because I couldn’t continue. Then, after surgery, I had to give my body time to rest.

As of today, I haven’t run for three and a half months. While my emotions are mixed about it, the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s ok. For years I was afraid to stop running. I was afraid I would lose the strength I had gained. I was afraid I’d gain weight. I was afraid I’d slide backwards.

So I kept pushing and pushing and pushing, until I couldn’t anymore. I was forced to stop and when I did I realized that, sometimes, stopping can be a good thing. In fact, it can be a great thing.

I needed to stop running to reconnect with my enjoyment of slowing down and just being outside.
I needed to stop running from my emotions and grief and cry as often and as long as necessary.
I needed to stop trying to fix the pain my husband and I were feeling and just accept it.
I needed to stop and reasses my life and what I wanted (and want) it to look like.
And so that’s what I’m doing. I’ve decided that I want 2020 to be a year marked by rest. Not sitting on the couch, scrolling through Instagram kind of rest, but true, deep rest.

I don’t know exactly what it will look like, but I think it will include more walks, more reading, more journaling, more praying, more slowing down, more yoga, more quiet time with God, more acceptance, and more discovering joy.

After last year, that sounds pretty darned amazing.

83

/ jessicaivaska / 12 Comments

photo-1516967124798-10656f7dca28

Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.

BEDSIDE MANNER

/ jessicaivaska / Leave a comment

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.