This post was originally written on September 1, 2012, and appeared on my old website, kintzfactor.com.
Even typing those words seems like an alternate reality. Yet they’re the words that my doctor said to my parents after my surgery. “She will be able to live a healthy and pain-free life.” Those words shouldn’t make me afraid, but they do. Partly because they’re unknown to me. Because I’m not going to know what to do with myself and all my energy. One month without pain was always an anomaly. Months in a row without pain? Well, that seems like something out of a fairytale.
I’m also excited. For the first time in years, I can walk up stairs without my legs hurting or feeling like I’m going to faint. I can’t wait to get back to my spin class. I want to climb a 14er. I want to get back on the Incline. I want to go back to New York and walk around the entire city – reliving the past two trips I’ve already taken and discovered new things I’ve missed. I want to go to Cali and see dear friends and go to Disneyland. I want to roller skate.
I also want to remember how to rest well. Or learn what that looks like anyway. (Let’s face it, I don’t rest well, and this has undoubtedly been imposed upon me. And it was definitely needed.) I want to take advantage of the quite and the secret times to see what the Lord is showing me. I want to read great books. I want to sit and watch the breeze catch leaves and scatter them across the yard.
Finally, I want to make sure I take the time to bless my friends and minister & reach out to them the way they have to me in this difficult time. I want to bless my parents for keeping me alive and carrying me through. I wish that thank you sounded like enough. But it doesn’t. It seems so paltry and inadequate. To the people who have called, texted, emailed – your words of encouragement mean more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for letting me know you’re sharing in my journey.
To my friends who have visited, taken me out for dinner, made me laugh till I’ve cried (almost at the expense of my stitches), listened as I’ve cried and just simply been there – you are my family. And I can only hope I can be there for you the way you’ve been there for me. There’s no way words can ever express how deeply I love and appreciate every one of you.
And to my family – my sweet youngest sister (who nearly killed me one night in my hospital room), my amazing middle sister (who sent me the most gorgeous pair of orchids), my baby brother (who randomly comes in and hugs me and tells me he loves me (he’s 15… I think it’s a miracle)), and my parents who have stayed up with me, cried with me… made me dinner, hugged me and held me through all of this. I don’t know why God gave me such an amazing family. But I bless Him for it. Again, no words to describe how much I love you. How dear you are to me. But I hope you know that I love you and I am so very, very thankful for you.
I’m sure I’ll be encountering more emotions and dealing with more ideas and thoughts from this time in my life the farther I get away from it. But for now, I’m ending the story here. I hope you’ll continue to walk with me as I live my new life. As I hike those figurative and literal 14ers. As I meet new people. And as my life takes, what will inevitably be a very strange and twisty path. I’d love nothing more than to have you along with me for the ride.
Read #7 in the series: The Death of Me (Or What to Expect You Won’t Ever Be Expecting)