Do not be anxious...

Philippians 4:6 Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.

I like to think that typically I'm the one who does a pretty good job keeping it all together. I am a perpetual worrier, but a closeted one and so most of the time, despite the fact that I'm a nervous wreck on the inside I've usually got that calm cool pulled together look on the outside. Or at least I think so... *starts to worry if I look worried all the time*

The above verse has been my mantra for the last 2 years. Since the time when I was close to the end of my pregnancy with Emily, my worry quotient went through the roof. I couldn't help but stress out about any and everything. I chalked it up to my body being totally out of whack from all of the pregnancy hormones and believed that it would get better when I was no longer housing my adorable little spawn...this was not the case. Over the past 2 years my anxiety has multiplied exponentially. Sometimes it almost feels like I look for things to worry about, as if without that tension in my life I'm feeling somehow incomplete. Of course this is not a conscious search for stressors, but it happens.

The last few months have been a culmination of all things stress-worthy in my life, and after last night's 11 o'clock phone call, I might just have hit my limit, but I'll get back to that in a few minutes. Let's start at the beginning...3 months ago, my dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer with his throat being over 80% blocked by a tumor. This news hit us all with shock, and fear. My dad has always been over weight and had bad habits, but otherwise he's been a fairly healthy guy and now the big C!?! The first few weeks were the hardest as all of the information kept coming out, but he was positive, largely to save face for the rest of us. At any rate we're 3 months since the diagnosis and he's finished his chemo and radiation treatments and is awaiting surgery to remove the tumor (Currently scheduled for Dec 6th). At this point I should be happy, right? I should be optimistic that he's come through all of the treatment so well, but it's hard to sit back and watch your dad wither away. No matter how positive he is, no matter how much his attitude radiates optimism, I've still watched him drop 65 lbs, cringe in pain every time he tries to move across a room, fade to exhaustion from a stroll around a mall, lose his hair, and his teeth, and my heart breaks. I've tried to have meals with him where he winces with every attempt at swallowing. The burning in his throat is so excruciating that he's barely eating and now the surgeon is telling him without regaining some of his strength, surgery might not be possible and circumstances are only bound to get worse immediately following the surgery, before they'll get better. THIS IS MY DAD! I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM THIS WAY!! I'm still just that little girl who looks at her Daddy and believes that he's so strong, and indestructible, he can fix anything and has a gadget for just about any task. MY Daddy can't be sick, but I try to accept it. I try to trust in God and believe that it's all part of his plan...and then another bomb.

Just one month after my dad's diagnosis, Alex got hurt at work. He was moving an entertainment center to connect the wiring for the satellite when he experienced a blinding pain in his back and was put on light duty. Unfortunately during his time on light duty when he was working in the office, company changes and stress was at an all time high, and he got caught in the cross fire. After 2 months, 4 doctors and countless fights with the worker's comp insurance company the decision was finally that he'd have to deal with the pain and get back to work, as it was strictly a muscular issue. With our income seriously cinched and Alex still in lots of pain, he's back to work, but my anxiety makes me feel like I'm not pulling my weight financially, since I'm "just a stay at home mom," but we pray and we push on.

Earlier this week, my sister called me to tell me about the outing she'd had with our grandma. She discussed the deals they found the laughs they had, and then she got serious. Apparently mentally, my grandma is deteriorating. On what should have been a 5-10 minute drive to a store she goes to almost daily, she got lost 6 times! She called my sister by the wrong name and tried to take her "home" to my uncle's house. What is happening here!?! My grandma has always been mentally sharp and quick witted, she's the healthiest 82 year old I've ever met...or so I thought.

Then there was last night. After a pleasant evening of Biggest Loser, lots of laughs, and a delicious meal, we headed to bed only to be rattled by a call from my dad at 11. When I saw the caller ID, I was gripped with fear. Something had to be wrong. My dad hardly ever calls me, least of all at 11 pm! My mom was being taken to the hospital. Are you serious!?! This morning I found out that the diagnosis is Ileus, which can be a very minor or very serious condition. At this point they are optimistically saying it's minor and will improve with time. It doesn't look like there are any obstructions, and she should be fine in a day or 2, but when I heard that she was ill, all that I could think about is the old Italian superstition that deaths always come in 3s. One as a result of old age, one an illness, and one unexpected. Grandma Check. Dad Check. Mom Check. And so immediately, my worrying nature had me planning 3 funerals. So I went back to my verse. I read it and I try to believe it. I try to have faith. I try to relinquish control of the things that I have no control over and trust that God's plan is so much bigger and more perfect than my nature could ever comprehend, all the while trying to ignore the ever growing knot in my stomach and keep myself pulled together.