The Gift of Pain - Chapter 8

To read Chapters 1-7 of My Story - The Gift of Pain, click on the links at right.


The next morning, when I woke up, I rolled over and slowly realized I had slept though the night for the first time since my surgery. The pain was almost completely gone. I go out of bed, lifted my arm and shouted to Steve. Suddenly, I realized what had happened. For over a month, my shoulder had been dislocated and the sudden jerk from my fall the night before had set it back in place!

I moved my arm back and forth, amazed at the freedom of movement and how much the pain was reduced. For the rest of the day I was ecstatic, feeling like a fog had lifted from my brain. That night we decided to go out for frozen yogurt. I was smiling and happy, so glad to be out of the house and feeling human once again.

An old friend stopped by while we were sitting around chatting. She reached down and hugged me. As she did so, I could feel my shoulder slip back out and the searing pain return. I sucked in my breath and quickly turned away. As I did so, my sister saw the expression on my face and asked if I was all right. Tears started streaming down my face as I shook my head. I quickly got up and went to the bathroom inside the store.

I could not stand the pain and moved my arm this way and that, trying to get it set back in place. I was absolutely panicked and finally, in desperation, smashed my shoulder against the concrete wall, praying for relief. That did it. The shoulder was reset but my pain was still intense.

We went to see the doctor the next day and I related all that had happened since my last visit. I clearly had more mobility but the doctor would not believe that my shoulder had been dislocated all that time. He was very skeptical and made a referral to an orthopedist specializing in shoulders. I begged for some way to keep my shoulder from slipping out again and they fitted me with a brace, but my shoulder felt extremely loose and vulnerable and I was terrified at the thought of it slipping out again.

Once again, I started the medical merry-go-round of doctor’s visits, x-rays, and tests, followed by more doctor’s visits and more elaborate x-rays. After a prolonged period and another incident with my shoulder slipping out of joint, it was finally revealed. I had indeed dislocated my shoulder and torn the rotator cuff. Something had happened in that surgical unit when I was unconscious and this was the result. To make matters worse, I had developed frozen shoulder.

The orthopedist said that my case was extremely unusual (not the first time I had heard that) because the dislocation occurred in a different place than normal. This made it hard to detect in the first round of x-rays. He prescribed physical therapy and referred me to a Chronic Pain Management program.  He mentioned the possibility of surgery to correct the torn rotator cuff.  Needles to say, I was not in any hurry to go back under the knife.

The short-term relief I had felt after my shoulder reset the first time was long gone and I was back in a foggy tunnel of pain. The medication I was taking provided negligible relief. I was sinking lower and lower every day. I never imagined I could endure such unrelenting agony.

One day, I lay on my bed, crying out to God, baring my soul. For some strange reason, the picture of a broken pencil was floating in my mind.

“God, I am of no use to anyone. I am useless, like the broken end of a pencil – chewed up, missing the eraser, with the tip broken off. I want to die. What can you possibly do with a broken person like me?”

I had never felt so low and I truly wished for death. I could not imagine continuing my life in such a pitiful condition. As I lay there, bemoaning my state, I heard God’s voice whisper quietly and sweetly to my spirit. At first I couldn’t understand it, but slowly these words started to seep into my heart.

“My child, you may be broken. You may be just like that little nub of a pencil, but I can take that broken nub, sharpen the tip and with it, I can draw a masterpiece or write a symphony. And my daughter, I don't need an eraser, because I never make mistakes.”

My dear friend, as I write this, I can barely read the screen as the tears pour down. Because I know that these words are meant for you also. You may be broken, you may feel chewed up. You may wonder how God could possibly ever use someone like you.

This is the beauty of real relationship with God. When we are at the end of ourselves, He is there…

I cannot promise you a life free from pain, or healed relationships and easy living. But this I know, beyond a shadow of doubt. You will not be alone on your journey. The Lord is that “friend who sticks closer than a brother”. There is a peace and joy that transcends mere happiness as you grow in relationship with Him. Accept the gift of His presence.

He has promised this, and it is a promise on which you can rely.
"Never will I leave you;
never will I forsake you."
Hebrews 13:5

Ever so slowly, the healing had begun, not just a physical healing, but the healing of my spirit.


The name of the LORD is a strong tower;
the righteous run to it and are safe.
Proverbs 18:10

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 7

To read chapters 1-6 of My Story – The Gift of Pain, click on the links at right.

I don’t know about you, but reading through this story again, I’m ready for it to be over! Stick with me. There are only a few chapters left.

This is not a happy story. It is also fairly one-sided. In spite of the pain and sickness of the past several years, I have 

• enjoyed my children and celebrated their achievements, 
• made new friends and savored time with old ones, 
• loved my husband and my family, 
• laughed with friends and relished the good times, 
• dug dipper into the Word and worshiped my Savior. 

With each new trial that has come our way, I have grown to rely on God more and more and for that, and all the other blessings He has given me, I thank Him.

I have set the LORD always before me;
Because He is at my right hand I shall not be moved.
Psalm 16:8 (NKJV)

As I lay in the outpatient recovery room, I began to feel the pain as the anesthetic wore off. Steve called over a nurse and she administered meds through my IV. They brought a small measure of relief but very quickly wore off.  He summoned the nurse again and explained that my level of pain was back to a '10'.  He asked if there was any way to relieve my suffering. Each time they administered drugs, the relief was negligible and the searing pain returned.

I mentioned that the pain also appeared to be coming from my left shoulder, but no one took notice and the afternoon dragged on. One by one, the other patients that were in the room for the same surgery were released to go home as they recovered suitably.

Finally, I was the only patient left, still in terrible pain, with no break in sight. The nurse, exasperated, said she had given me every form of pain meds available. If I needed anything stronger, I would need the doctor's approval.  They summoned the surgeon and he appeared. He was exhausted from a day of performing surgeries and a bit annoyed at being called. The nurse informed him of my pain level and their attempts to control it. "She says she's still at a 9 or 10. She wants something more. It doesn't make sense because we've given her high doses of meds all day and it doesn't appear to be helping at all."

"Give her whatever she needs, so she can go home," were the doctor's words. "She probably has a high tolerance to the medication since she's been dealing with chronic pain for years."  Finally, they administered straight morphine and my pain diminished to a dull roar. They finally felt I was stable enough and I was released to go home. By the time we arrived home, my pain had skyrocketed once again.

I had been taking Oxycontin for two months prior to my surgery, as my pain had escalated. Now, I increased my intake from every four hours to every two hours with morphine for breakthrough pain and still, I felt no real measure of relief.

This is where things get very foggy. The rest of the events, as I relate them in this chapter, are recalled to the best of my ability. I sat with Steve to help me remember how things transpired while I was in this black hole. It is still a blur, but I believe this is how things occurred.

Two days after surgery, Steve couldn't bear to see me in such agony and called the doctor's office to see if we could go in before my week follow-up appointment. He was reminded that the doctor was in Italy on vacation and we were scheduled to see him in two weeks, when he returned.  I had not slept since I got home from the hospital. I would drift off and awaken, sobbing with the pain. There was no position where I could find relief. I was literally overcome with mind-numbing pain, in my hand, my elbow and stabbing in my shoulder.

Within a couple days, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Steve called our own health provider and scheduled an appointment with the first doctor available. I had never seen her before and she really knew nothing of my condition prior to this, since it has been handled through Worker’s Comp. She was convinced that my pain was aggravated by depression, as I sat in her office like a zombie, barely able to raise my head or put two words together. She prescribed me an anti-depressant and scheduled me to see my regular doctor in a couple weeks.

I went to get my stitches removed, a week after surgery and the nurse asked me to turn my arm over so she could get at the stitches on the inside of my elbow. I could not raise or turn my arm and cried out every time she tried to manipulate it. She was very sympathetic and somewhat alarmed that I was still experiencing so much pain. She called in another doctor on duty to have him look at my arm.  Again, I expressed how the pain seemed to be focused on my shoulder more than the surgical sites. He had no answers for me and increased my Oxycontin intake significantly.

Finally, the surgeon returned and I went for my follow-up appointment. He was annoyed that I was still wearing my sling and said that I probably pulled a muscle in my shoulder when I was in surgery, because they had my hand over my head to get at the inside of my elbow. He insisted that I remove the sling and live without it, or I wouldn’t heal properly.

By this time I was on the highest dose of Oxycontin that the doctor could prescribe, taking it every 4-6 hours. I was taking morphine for break-through pain, anti-depressants, anti-seizure meds and God only knows what else.

I was drugged-up and messed up and begging for relief. I would lie in bed, crying and begging God to remove the pain or take me out of my misery. My prayers seemed to bounce off the ceiling. I moved from the bed to the sofa, constantly struggling to find a comfortable position, but there was none to be found. I prayed to die, since I knew I couldn’t continue to live like this.

Can't you see I'm black-and-blue,
beat up badly in bones and soul?
God, how long will it take
for you to let up?
I'm no good to you dead, am I?
I can't sing in your choir if I'm buried in some tomb!

I'm tired of all this—so tired. My bed
has been floating forty days and nights
On the flood of my tears.
My mattress is soaked, soggy with tears.
The sockets of my eyes are black holes;
nearly blind, I squint and grope.
Psalm 6: 2-3, 5-7 (MSG)

On July 4, I finally left the house. The whole family was going to my cousin’s house for a barbecue and fireworks and I didn’t want to disappoint the kids by staying home again. I knew I could escape to the back bedroom if things became unbearable.

I was walking across the family room when, suddenly, I tripped and fell forward. I reached with my right arm to catch myself on the coffee table. As I did so, I heard a loud pop and felt my shoulder jerk. I screamed in pain and thought, “I’ve done it now.” Whatever had been bothering my shoulder before, this certainly couldn’t be good.

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 6

For chapters 1-5 of My Story - The Gift of Pain, click on the links to the right.

Following Steve’s heart attack, it became apparent that one of us needed a job that provided health insurance, since this had become a major expense for us, maintaining independent health coverage.

Steve was growing stronger every day and his film and live event production business was flourishing. I looked for a job that would be flexible with the kid’s school schedules and provide me with the needed benefits.

Our oldest daughter had previously worked for a major coffee chain. She mentioned that they had full benefits for part-time employees so I went to her old store and applied for a job.

By this time, Ashley was attending Vanguard University in Costa Mesa and we had our two youngest still at home, in elementary school. Ashley had just returned from Costa Rica where she lived for a few years, working with missionary friends of ours and studying Spanish. What a privilege to see your child dedicated to service for God and others.

Anyway, enough mom bragging - back to the story. I got the job and I loved it! The benefits were amazing and they gave me exactly the shift I needed in order to be with the kids when they were home from school.

I admit, at first it was a real challenge, learning the customer’s names and their drink of choice, memorizing the various combinations, codes and products and standing through a full shift (I’m not as young as I used to be), but I came to love the interaction with our customers and looked forward to their bright smiles and the camaraderie of the other employees. There was never a dull moment, dealing with those cursed Frappuccinos, double tall half-caf no fat lattes and the occasional cranky customer.

After I had worked there for several months I asked the manager if I could train to be a barista, making drinks for the customers, instead of standing behind the register. I was trained to work the espresso machines and make drinks and rose to the challenge of creating the ‘perfect foam’. The time flew by and I was soon able to handle our busiest shifts on my own.

Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays arrived. The lines became longer and the pace more frenetic. I noticed a nagging pain in my right hand. I didn’t realize how physical this job would be, constantly carrying and lifting. I mentioned the pain to my fellow employees and they said I would eventually adjust to the physical aspects of the job.

We flew to Canada to be with Steve’s family for Christmas and I was certain that the much-needed rest would do the trick.

We had an amazing time with family, spending our Christmas at the Circle Square Ranch in Arden where the kids played endless games of 'Manhunt' through the empty dorm rooms, romped in the snow, rode horses and enjoyed being with their cousins. It was a wonderful break!

We came back in the New Year and I returned to work rested and refreshed. However, it was only a matter of hours before the pain returned and developed in my left hand as well.

I finally told my boss that I needed a referral to Worker’s Comp to deal with the pain. The assistant manager placed the referral and I went to see a doctor.

I cannot begin to describe the web of confusion and mismanagement that is called Worker’s Comp. I won’t go into all the boring details, but for over two years I went from doctor to specialist to therapist and back around again as they basically attempted to disprove my pain.

At first, my manager was very sympathetic, trying to give me lighter shifts and accommodating me when they could. It became impossible, however, as this job requires lifting on the part of every employee. When there is a line of customers out the door, there are three people working and something heavy needs to be moved or lifted, you just do it.

I encountered countless other people who were truly suffering and in pain, as I was, struggling to deal with the Worker’s Comp mess. They delayed treatment time and again, as my health continued to decline.

I got to the point where I had pain, tingling and numbness in both of my hands, along with pain in my elbows, my neck and my feet. It was constant. I couldn’t continue to work since my condition was deteriorating so rapidly. I finally had to secure the services of a lawyer, since they refused to address my pain and treat me appropriately.

I was diagnosed, misdiagnosed and re-diagnosed with a myriad of conditions, none that seemed to fit exactly what was going on in my body. Eventually, it was determined that I had carpal tunnel syndrome in both hands, a compressed disc in my neck and ulnar neuropathy, originating in my elbows. Lovely.

After endless wrangling with my employer and Worker’s Comp, I was finally scheduled for surgery, over three years after the pain began. As things had worsened on my left side, my right hand and elbow had improved, so I was scheduled for an ulnar nerve release on my elbow and open carpal tunnel release surgery on my left hand. There were no guarantees that it would work, but the odds were in my favor and all other treatments had failed. I was relieved to finally be facing the end of this journey and knew it couldn’t possibly be any worse.

In May 2009 I went to a hospital in Long Beach where they performed the required surgeries. I was there on an outpatient basis and when I came to, Steve was standing over me smiling. We could finally begin the healing process. I didn’t know, that day, that I would experience the worst pain of my life before the healing could begin.

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 5

To read Chapters 1-4 of My Story, click on the links at the right.

Before I continue this next chapter, I have a confession to make. I am feeling a bit squeamish about the title of my story "The Gift of Pain". When I began writing this, most of my pain was in the past.  It had settled to a dull roar and I felt that I had really learned some lessons that I could share. Unfortunately, the pain has returned and is increasing. Once you read the chapters dealing with my chronic pain (I promise, I will get there eventually), you will understand better why I do not want to return to those days of misery.

I have discovered that pain is a cruel master. Just when you think you have beat him back, he rears his ugly head trying to wrest control of your life once again. I guess, in some weird way, this is where the gift aspect comes in. I don’t know if I would have learned how desperately and completely I need the Lord’s presence in my life, were it not for the pain. I’m that stubborn and hard headed.  I just really wish I could learn this another way. 

Right now, I have to admit, I am praying for a reprieve. If you are looking to read a story that wraps up nicely, like the final five minutes of some mindless TV show, where everything is resolved and they all ride off into the sunset, then quit reading now.  

If you are a 'name it and claim it' Christian, this will not fit your theology.  I offer this alone, a firm and deep conviction that whether or not I am ever free of pain, God is who he says he is, he is worthy of my praise, and my life is in his hands.

"Since Jesus went through everything you're going through and more, learn to think like him. Think of your sufferings as a weaning from that old sinful habit of always expecting to get your own way. Then you'll be able to live out your days free to pursue what God wants instead of being tyrannized by what you want."  ^{1 Peter 4:1-2(MSG)}

Are you ready?….read on.

I will never forget the sight of my dear husband, lying in our bed while a dozen firemen and paramedics crowded into our room . It was surreal. I stood motionless at the end of the bed, until the phone rang. “Mommy, are you going to pick us up from school?” asked our daughter. “You’re late!” I put on my cheery mommy voice and said, “Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I got busy and forgot.  Someone will be there to pick you up in a minute.”

I asked my brother to get the kids from school and he left. The paramedics loaded Steve into the ambulance and told me I would need to follow in my car. I was alone and scared. I immediately called my parents but got their voice mail instead. I finally called my sister, living in Vancouver at the time, and burst into tears when she answered the phone. She prayed with me and reassured me that everything would be all right. God was in control.

I hung up the phone and sat in my car, unable to move. All at once, I felt a deep sense of peace settle over me like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I had never experienced anything so supernatural yet so very real. I dried my tears and headed to the hospital calmly. When I got there, I was directed to the emergency room where a dozen people were hooking up Steve to wires and monitors, asking a constant stream of questions. Their cheery demeanor and professionalism calmed me further. One of the doctors announced, “Congratulations Mr. Rutledge, you are having a heart attack.”

Before long, my parents arrived and rushed to my side. We were told that Steve would be going to the cath lab for further testing and I kissed his cheek as they whisked him away.

Over the next several hours the waiting room filled with family and friends as they came to support our daughter Ashley and me. Our youngest two spent the night at my brother’s house, oblivious to the drama at the hospital. I sat calmly in the waiting room, still sensing that “peace that passes understanding”.

After a while, the doctor came and gave us the news. While undergoing testing, Steve had gone into cardiogenic shock.  They almost lost him, but were able to start his heart again.  They implanted an external heart pump to stabilize him so he could survive  emergency coronary artery bypass surgery. The doctor stated, matter-of-fact, that if I hadn’t called 9-1-1 when I did, he would have died. I heard the doctor, but it was days later before the reality of the situation sank in. I signed the approval forms and we continued waiting.

As Steve tells it, one minute he was lying on the table looking at the heart monitor. All of a sudden… he saw it flat-line.

He looked from the monitor to the doctor and then passed out. The next thing he knew he was waking up from surgery. “I thought I died,” he says. When I woke up, everyone looked grim, telling me I had to have a double by-pass. All I could think was, I’m glad to be alive!”

He certainly wasn’t the only one that felt that way. We called friends and family with the good news, praising God for sparing Steve and for the quick actions of the paramedics and doctors.  We braced ourselves for the days of recovery ahead, as his parents booked their flights to come from Canada to be with us.

Let me ask you something, at this point? What is your greatest fear? What is that thing that keeps you awake at night or that you are certain you could never survive? For me, it had always been the possibility of my husband being hurt or injured. From the time we were married, I was certain that I would be widowed at a young age (that time has certainly passed!) I could not imagine how I would manage if I was left to cope with our lives alone. Maybe because we had been married very young and I had never really handled life on my own. Whatever the reason, it was a very real deep-seated fear of mine that I had never shared with anyone.

Now my fear had become a reality. He had survived the heart attack and the surgery, but he was incapacitated and would be so for some time. Being self-employed, we didn’t have sick days or disability insurance to fall back on. How long could we survive, I wondered?

I had a meager income selling my purses and a few things on ebay, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. Here is the amazing part. From that moment in the car, when I felt that peace come over me like a blanket, through Steve’s recovery, I never worried. This is not normal behavior for me. I know it was God’s presence reassuring me that he would care for me when Steve could not.

Many days I would look at our circumstances and say to myself, “Today, the bills are paid, the children are healthy and Steve is alive. That is enough. Tomorrow is another day and it’s in God’s hands.” I took it one day at a time, some days, one hour at a time.

So many dear friends and family held us up through that time, with their prayers, encouragement, presence and financial support. We could never repay them all for being there for us at such a critical time.

Steve recovered quickly and was soon feeling better than he had in years. We had survived another major crisis. Certainly now we would get a break.  We enjoyed a period of relative health and prosperity where we breathed a little easier, but for me personally, the worst was yet to come...


" There is no room in love for fear. Well-formed love banishes fear. Since fear is crippling, a fearful life—fear of death, fear of judgment—is one not yet fully formed in love."  ^{1 John 4:18 (MSG)}

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 4

For Chapters 1-3 of My Story - The Gift of Pain, click on the link at the right.


Finally, I had been seizure-free for six months and I headed to the DMV to renew my license. I was heady with excitement and talked for days about all the places I would go when I once again had my independence.

I filled out the forms, and handed them over with a smile. My joy was short-lived when I was denied my renewal because of forms that had been incorrectly submitted by my doctor. I felt so desperate that I literally stood at the counter of the DMV sobbing and begging. The lady apologized and said her hands were tied. I would have to return once my paperwork was in order.

Another four months passed. I filled out forms, received doctor’s clearances and jumped through hoops. Finally, on July 16, 2004, I took the written test for the State of California Department of Motor Vehicles and I passed! The huge smile on my driver’s license said it all. I had my freedom back.

When I drove the car home, my family was waiting at the curb for my arrival.  My children and family wept with me, thanking God for answered prayers.  That evening I got in the car by myself, cranked up the stereo and drove for hours along the California coast. It was truly one of the happiest days of my life.

I decided to have a celebration party. Steve said he would cook and asked how many people to expect. I told him around thirty and started calling everyone I knew. That Saturday, we threw a party. At the final count, eighty people showed up to celebrate with us.

I had them take the written test for the DMV to see how many of them would pass.  Trust me, it's harder than you think!  I studied hard to pass that sucker.  I wanted to take the time to thank God for his healing and thank my family and friends for their support and prayers. I would not have made it those years without them. Little did I know how much I would lean on their support and prayers in the years that followed.

(Yes!  These are all their children, with a few missing!  We miss you Pryer Family!)

At the time, my brother-in-law owned a vintage VW Beetle. I had my friends pose in the car as a memento of that incredible day. I know the pictures are grainy and everyone looks a bit creepy with red-eye, but these pictures make me smile.

Life returned to normal, with my seizures in check, and I began to enjoy life more than ever. I started up a small purse design business, named Jenny and Lucille (the precursor to Jenny and Pearl) with my dear friend Doneanne.

Doneanne is one of the most creative people I have ever met and it was such a joy working with her. (Congrats to you, dear friend and your handsome hubby as you look forward to baby #4!)

Every week we would load up the van with our pop-up tent, tables, and product and head to the Huntington Beach Pier for the weekly craft show.  We loved coming up with new designs and the feedback from our customers at home parties and boutiques was very rewarding.  That period of time was a wonderful reprieve and shored me up for the challenges ahead.

Steve had been suffering from pain and pressure in his left arm for a while. We weren’t too concerned but took him to the doctor to have it checked out. They did some blood work and had him run a stress test. Everything came back normal and they sent him home, saying it was a touch of the flu or a pulled muscle.

Thursday, January 12, 2006 was a beautiful sunny day. I was out shopping when my brother called, asking if he could pop by our house to pick oranges off the tree. I told him I would meet him there and in the early afternoon I pulled up to the house, surprised to see Steve’s car in the driveway.

I went in the house and found Steve lying in bed. He was sweating profusely. I was immediately concerned and told him we needed to get him to the doctor.   He argued with me, claiming they would just send him home again like they had previously. All he wanted to do was take a nap, certain he would feel better when he woke up.  My brother and I stepped out and talked about Steve's condition. Something just wasn’t ‘right’ and we agreed that, if Steve wouldn’t go to the doctor, we needed to call 9-1-1.

Back in our room, Steve was struggling to breathe. I grabbed the phone and dialed emergency. Thankfully, there is a fire station just a stone’s throw from our house and within seconds, I could hear the siren in the distance.

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 3

To read Chapters 1 & 2 of My Story - The Gift of Pain, click on the link at the right.

Months turned into years, as my neurologist worked diligently to pinpoint the source of my seizures and find a medication that would halt them. I was blessed to have an incredible neurologist. I know it was God’s provision for me at a time when I felt little hope. Not only was he a top neurologist, he was an epileptologist. Dr. Sirichai Chayasirisobhon, known as Dr. Chaya, is an incredible man, a devoted Christian from Thailand and tops in the field of epilepsy research and treatment.

We discovered that Dr. Chaya had come to faith in Christ at a church in Thailand that was planted by the Stone Church in Toronto, while my dad pastored there over twenty years previous to this time.  What an incredible 'God connection', for my heavenly Father to be preparing this man, while I was just a child, to minister to me all these years later.   

The first few times I visited Dr. Chaya, I struggled to understand his heavily accented English but from the very beginning it was clear that he was on my side and would not rest until I was well. He never said, “We may not find a solution” only “it may take time”.

We still laugh about the time I asked Dr Chaya if there were any dietary restrictions that I needed to be aware of and specifically, if I should give up drinking coffee.

He looked at me and very seriously said, “You must have quality of life”. He reassured me that I didn’t need to give up coffee along with everything else I had lost. To this day, I will pick up a cup of java, breathe in the delicious aroma and repeat, “I must have quality of life”.

While Dr Chaya and his staff encouraged me, I encountered other doctors who were less than stellar. One particular doctor spoke words that crushed my spirit.

I went to the Kaiser Los Angeles facility for a full day of neuro-psychological testing. On the way there I had a seizure and was dreading a day of endless questioning. For over six hours I underwent a battery of tests and evaluations. Several of these tests were to measure IQ. As I took the tests, some of the clinicians told me that I was doing exceptionally well. I thought nothing of it and went home exhausted.

A week later Steve and I went back to LA to discuss the results of the tests with a doctor I had never seen before. He was an esteemed neurologist and from the beginning of our session was arrogant and condescending. Anybody who has suffered from a long-term illness knows how vulnerable you become to words that are spoken while you are in such a fragile state.

We went through the test results and he informed me that one of the things they had discovered was that I had an exceptionally high IQ. The doctor then proceeded to ask me a series of bizarre questions.

“Were you the victim of sexual abuse as a child?”

“Have you ever been a victim of violence?”

I replied, “No” to all his questions, but he wasn’t satisfied. He persisted, asking the questions again, rephrasing them and repeating them. I assured him that I had never been the victim of any violent act, wondering what on earth he was getting at. Steve sat beside me, puzzled by his questions.

After half an hour or more, the doctor stated with conviction, that I was the victim of some violent or traumatic act. In his (not so humble) opinion, I was repressing this memory. I stared at him in disbelief as he continued on, insisting that this was the cause of my seizures and I must dig deep into my psyche to uncover the root. At the core of his insistence was my high IQ, a sure indicator, he said, of someone with repressed memories (not true, I later discovered).

I left his office dazed and confused. For the few weeks my mind was in an uproar. These were some of the convoluted thoughts that raced through my head, day in and day out.

“I know I’m not the victim of abuse. I’ve never been abused in my life.”

“But…if I was abused and had repressed it, how would I know.”

“Maybe I am a victim and I just don’t know.”

“If I am a victim, who abused me?”

I repeated these questions, and others, over and over in my head. I lay there, picturing in my mind every loved one and acquaintance from my childhood, imagining them as perpetrators of some horrible crime against me. It was driving me mad.

The other aspect of the doctor’s report that I found troublesome was the issue of my IQ. My mind was so muddled from endless seizures that I found it difficult to read or focus on anything.

“What a waste of a brain!” I despaired. “What have I ever done with my life?” “I wish he had never told me.”

I plummeted deep into depression, certain that I was abused, useless and possibly crazy.

Finally, one day, Steve had enough. After listening to me rail on with my confused questioning, he looked me in the eye and said, “Karen, who is the author of fear?”

“I know, but…” I started to argue.

“Who is the author of confusion?” he asked again.

“The enemy – Satan” I hesitantly replied.

“Who is the author of peace and a sound mind?”

“God, my heavenly Father”, I meekly replied.

“This doctor has spoken confusion and fear into your mind, without offering you hope. You need to let it go, focus on God and accept his healing for you.” Steve continued reassuring me and read to me Scriptures of hope and healing.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
2 Timothy 1:7

At my monthly appointment with Dr. Chaya, I related to him, in a panic, what the other doctor had said. With love, Dr. Chaya responded that he did not feel like I exhibited any of the symptoms of someone associated with repressed memories – self-destructive behavior and sexual promiscuity. He also stated that there was a great deal of controversy on this subject overall. He reassured me that we would find a cure for my seizures and to trust God to help in the meantime.

Slowly, I began to let it go, stop the questioning and believe for my healing. There were days that I could believe, but many days of deep, dark despair. I kept very few records of those years but recently found a journal with a few entries that summed up my feelings.

“This morning when I went forward for prayer I just felt like it’s a waste of time. I don’t believe I’m going to be healed and I don’t hold out much hope with the doctors either. I just see an endless horizon of seizures and sickness – living half a life as half of a person.  My short-term memory and my ability to concentrate are decreasing. Some days I can barely remember or process anything…I feel so out of control. Everything is spinning away and I can’t stop it.”

On September 11, 2003, I started taking Topomax, the seventh different seizure medication I was prescribed. That was the beginning of my slow road to recovery. It was a fairly new medication at that time, but trials had shown it to be successful in halting seizures with few side effects. Other medications had caused heart palpitations, sleeplessness, depression and a myriad of other unwanted symptoms.

Days passed without a seizure, then weeks and before long I had been seizure-free for months. I held my breath and continued to pray that this would be the remedy I had been praying for.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 2

It is amazing to me that, as soon as I decide to share my story and the lessons I have learned, I find myself again battling pain.  The past three days have been low.  I have even debated whether or not I should continue telling my story.  There isn't a neat and tidy bow to tie at the end.  After a few days of soul-searching I have decided to continue - so, here it is.  I am a work in progress.

Years of uncertainty about my health led to a crisis and made me determined to get to the bottom of my health issues. After a terrifying incident behind the wheel of our car, I vowed to find the answers I needed. I told Steve that I would not drive again, until a doctor could tell me what was wrong. Little did I know, when I uttered those words, that it would be over four years before I would get back behind the wheel of a car.

The day after the frightening episode in the car, I showed up at the doctor’s office without an appointment, and insisted that I needed to see someone immediately. After some time I finally got in to see the doctor. I related to him how I was feeling and the specifics of my incident the day before. He asked me, “Do you ever space out and lose track of time?” “No!” I said, annoyed at him for asking me. “Yes, she does” Steve responded. I looked at him in disbelief. “I do not!”

Steve insisted that I did. I looked at the doctor, then back at Steve, hurt by what he was saying. “Why did you never mention this before?”  “I didn’t want to make you feel bad” was his response. I sat there, dumbfounded, as the doctor questioned Steve further. He asked him what my behavior was like when these incidents occurred, how often it happened and for how long. After speaking for a few more minutes, the doctor turned and looked at me. “Karen, I believe you are having seizures. You cannot drive anymore until you see a neurologist. I will make a referral right away.”

The impact of his words hit me like a punch to the face. I looked out the window and, watching the cars drive by, thought, “This can’t be happening to me. What is going on? What does this mean? How will I survive without driving?” The rest of his words were a blur. We walked out of his office and I wept the whole way home.

For the next several months, my life was an unending series of tests and doctor’s visits – EKGs, EEGs, CAT scans, SPECT scans and more. I was diagnosed with epilepsy and my license was suspended. They said I was experiencing partial complex seizures.  The neurons in my brain were misfiring.

The seizures increased in frequency and intensity. My health deteriorated rapidly and before long, I could no longer hold down a job, drive a car or care properly for my family. I was afraid to leave the house, for fear of having a seizure in public.

To the untrained eye, my seizures were not obvious. I could sense when they were coming as the left side of my face and body would grow numb and tingle. If I immediately lay down, the seizures were short and less intense, but the more stressed, hungry or tired I was, the more intense my seizures would become. I would lay my head down, or lean back in my chair and feel this sensation come over me. I could barely move, couldn’t speak and would wait for it to pass.

Shortly after my seizures began, I had another health scare.

One day, while visiting my sister, I was gripped so strongly with pain that I couldn’t stand and could hardly speak. I had suffered with this pain before but not with this intensity. My sister raced me to the emergency room. The ob/gyn doctor on call that day was one of the top doctors in his field. After examining me, he informed me that I needed a hysterectomy and I had to have it as soon as possible.

Because of my symptoms and the length of time I had them, he was concerned that the large tumor within me might be advanced ovarian cancer. Within 24 hours they had me scheduled for surgery. I lay there, prepped for surgery. A doctor I had never met before walked into the room and introduced himself to Steve and me. He smiled and said he was the oncologist and was on hand “just in case”.  Worst-case scenarios reeled through my mind.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from the words of my groaning?


O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, and am not silent.


Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the praise of Israel.
Psalm 22:12 (MSG)

What a flood of relief, when I woke up in the recovery room and saw a huge smile on Steve’s face. “You’re fine. The tumor was benign,” he said. They had also performed an appendectomy as my appendix appeared as though it was about to rupture.

I wept with relief.

In the meantime, my seizures continued. They didn’t last long, but the impact was incredible. Following a seizure I would feel exhausted, like I had run a marathon, and often felt very emotional. Because I was unable to drive, I had to ask for rides to the doctors or the store. Family and friends became my taxi service. The helplessness of my situation overwhelmed me. Looking back on it now, I realize how selflessly these loved ones cared for me – driving me, helping with the kids, cooking meals, praying and just being there. I am humbled when I think of their generosity and love.

There is one particular incident that sent me plummeting into despair. I was lying on the sofa when I felt a seizure coming on. My son (only four years old at the time) came in the room as I lay there. He called my name repeatedly and tugged at me to respond. I could hear him, but could not speak. My six-year-old daughter came behind him.

“Mommy’s not answering me", Sam told her. A few seconds passed. Rachel called my name. When I didn’t respond, I heard her turn to her brother and say, “I think she’s dead”. They both climbed on top of me and sat silently. Slowly, I recovered and reached up, pulling them close to me. I lay there and wept - utterly helpless to comfort them. I couldn’t bear to see the fear in my children’s eyes and wondered if God had abandoned me in my despair.

It would take some time for me to discover the truth. God was holding my hand through this journey, but the journey wasn’t over yet.  I would need to grip his hand firmly.

In my distress I called upon the LORD, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears.
Psalm 18:6

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 1

We cannot escape pain. It is a fact of life as certain as death and taxes. We may avoid it for a while. We may deny it for a period. But we cannot escape it forever.

My first experiences with pain were mild. I stubbed my toes, scraped my knees and fell off my bike, like every other child, my own included.  But usually, a soothing word, a caress and a band-aid and the injury was quickly forgotten. Okay, I just lied there. The truth is, I would scream bloody murder for an hour and a half and then I would get over it!  (So that's where my kids get it from.)

I had occasional trips to the emergency room for stitches and the typical growing pains of youth. As an adult, I seemed to gain more grace but, on occasion, would twist an ankle or bruise a shin. I gave birth to three beautiful children and experienced all the sickness, pain and utter joy associated with childbirth.

All of these experiences with pain were eclipsed, however, in the past several years, as I discovered the unrelenting cruelty of sickness and suffering.

For some time now, I have been compelled to tell my story.  The facts are often ugly and grim. I questioned whether or not mine was a story that people would desire to read and if it was self-indulgent.

Recently, I had two specific incidents that prompted me to take the leap and bare a bit of my soul.  Two different friends, on separate occasions,  said, “You need to share what you have been through."  One friend knows a fair bit of my story, the other, very little. Their words have stuck in my mind like gum on the bottom of my shoe, and I can’t get them off.  So, I have decided to take a risk and let you into my private world of chronic pain, shattered dreams, renewed hope and joy. This story will take a while. It is still often hard to relive. There are tears in my eyes as I write this. But, as the Swedish Proverb says, “Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow”.

This journey began approximately ten years ago. At that time, I was working full-time as the secretary of the Christian school where my two youngest children attended. Our oldest daughter was at the end of her high school years, looking ahead to college.

I had a particularly difficult labor with our youngest child and never felt like I really bounced back. At work, I was not as sharp as I once was, often distracted and overwhelmed.   I was told it was just the stress of parenting three children, working full-time and dealing with life.  However, one day my husband’s cousin made a remark that made me think there may be more to the way I was feeling.

Jon and I had worked in the same office a few years previous to this time and he commented to Steve, “Remember how sharp Karen used to be. She was type A and could multi-task better than anyone I knew."  Turning to me he said, “You’re just not the same anymore."

Now, I know that this sounds like an unusual thing for somebody to say and it really annoyed my husband. He felt that it was unkind and told Jon in no uncertain terms.  I, on the other hand, felt like there was finally somebody who acknowledged how I had been feeling for some time – dull, slow and just generally out of whack.

For months I had questioned Steve, my mom, my sister and friends, “Do you notice how different I am? I’m just not the same. Something is wrong. Do you see it?” One by one they had reassured me that I seemed normal and that I was probably just tired - not to worry.

I told the doctor how I was feeling and they ran some blood work and ordered an EKG, but everything appeared fine - "probably just hormones" (a doctor's favorite go-to line).

All that changed on Thanksgiving Day, 2001.  We had a great time at Grandma and Poppa’s house, ate too much turkey and were driving home, just over a mile away.  Steve had gone ahead with our oldest in one car and I was a few minutes behind with the youngest two in their car seats.  As I was driving down the hill from my parent’s house I had this strange feeling come over me.  I wasn’t sure what to do with the car.  It took me a few seconds to orient myself to where I was and it scared me.

I pulled over to the side of the road, my mind in an uproar.  “Mom, what are you doing? Why did we stop?” the kids questioned.  At first I couldn’t speak, but eventually told them that I wasn’t feeling well and needed to rest before we could go on.  In my mind I was thinking, “What is wrong with me? I can’t drive any further. Maybe my sister will come along soon and see me here.”

Several more minutes passed and nobody drove by.  I got my bearings and continued on home.  When I walked in the door, Steve could tell something had happened.  I looked at him and said, “I am not getting back in that car again until somebody tells me what is wrong. I’m going to the doctor tomorrow and I am staying there until I get some answers!”   I was truly terrified.

This was the beginning of my journey through sickness, pain and strengthened faith.  It is a journey that I am still traveling.  I don't know how to share it briefly, so I will continue to share my story over the next several weeks.  I earnestly pray that somehow, when you read it, you will be encouraged to persevere through your own journey, however painful that may be. My purpose in this is not to glorify myself or garner your pity, but to bring glory to the One who was, “despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.” Isaiah 53:3 NIV

You will discover how I can truly say, I thank God for the "gift of pain".