February 8th, was just like any other Tuesday. I woke up, went to work, changed some lives (maybe I’m exaggerating a bit there), and I came home. I had called Disney Vacation Club to reserve a hotel room for our last minute Disneyland trip on March 6th (we thought we were going for deaf awareness day- turns out this trip had a whole new meaning we’d be unaware of for another 2 weeks), but really hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. However, on this Tuesday, after working diligently for over a month with my trainer and focusing on my food choices, I decided to step on the scale and measure my progress. Little did I know that this tiny, miniscule action would trigger a stream of events that changed my life forever.
I have a lap band, which means that when everything is “working right” I *can* lose up to 1-2lb’s per week. So in my head I was expecting to see a drop of 6-10 lb’s when I stepped on the scale. Unfortunately I saw a drop of about 2lb’s. I was shocked, mortified, scared, angry, and well just flat pissed off. 2lb’s. 2lb’s. THAT is what I had been busting my bum for over a month for? Are you kidding me? We had pumped thousands of dollars into the trainer and I had forgone the deliciousness of breads, baked goods, and carbs for 2 stinking pounds?! “A” tried to console me telling me that I was looking much leaner, that my clothes were loser, and I was just building muscle at this point. Rational Jenn understands this. Rational Jenn knows that a metabolic shift is a healthy and important part of weight loss. However Rational Jenn was not the one making decisions at this point. Emotional Jenn kicked in and I just started balling. “A” being the amazing husband he is, started justifying my efforts and telling me how proud he was. He was doing all he could to stop my emotional breakdown. I finally looked at him and said, “No RE will care how much muscle I’ve gained, all they’ll see is a number”, to which he had no response (though I didn’t really give him time to respond). I grabbed my gym bag, and I left stormed out of the house, heading for my personal place of torture- Lifetime Fitness.
I literally worked my bum off for 2.5 hours. I worked the elliptical, the cross trainer, the treadmill and even did free weights. In my head all I could think was “I’ll show you (body of mine), I’ll show you”. In those 150 minutes I yelled and screamed at my body. I literally had an internal battle with my ovaries for being so craptastic that they couldn’t even do the one job they have. I cursed my knees for making it so difficult for me to get in a solid, high impact work out. I placed blame on every organ, limb, and hormone within my body that I could think of for putting A & I in this situation. At the end of my workout- I felt empowered (not in a good way, in the way I imagine a bully feels empowered after stealing someone’s lunch money). I had “stuck it” to my body and I was in charge. I marched out of the gym, large and in charge. I got into my car, turned on the radio- not paying to much attention as I was still riding my adrenaline high, and got on the interstate. It was there, in the solitude of my vehicle that I was given the harsh lesson I had been struggling with accepting- I was not in charge.
I’m not entirely sure what exactly triggered it, but I suddenly realized that no matter how much blame I wanted to place on my organs, limbs, and hormones there was a common thread to all of them- they were mine. I couldn’t blame those things without blaming myself.
God is amazing. He truly works in mysterious ways, and while He always insures we learn what we need to from Him, once we’ve fallen, He’s there to help us back up. In those few moments of solitude with nothing but the radio disc jokey, and asphalt under my tires I had quickly stumbled face planted in a dark place. Tears started streaming down my face and air escaped my lungs as I gasped trying to breathe. And then it happened. Chris Rice’s Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus) suddenly filled the confined space of my vehicle, and peace reigned over me. The Lord was speaking to me. It was in that moment that I knew- if I gave it to God, it would be okay. If I surrendered control, God would be faithful. He had things in store for me that I couldn’t even imagine, far better then my OCD, Type A, Control Freak mind had imagined. After beating myself up for 2.5 hours, searching for resolution and finality, I had found it in the solitude of my vehicle, or rather with Christ.
I came home, hugged “A”, and told him that I was done obsessing over it. He held me, wiped away my tears, and as he had done so many times before, gave me his promise that we would be parents, no matter what, we would be.
Little did either of us know just how true his promise would be.