Why I Started Seeking

Chronic pain had already played a part in my life before I had conceived Weston.

I had all the symptoms that pointed to the label, fibromyalgia.

This was nine years ago. If you googled fibromyalgia even five years ago the explanation would be something simple like, “An Underactive Nerve Condition”.

With that limited information, any chance for recovery looked bleak.

The explanation at the time, wasn’t helpful—for anyone. It didn’t give a reason for the illness nor did the prognosis give any glimpse of hope.

As I visited with my compassionate care-giver Melissa, in the doctor’s office, nine years ago, we discussed what my life would look like with fibromyalgia pain, and low immune system function.

As she was reviewing the results of my blood work, she asked if I was pregnant. She could tell from reading the blood work that my menstrual cycle was late. When she asked, I told her, “No”. We had tried to conceive, but it hadn’t happened yet.

She replied, “Please don’t get pregnant right now, we need to take care of your body and get it healthy again before you have another child.”

The biggest news I received from the blood work results that day, was that I had two different variations of the MTHFR gene mutation, which isn’t helpful for the functioning of the body. (At a basic level, with this gene mutation the body isn’t able to break down folate so it can utilize it in it’s broken down form.)

Folate is a crucial vitamin needed during the formation process of DNA. I needed Melissa’s help before conceiving again, so I could find the right vitamin and mineral balance to grown a healthy and developed child!!

I left my visit, not knowing what would happen next.

The next week changed my plan of action!

While I was swimming outside, at the local waterpark, a wave of nausea hit me. This was my second pregnancy so I had felt this intense disgust before.

I was pregnant—I knew it.

It was too late to follow Mellisa’s lead to take care of my body before conceiving our second child.

I didn’t visit Melissa again until after Weston was born.

The Beginning of My Health Journey

Six weeks after giving birth to Weston the metaphorical large-gray storm clouds started moving in.

My head felt so heavy. The only description that I had was, “It feels like rocks sitting on my eyeballs”.

I began the pregnancy with a healthy thyroid, but now had an under-active thyroid. I literally couldn’t move without convincing my feet that it was a good idea.

I was so weighed down and discouraged. The loss-of-energy heaviness left me dragging my body around the house as I cared for my baby.

At the same time all of this began I also felt that I had a blood sugar imbalance. The label for my specific imbalance was called Reactive Hypoglycemia. At a physical level it meant I would eat, and get a headache as a result of high blood sugar, and then about a half hour after eating—the hero, the pancreas kicks in and says, “I’ll send insulin to the rescue!!!” And it secretes insulin into the blood, resulting in a blood sugar crash, because the insulin kicked in late. This left my body feeling sluggish and the head swimming.

There isn’t a medication to take for this condition. What it initially meant was NO sugar for me. It was a serious health risk if I ate sugar with delayed pancreatic support.

AND I was still dealing with the chronic pain and muscle soreness. I remember the day when I was laying in bed, my family was at home, but I felt sick, lazy, lethargic, isolated and alone. That dark day I relented because of my disease.

I knew that my diet had to change.

Diet Was The First Thing to Explore

Chronic illness is an interesting thing to navigate. There is always a feeling that you would love to feel well, and you fear that you will never feel well.

You enter each day wondering when you will wind up in the stair well in tears. Or wondering if you can even drive because your neck was kinked from the night before.

Through my eleven years of trying to figure out my own chronic illness, I have met others in a similar health crisis that I have found myself in. Every case is unique, and the fears that each individual wakes up with each morning varies.

For me, in my situation, I knew that my diet had to change. This is the first thing that I started to address.

There wasn’t a prescription medication that I could take to help my blood sugar condition (At this time, I was taking synthetic thyroid, for my thyroid condition.)

My goal was to get my blood sugar under control.

The summer of 2015, I was caring for a new baby, and I was thrown into the learning curve of how to save my body!

I was rapidly loosing weight. I was a nervous wreck, literally!!

The health of my body was so depleting rapidly and my muscles started to shrink. This put a lot of stress on the tendons.

AND I couldn’t just quit life. There was a baby and a toddler to take care of. Basic movements were necessary!

That same summer, at the end of July, my Grandpa died. My health was compromised and I had inundated myself with holistic health reading materials. My study lead me to diets that could possibly be helpful for reducing inflammation and diets specifically to help the symptoms of fibromyalgia.

As I read, the idea was drilled in that sugar leads to inflammation.

And inflammation was most likely the root cause of my disease.

During this learning-curve period of time, I went back home for my maternal grandpa’s funeral. I loved this man, I was often by his side at the family ranch or in his home.

He had been at all my home sports games watching me play. I grew up in a small town and he regularly took me to “the city” on family trips.

The weekend of his funeral we stayed at my parent’s house. My mom’s younger brother’s home was designated the gathering house. We ended up at his place over and over again for meals or to visit with extended family.

Following cultural norms, love came in the form of food!

The first day I was at my uncle’s home I saw well-meaning people come with sheet pans of rice crispy treats. Full-sized boxes of cookies. Pans and bags full of dinner rolls. Pans of cinnamon rolls. With my sick body and my inundated mind, I only saw SUGAR flood in those doors in the form of “white carbs”.

My uncle has a large kitchen with an eight to ten foot counter top. The counter was covered in mostly white foods, including a dozen different deserts. And there was probably some ham.

I remember a swarm of family members lining the bar serving food over the countertop, one by one. I’m standing and witnessing the scene, questioning—Can’t anybody see what I am seeing? Is nobody questioning what I am witnessing?

My anxiety was high already, but it was almost an out-of-body numbing feeling. The experience was isolating and completely draining.

On day number two of the gathering (again at my uncle’s house—around the same counter top) a loving friend of my grandpa’s, made the extended family dinner. He made fry bread (which is like an American scones) and brought everything for Navajo tacos. I ate some chili beans that were available. My blood sugar rose—then crashed.

It was so low I ended up leaving the house (with my husband) through an anxiety puddle of tears. I literally could not eat anything available.

At my parent’s home a neighbor brought over a bowl of cooked crooked neck squash. She had melted cheddar cheese all over it. It was steaming and looked rich and gooey.

It was such an amazing gift, but I chose not to eat any because of the cheese.

I chose not to because I was breast feeding Weston. He was five months old, and it had been clear to me, for his sake and the sake of his health, that should quit eating dairy. He had such incredibly bad eczema.

I misjudged what I thought I could handle.

I thought I could be part of my family and be close to them, but I was sifting and mourning, as I continued the biggest learning curve of my life.

My insides were screaming that weekend—flashing massive red signs! Indicators to STOP—but stop what?

What I didn’t know at the time, but I know now—it was all too much.

Deep down inside I wanted to die. The pain was killing me inside.

Through the sensations I was receiving from the tension in my body, and seeing all of the sugar being consumed, all the anxiety was saying was POISON, I’ve been poisoned and they are all POISONING THEIR BODIES!

I’ve created my disease by eating this way! Why is this the social norm? It was obsessive but it was also an involuntary reaction. I wasn’t thinking clearly and I was debilitated because of my reality.

It Gets Worse…

After that weekend I remember telling my mom, who had just lost her father, that he ate himself to his death.

(I apologized later.)

My grandpa really did love a good treat! His eyes sparkled while eating desert.

I apologized because I realized how REACTIVE I had become during my personal health crisis!

I recognize this was my way of dealing with my pain—angering out! It was a way of me handling frustration that I couldn’t explain.

To tell you the truth, I don’t remember eating during that weekend stay, except for the bowl of chili beans. I’m sure I had to, but I was so confused with what I should be eating.

The other sad, but hard truth was I don’t remember the funeral at all. I remember where I sat in the church. Other than that I don’t remember anything said. I was so consumed with my inner grief.

I knew seeing food as POISON was the begging of an eating disorder.

As soon as I went home I started looking for a mental-health therapist. I kept going therapy shopping until I was pointed to a therapist that specialized in grief and loss.

Becky was gentle with me and listened to my grief. She was a stepping stone in my therapy journey.

It was clear to me when I started therapy that an eating disorder wasn’t the screaming issue (although it got me in the door). I soon discovered that it was my time to mourn.

Mourn this body that wasn’t working. Mourn letting go of the food that I had been accustomed to. Mourn that my marriage wasn’t working out the way that I envisioned it to be. (Same with parenting. It was so NOT what I had expected.)

I was in pain, and my body was shrinking and I had no idea what to do.

The Awakening…Understanding Intention

This story is the beginning of my SCRAMBLED mess! Obsession and reaction were cues that I had no idea what to do. The clouds of isolation were clearing as I entered my next phase of healing. The first person that I could see was my baby.

If I’m going to live, I’m going to do it for my baby and allow him to have a mother by his side.

I used my agency (or personal choice) and chose my Purpose to be:

• Raise my baby (and the 3 year old as well).

The next step I took was adapting to Weston’s needs.

• Change the way I eat. Let Weston’s health condition guide the way.

Weston’s skin was peeling. It was apparent that a rash had formed covering him from his head to his feet. As I ate, breast fed, then observed him, I watched intentionally to see if his skin would flare up, or not. I was eating a Paleo Diet faithfully from the time his was six months up until he was one. He seemed to do better if I ate this way.

If I ate avocados he would usually get a rash, so I didn’t eat them.

He was mildly allergic to eggs (according to the allergist I saw). I cut out eggs.

When he started eating table foods he ate what I ate. Around his eight month mark is when he started to eat table foods easily.

He liked everything except green beans! He hated green beans, and his body hated them too! They would come out the other end quickly (within hours of eating them)! Through observation and trust we gathered clues!

Thirdly, I took this time to really connect with baby Weston:

• I received all of Weston’s smiles.

I cherished the days I had with him. He smiled every time I set him down. He was easier to have (then not to have) because helped the whole family to smile. He would laugh when I put him to bed. (I wish that was still the case!! He’s eight years old now.)

I still had a long way to go. Years of experimenting ahead. Pain and suffering that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but I was taking steps. The first steps focused on my purpose, and at the time HE was at the top of my list. For that phase of my life, he kept me going.

Conclusion

I always share this story with hesitation, because I never want my children to think my illness was caused by them. I believe that my illness became worse after having Weston, because I had some lessons to learn. I was 27 when I had Weston, and 28 years old when I first went to therapy, consistently.

I have discovered the cause of the disease. It isn’t a simple explanation, so I will continue to write until I have my process of healing written down. It is a process that has taken me eight years to uncover.

I am proud to say that my symptoms have improved, and I am almost to a healthy weight!

More of my story is recorded in this post:

Broadening My Perspective Around Health

If you have connected with my chronic illness story in any way, please share more of your story in the comments below!

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Lots of Love on as you begin to uncover your personal story!!

Love,