Caterpillar Soup

Back in the waiting room again.  This time, for 1 shot instead of 8.  Shortly after I hit "publish" on my last post, I started showing signs of a systemic adverse reaction. Nurse zoomed in and traded out the immunotherapy for mega-doses of antihistamines, steroids, and discouragement.  A week later, the antihistamines and steroids have worn off but the discouragement is still lingering.  It just feels so *ahem* vulnerable. Turns out writing eloquent posts about vulnerability doesn't play out like an emotional version of immunotherapy and vulnerability still SUCKS.  I was in clinical supervision earlier this week, ranting about how difficult it is to be a therapist, mom, and wife while also trying to be some sort of vulnerability warrior.  She nodded and said "Did you know caterpillar's have to digest themselves before they turn into butterflies?"

Um. What?!?!

For a long time, I've held onto the imagery of butterflies as a source of hope.  It seemed like a really beautiful nod from nature about the process of change:

Step 1. Caterpillar
Step 2. Cocoon
Step 3. Butterfly

Turns out, that's the "social media" version of transformation.  Supervisor enlightened me in the scientific details of what *exactly* happens in the cocoon.  Specifically, THE CATERPILLAR DIGESTS ITSELF.  I'm not making this up.  The actual steps to butterfly are:

Step 1. Caterpillar
Step 2. Cocoon
Step 3. Caterpillar Soup

Step 4. Caterpillar Potluck

Step 5. Butterfly

Lets get our Bill Nye on.......After getting all snuggled into the cocoon, the caterpillar releases digestive enzymes that eat away the caterpillar until it is mess of caterpillar/butterfly DNA and ooze.  Also known as caterpillar soup.  Then, the DNA eats the ooze until it grows until a butterfly.  Also known as caterpillar potluck.  I am simultaneously mortified and intrigued and convinced that this is a biological representation of what it is to slog through vulnerability. 

I had to pause writing this post to see the doctor.  I *maybe* tried to bargain.....the reaction wasn't that bad.....I didn't react until shot 6, could I do a session of 4 shots.....no, nope, and no.  Sigh. 

So, I'm leaving the office with a big ole' bowl of caterpillar soup.  The oozy parts:
Vulnerability of being so allergic and med-dependant for the forseeable future. 
Shame of sucking at vulnerability even though I'm literally credentialed in Shame Resilience.
Grumpy at the thought of another round of pharmacy/insurance dueling to get next month's meds filled. 

The butterfly-DNA parts:
Gratitude that I'm still a candidate for immunotherapy and, minus the reaction, am having a positive result to treatment.
Relief that insurance is covering the bulk of the expense. 
Joy that I got to wear jeans & sneakers because it's a not-seeing-clients sort of work day.

How about you, friends?  Maybe take a moment to inventory what's in your soup bowl.  I'm sending courage and peace as you navigate the oozy and the butterfly-y parts. 

Rapid Desensitization

Helloooooo cyber-friends.

It's been awhile.  And I'm here now. 

Where is here?  The reception area of my allergist. Turns out I'm highly allergic to a couple of things & I'm a good candidate for "immunotherapy."  This treatment involves exposing my system to threats until my system gets used to the threats and stops reacting. 

The doctor presented a couple of options:
Once a week for 45 minutes for 40 weeks.  Um, no.  I didn't come to the doctor that often if you COMBINE my pregnancies & I got 2 babies out of that deal.  I don't have time or patience for that tomfoolery.

He raised his eyebrow at that response and went on to describe option 2.

Rapid desensitization. 

Get a shot, sit in office for 30 minutes, check for a reaction, repeat.  Repeat for 4 hours, assuming you don't go into respiratory distress.  Cuts 6 months off the protocol.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, here I am.  I'm working on a care package while I sit here.  I've worked on a lot of care packages in my life.  But I'm struggling with this one.  The details will need to wait for a future post because I'm still grappling.  But the summary is this:  Last year, a family very dear to me was ripped apart by murder.  Some family members were the victims, some were the perpetrators, and some were the survivors.  The first round of trials begins this month.  In my work as a pediatric counselor, I've had to testify on very intimate details of my client's lives.  At its best, the justice system is a tedious, technical process.  At its worse, it is a public display of a family's most horrific moments being put out for public opinion and official judgement.  There's no Hallmark card for that.

As I walked into the hospital complex today, past patients and families and employees, I began to wonder (and wander, because this hospital complex is complex and huge and has stairwells to nowhere) if "rapid desensitization" is an emotional concept too. 

Instead of precisely measured doses of serum, it's those time-stands-still-moments. If you've spent any time human-ing, you've experienced these moments or know people who have experienced these moments.

It's the call that a family member is being discharged.  To hospice.
It's the news article that the homicide victims have been identified.  As your friends.
It's leaving work at the end of the day.  With a pink slip & your belongings in a box.
It's the family road trip and a distracted driver. Who over-corrects their car into yours. 

And we're left reeling with the emotional immune response: shock, grief, anger, sadness, numbing....the list goes on.  Our culture often judges and shames the response.  "You're dating already?!" "You hated that boss anyway."  "Well, you LOOK fine."  But what if the accepted practice was to treat them as signs of a body's brilliant design working through the experience?  What if the anger is giving the person a sense of empowerment or courage?  Or the shock is slowing the person down enough to let their village step in and help? 

Yet, for me right now, the shot-in-the-arm isn't the hard part.  It's the waiting.  It's the empty, vulnerable aftermath.  The more of these shot-in-the-heart moments I experience, the more I trust the brilliance of that vulnerability.  Vulnerability is not easy or pretty or popular.  But it sure is authentic and brave and unavoidable.

To all of you getting proverbial shots-in-the-somewhere:  be gentle with yourself.  Treat yourself to the fancy coffee or the early bedtime. And thank you.  My world is better because you show up. 

To all of you watching the aftermath: send a card anyway.  Don't send a dumb one like "may your showers grow flowers" or a different sapped up version of everything happens for a reason.  When in doubt, send a blank one and fill the space with a grocery gift card.  And thank you.  My world is better because you show up.