Bad Luck, Beautiful Blessings

Before you read my blog about bad luck, you must know that when I originally posted it on Facebook, it was deleted by their algorithm because “it looked like spam.” Thank you Facebook for really driving the point home about my inherent lack of luck. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony! I responded to their “Support” Message indicating that my blog was not spam and they restored my post several days later. Naturally, I had to edit my blog to include these series of events. Life makes me laugh.

 

I have often wondered if my mother gave birth to me under a ladder, with a black cat resting on her belly, while the OBGYN spilled salt and held a cracked mirror to capture the visual of my beautiful birth. I am not the person you take to Vegas if you hope to win. I AM the person you take to Vegas if you need someone to laugh at. I’m the one who falls off the riser during a choir concert, breaks her arm in an alumni game, sleeps through a college final, gives the wrong date for the house party, gives the wrong address for the house party, suffers a computer crash and loses the 18-page term paper that’s due the next day, gets pulled over as a suspect for a car wash burglary, gets busted at a concert for taking a picture of the band while everyone else is consuming illegal drugs, has her blog post about bad luck deleted by Facebook’s algorithm (yes this just happened), and starts desensitization therapy for a life-limiting bug phobia while contracting lice the same week. I am that person!

As I grow older and reminisce on my last 37 (or so) years, and how I ended up where I am now, a mom of 2 precious children, with a husband I adore, and a job I enjoy more often than not, I can’t help but acknowledge that I’ve never been a lucky person, but I’ve always been blessed. I have travelled through many painful moments, life-altering circumstances, and dark seasons, yet in every one of them I have witnessed blessings that illustrate divine intervention in my life over and over again. I could write a book of these events, but let me start with one.

I was in graduate school for my Master’s in Social Work with a clear goal to work for Hospice of the Valley (HOV) and to eventually become independently licensed so that I could open up my own private practice. It was my second year and I was fortunate enough to have a connection at Hospice of the Valley. Generally, a master’s level student who interned for HOV was hired to work for them after graduation, so I was thrilled to have a colleague who put me in touch with the Director.

During this busy season I was also in the midst of a divorce and struggling to keep school, a full-time job, and my sanity on the up-swing. Naturally, this was the optimal time for a beastly toothache…the kind that can’t tolerate the cool air that comes with breathing in (AKA surviving). Like most “normal” people, I have a serious disdain for dentists and needles. I went weeks with a throbbing face before I finally gave in and made an appointment to see the sadistic and evil tooth monster. In the interim, I had gratefully run across an old prescription of Darvocet that my ex-husband left in our cabinet, and would take a pill every once in a while so that I could eat (AKA surviving). As I anxiously awaited the dental appointment, I attended school, went to work, and pursued my internship opportunity.

Amidst the daily chaos, I received a call from the Director of HOV to schedule an interview, and I was thrilled. The interview went well and she asked when I could start. I was ready to begin immediately, so she enrolled me in training and I went in for my fingerprinting and drug test as soon as possible. The following week I attended training and fell in love with everything about the company’s philosophy, vision, and mission. Then, the unthinkable (and I literally mean, this did NOT cross my mind for a second) happened.

I was driving home from work when I received a call from the lab. After brief introductions, the friendly man on the phone asked, “do you have a prescription for Darvocet?” I couldn’t see straight as I realized what I had done. My mind was screaming, “this cannot be happening!” I told the lab technician that I had taken my ex-husbands Darvocet a few times for a terrible toothache and that I even had a dentist appointment the following week for a suspected root canal. For a brief moment I actually thought I could talk him into bending the rules for me because it was, after all, an innocent mistake and I had been in a lot of pain and I’m a good person, and he should unquestionably know all of this without ever having met me! Certainly I can make him believe all my good intentions, because this couldn’t be happening to my dream…my career…my 5 year plan!! Let’s get real folks! I was applying for an internship where I would be working with exorbitant amounts of controlled substances every day, so of course my urinalysis was reported as “dirty” and my dreams to work for HOV disappeared with 1 phone call. I will never forget the crushing feeling. I pulled my car over as I was sobbing too hard to safely drive, and I called the friend who had put her reputation on the line to refer me. I slobbered on my phone. I blubbered. I ugly cried and hit my steering wheel and hated myself with fervor. “How could I be so stupid?! How did I not even THINK about this possibility. How was I getting a higher education and still capable of being such a complete and utter clueless moron!?” I truly believed I had destroyed my chances of being in the profession I had been called to and I was beside myself with grief. I had lost my dream.

But, God had a redemption story in mind. From this incredibly disappointing crossroads, I ended up searching for a profession outside my comfort zone. I began a job I NEVER would have considered before, and that job ended up uncovering gifts I didn’t know I had and a passion I thought had burned out long ago. From this unexpected turn of events I was set on a path I never could’ve found nor even looked for on my own, and I was challenged to grow in leaps and bounds and supported in ways that made me feel stronger and more capable than I had ever felt in my life. I can look back now and see that my strengths would not have been utilized in direct practice and my emotional health would’ve been at risk in a hospice environment. What I thought was one of my biggest failures, the most unlucky of events, the curse of my salty birth, turned out to be one of God’s biggest triumphs as he showed me that He always has a plan and His plan is always good. Divine intervention has brought me to where I am today in many ways. This is just one of countless moments where God has steered the ship of my life to a place I could never have navigated. God used the illegal (although innocent) use of controlled substances to change the course of my life for the better. Thanks God! You’re hilarious!

What I’ve observed over and over in my life is that a lack of luck is not a curse. A lack of luck opens the door wide open for God to step in and forge his will in my life. For every trial there is blessing. For every pile of ashes there is beauty.

Thank God I failed my drug test!

 

Label This Mommy to Be

I’ve recently had the pleasure of being told that I’m Advanced Maternal Age, which in acronym form (AMA) is often interpreted as Against Medical Advice. I also had a young maternal aged ultrasound technician tell me that technically the medical field calls it Elderly Maternal Age, just not to our faces (smart!!). I suppose I can give them credit for softening the blow by using the term advanced versus elderly, but I have some proposals that I believe should be seriously considered by the medical community:

State of the Art Maternal Age
Modern Maternal Age
Leading-Edge Maternal Age

or leave age out of it completely and call it:

Maternal Maturity
Maternal Ambition
Maternal Master
Prepared Pregnancy

I will admit I have a favorite that I have shared with every Dr., NP, nurse, and ultrasound tech I’ve seen, and when I say “shared” I mean I told them to call me this from now on. I kindly and non-hormonally insist on being called Distinguished Maternal Age. It has a sophisticated and classy ring to it that doesn’t make me want to run to WebMD and research every possible ailment my “advanced” body or baby might incur in the next 10 months.

As much as I appreciate the constant reminder of why I should feel anxious about this pregnancy this is an example of how harmful labels can be. I find it curiously amusing that every health care professional tells me how important it is to stay calm and avoid stress and anxiety while I’m pregnant, yet they trip over their own feet scrambling to grab their prescription pads as soon as the number “35” comes out of my mouth. With the amount of blood draws, and finger pricks, and UA’s, and ultrasounds I’ve had in just 4.5 months I’m surprised they don’t call it Defying the Odds, Reckless, Throwing Caution to the Wind, Ballsy Maternal Age.

If you must “call” us something then I’m requesting it be something that doesn’t instantly fill us with the fear of God. Distinguished Maternal Age makes me feel like I should be sitting in a posh garden coffee house reading about the philosophy of parenting and blogging, which is what I happen to be doing right now thank you very much. I am so distinguished!