Blessings disguised in a ball cap.

I think it’s funny how sometimes, when it feels like your world is breaking, the best things are revealed. The best things, standing right next to the hard things.

The best things, evident because the hard things happened. 

Three weeks ago, something in my world broke. Or rather, I discovered something in my world is broken.  

I have always had two medical diagnoses attached to my name: hydrocephalus and cerebral palsy.

But today, I am writing you with only one. 

Three weeks ago, I walked into an ER. For my entire life, because of my hydrocephalus, I’ve been told that if I have a headache for multiple days, I need to go in. Hydrocephalus is a condition, the fluid in my brain doesn’t drain on its own. So, at birth, a shunt was placed in my brain to do the draining for me. And a headache that sticks around is one of the signs that my shunt might be broken. 

For my entire life, that’s all I’ve known. It’s all I’ve lived in. While I have been incredibly fortunate with my shunt and had very few issues, that reality has never left me: a headache has always equaled worry. 

And a few weeks ago, my worst fears came true. A headache turned into two ER trips.

It started on Super Bowl Sunday. Barely watching the game, I laid on my couch, while my head was pounding. Before I knew it, Sunday turned into Tuesday and with my headache was still there, I called my parents and said words I have always feared.

I’m going to the ER to get my shunt checked.

I hid my fear and my pain from the people around me with my laugh as best as I could, and I entered Vandy’s ER telling myself I was probably overreacting.

I’ve also been told my whole life that if I ever go in for my shunt, the medical team I’m with will likely act fast. Vanderbilt did. I got a CT, x-rays, and then found myself sitting on a bed in an ER room, laughing with doctors as they threatened to burn my Gator sweatshirt.

Good, I remember thinking. They’re joking around. Must mean nothing is broken.

Five seconds after that thought though, my world flipped with the doctor’s next sentence. The thing I had been fortunate to not hear in years, came out of her mouth.

 She told me the shunt tubing in my neck was torn.

 Immediately, I started sobbing. I then went into apologizing, explaining to the doctors in the room that it hadn’t broken since I was in first grade. I know that’s rare for someone in my situation, but I’m not used to this. My mind shot to the worse case.

 Brain surgery. A shunt revision.

I am 26, but I truly felt like a little kid sitting on that bed. My gaze bouncing from one doctor to the other, begging them to tell me this wasn’t real. To get me out of this somehow. I kept saying I didn’t know what to do, crying embarrassingly hard in front of strangers.

Sitting on the other side of this now, as I slow it down and replay it all back in my head, this is where the best things began to reveal themselves, in the midst of the hard thing. And in this whirlwind, scary situation, so much of the last eight months of my life has clicked. 

Crazy clearly.

On that ER bed, one doctor stood in my direct line of sight. I don’t know what his name was, I wish I did, because I’ve tried to pinpoint if I know him. I can’t be sure. But his words were the first to calm me down. 

“Where did you have your shunt placed?” he asked.

“In Florida. I got it at birth,” I barely choked out.

“Arnold Palmer?”

I nodded, barely saying yes, that was the hospital.

I will never forget the assurance in his voice that came next.

“I was there for many years. It is a great place.” He paused, almost as if to make sure I was looking at him. “So is the place you’re in right now.” 

Even if just for a few seconds, the home I had known forever, somehow found me in my new home. His words and confidence were my first deep breath.

He left after that, and I have wondered every day since if he happened to be one of the doctors who saw me in Florida, when I was a kid. 

The next question that came was one I’d hear multiple times over the next two weeks, in my two ER trips and two hospital stays. 

Are you here alone? 

Before I continue, I have to back up and give you two context points, so you understand why my answer to this question every time I was asked it in the following weeks was significant.

Point one: eight months ago, I moved to Tennessee alone. My post-grad plans had fallen apart despite all my efforts and for some reason, Nashville felt like the right next move. Rarely have I felt the level of peace I felt about making this jump.

Everything with Nashville fell into place fast. I kept saying I didn’t really know why, but it was the place I wanted to be and needed to be. And once I moved, I kept telling my friends and family that I was kinda waiting for the shoe to drop. Nashville felt like home almost instantly; I wasn’t homesick and though I knew almost no one, I was happier than I had been in a while.

 On paper, it truly doesn’t make sense. None of it. 

Here’s the thing. Independence is something I have worked for. It is something I am comfortable in, and when I say I am okay and good at being on my own, it is not something I mean in a sad or conceited way. I genuinely am. I know who I am, what I am capable of, and I believe my independence in general and specifically moving here alone, has been a good thing because of those reasons. Because of how I’ve grown.

But like most good things, sometimes, it backfires. And part of what made these last few weeks so hard, is what I’ve had to face about myself. It’s something I’ve always known, but this situation especially, really made me feel it; I sometimes hold on too tight to my independence.

I suck at asking for and accepting help. 

Point two: I have found myself in two places I didn’t really expect to find myself when I moved here. 

Place one is an office. I now work a corporate office job. And yes, I also work with my dad.

I have watched this company grow for years and have always known (in the most unbiased way possible) it is a special place. And in a wild plot twist in my life, I’m now a part of it.

I have found myself in a group of people that care for each other, just as much as they care for the company. 

Place two is a church. My faith has always been a large part of my life. It is what I credit my perspective on my medical situations to, and I can confidently say my faith in the Lord has never wavered. But what a lot of people don’t know about me, is how much I’ve struggled with church in the past few years. Like a lot of people, I’ve experienced a lot of hurt caused by regularly flawed humans inside of a Christian or church environment. And reconciling that with my faith, has been a journey.

I moved here, and I realized the church has hurt me, but it has also saved me. And if I really believed what I claimed to believe, who would I be if I didn’t recognize the reality and act out of it?

This reality being, the Church, any church, is run by people who will hurt other people. People who will disagree with other people about a whole array of things, who are sitting right next to them, literally inside of those church walls.

I realized I could either walk away, seeing every church through the hurt I experienced. Or I could walk in, recognizing that I’m just as flawed as everyone and everything I felt hurt by in the past.

I could passively scream that some things need to change, or I could walk in and be active.

A few months into my move, I chose to walk in. Nobody around me knowing I was fighting so much skepticism and frankly cynicism. Nobody around me knowing, I was looking for any excuse to bolt for the door. 

So much so, I’d admittedly come home to Florida, and sit my dad down. My dad is a completely open book about his faith, so I know he doesn’t mind me saying this. He was an atheist most of his life and came to his faith as an adult, through a lot of questions. Because of this, my upbringing was one where questions were welcomed. I was raised with a faith, but by parents who wanted it to be my own and recognized that would likely come with doubt at times. 

I’d argue to “make your faith your own” and not something your parents just handed to you, you have to wrestle with it. I believe that is what my parents believe, and I believe my faith is stronger because I have been allowed to openly wrestle it.

Doubt, questions, discussion, in the best way possible, they have never been strangers in our house. 

So, I’d come home, I’d sit across from my dad, and we’d go back and forth. I’d often plop something I heard at any church in Nashville in front of him or hit him with the hardest question about church that I could think of.

Admittedly, Paul Ellis and I have almost a copied and pasted thought process. So, these conversations, debates or whatever you want to call them, were never quick. He knew who he was debating with  because in a sense, he was debating with himself.

(Paul is me. I am Paul.) (I can’t believe I willingly just typed that.)

I never outwardly said it, but we both knew it. Every time this happened, I was internally begging him: I’m exhausted. Give me any opening to walk out on this.

Logic is the key when you are Jordan or Paul. And he always hit me with the intersection points between logic and our faith so clearly, I’d walk away with a huff. He’d leave with a smirk.

Like I said, there were plenty of these discussions. But the one that matters in this situation is the one where I came home and needed him to either debunk or prove the point of prayer to me.

A long dinner later, it ended with a huff. And a smirk.

Typical.

 Fast forward a few more months back in Nash, I had landed at a church. A little less unsure about being back in that environment, but still unsure.

Honestly, secretly hoping my skepticism would be proven wrong, but still fighting it and myself.

 Two things are important here. One is that when I was honest with friends back home, I’d scratch my head and shrug. “I don’t know a lot, but the people there are what make me want to stick around.”

 And two, if there was one thing I realized about this church almost immediately is that they prayed. Like really prayed. Prayer was at the forefront of their operation.

 Okay, we’re up to speed. Back to the ER.

Eight months into my solo move, I’m asked multiple times over the course of two weeks: are you alone? A few months prior, my answer would’ve probably been yes.

I am here alone.

 But in February at Vanderbilt Hospital, my answer every single time was no. My parents did end up coming to Nashville in all of this, but even before they arrived, every single time my answer was one of the same variations:

 No, a friend is here with me.

My friend is outside.

No, a friend came with me.

 One of the largest battles I’ve had to fight with myself throughout my entire life, which stems from my holding too tight to my independence and my struggle with help, is my constant worry about burdening people.

 Though my answer about being alone was the same, before that answer, to the people who were making sure I wasn’t alone, came one of the following:

 I can get myself there.

I’m okay! Really. I’m a pro at this stuff.

You really don’t have to come.

You don’t have to stay.

 But every single person who I said those things to, didn’t budge.

They came when I told them they didn’t have to, they texted to check in after I somewhat lied and said I was completely fine.

And they didn’t leave when I told them over and over, that they could.

 And every single one of those people? They came from the two places I didn’t expect to find myself.

The company I work for and the church I go to.

 In the moment, I slowly started to see that one specific good thing being revealed in a hard thing. I was frankly terrified to walk into this mess by myself. But my fear of burdening people won out, and I was constantly trying to be on my own through it.

And yet, the people around me wouldn’t let me be.

 But the next thing is the real kicker, if you ask me.

 Turns out, Vanderbilt was one of the best places I could’ve landed. Their neurosurgeons took into account that while my shunt was obviously broken on x-rays, I was stable. I’ve been told other hospitals would have seen my broken shunt, and just sent me straight to surgery to repair it.

 Not Vanderbilt.

 What’s called an ICP monitor was placed in my brain for two days. This did involve shaving a spot on my head, drilling a hole in my skull, putting a wire in there, and possibly the worst panic attack of my life, but it wasn’t shunt surgery. So, I’ll take it!

 But what I’ll take even more is the results we got.

The ICP monitor revealed that I am no longer using my shunt.

 My doctors at Vanderbilt said this happens, but it’s rare.

My hydrocephalus is gone.

 This is the real kicker because it is something I didn’t believe was possible.

But it’s also a kicker because of one of the places I have landed.

Because of a Google search and sucking up my pride to try church again, I happened to find myself in a church that didn’t just tell me they were praying for me, they stopped me and actually prayed with me. Prayed for me.

 And then I didn’t just have a successful procedure, I walked out of the hospital with one less diagnosis. I walked out of a hospital freer than I’d ever been.

In my entire life.

 Coincidence? Maybe. I’m not here to tell you what to believe. As I’ve already mentioned, I know just plainly telling someone what to believe does no one any good.

But the more I think about how much I have specifically wrestled with the idea of and purpose of prayer in the last few months and then to pretty much just happen to find myself in a community who really does that one thing, like really does it, and to then to walk out of a hospital rid of a condition I’ve had for 26 years? A condition I’ve always been told I’ll have my whole life.

 It feels significant.

(Paul is undoubtably smirking.)

 The last eight months of my life have largely felt like a guessing game. And yet, starting from the time I said I’m moving to Nashville, I’ve never in my life felt more peace that things just work out how they need to, and I don’t have to know everything right away.

 When my parents landed in Nashville in the midst of all this, my dad sat across from me this time, and he asked the questions.

“Do you not see how perfectly all this unfolded? Can you not see God in this?”

 I moved, somewhat just because it felt right.

I started working a type of job I once said I would never work. And I have not only loved it, but I’ve found myself in a unique work environment. With some of the best people, who show up outside of work.

I walked into a church, hoping to be proved wrong. And I have been. I have been surrounded by people who have had my back in ways I never asked or expected any one of them to.

I moved, and Go Gators, but I have to say it; I landed in one of the best healthcare systems in the country for what I need. A healthcare system I didn’t know I would need, because I couldn’t have dreamed of this happening.

 Because of the spot they shaved on my head for the monitor, nobody has seen me without a hat in the following days. As a girl, this has admittedly been emotionally tough. I have cried almost every time I’ve brushed my hair.

 But I’ve said this a million times before, and I will say it again: throughout my life, perspective is what has carried me. It is what’s important to me, and it is what keeps me grounded.

 For right now, every single day, I am a girl in a ball cap.

But because of that hat I see every time I look in the mirror, though I am not perfect and I have had really low moments through this whole ordeal, my perspective is ultimately unable to discount all of those things.

 Months of my life have felt like a guessing game. That I’m now glad I waited out. Because through a tough situation, so much of it has clicked.

 Tough things can reveal good things. The best things.

 Things we need to learn.

And things we maybe never expected or dreamed of happening.

People need other people (saying that one for myself.)

 …and maybe, just maybe, now Florida isn’t the only SEC team that I love.