Tonsil Terrors
I was asked on a podcast if there was ever a time when I felt I wasn’t enough. The answer came to me quickly, but as I talked about it, I realized people might have questions about how what I experienced was made unique because of my OCD. I discussed a time when my oldest was five years old and had a tonsillectomy. His recovery from that surgery was rugged and long because his pain was constant and unrelenting. Typically, on day five or six of recovery, the scabs created during surgery can begin to fall off, which causes even more pain as fresh new skin becomes exposed. For me, this is when the story gets dicey.
As we crept through recovery with my son, his patience and mine were waning. We were both feeling the stress of being cooped up together and we needed an outing on the dreaded day five. We ventured to my sister’s house, and while we were there, he became unruly and unkind to his peers. I’d reached a point when I knew I had to give him a consequence and going home, was it. As I gave him the unfortunate news that we were going to leave because he was disobeying, he began to scream. As I loaded him in the car, he screamed. As I buckled him in his car seat, he screamed even louder. I remember telling him he was going to hurt his throat if he kept carrying on like he was, but he was determined to be angry as loudly as he possibly could, no matter the pain. My anger at the moment was wrapped in the stress from the entire week before. I was feeling the heaviness of having cared for a justifiably crabby child who needed a breakdown even more than I did. I was not a wise or perfect mother that day, and I knew it.
That night, he called out that his throat felt funny. He was swallowing hard and often which was a warning sign that he could have unwanted bleeding. Sure enough, as I peered into the back of his throat, I saw a stream of blood flowing. I called the doctor and they told me to watch while I wait; if it got worse, I should bring him to the emergency room. It got worse and it got worse fast. By the time we got into a room at the ER he was violently vomiting blood, and I was terrified. My boy ended up needing surgery at two in the morning to cauterize the areas in his throat because the scabs had come off prematurely. As I sat waiting for them to finish his second surgery, I wept with the realization that this experience was all my fault. I’d made him suffer the consequence that caused him to scream so loudly. I got angry with a child who was trying to heal, and I was the reason he was scared and hurting. The guilt I felt in that moment and for weeks after was petrifying and physically exhausting. How was what I experienced different because of my OCD? When did my feelings shift from normal mom guilt into an obsession that caused compulsions? I did NOT feel like enough.
My OCD took over this experience almost immediately. My brain hooked into my harming fears like rattlesnake fangs into an innocent mouse. It all started with a sour stomach that dropped quickly as thoughts of my guilt made an entrance. Then I began to relive every awful moment from when he was screaming. I was also simultaneously trying to recreate my feelings from that experience to prove to myself that it wasn’t my fault, but it wasn’t working. Was I an abusive mom or not? How can I prove it one way or the other? I sat in the empty hospital waiting room craving reassurance from someone, anyone. Upon receiving that reassurance from the on-call ENT, who told me I was not to blame, I moved on to the next person who could give me clearance that I wasn’t responsible. From doctor to family member and back again, for months I sought varying opinions about whether I had been the one responsible for his throat to bleed, but it never mattered what they said or how qualified they were to speak to the situation; I was convinced I was to blame and was obsessing accordingly. My OCD was telling me I was an abusive mom for having reprimanded him and I carried that label on my heart day after day. There were times my brain got tired, and I could skip a day of thinking about it, but quickly it would creep back in, and I’d be back to feeling shame. No doctor could definitively tell me why it happened and there was no certainty to be found. I was having to sit in the discomfort and was compulsively reliving every part of the experience trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t an awful mother. My OCD was in the driver’s seat.
It wasn’t until a couple years later (yes, I hung on to this for years) that a pediatrician friend of ours was seeing our son about another issue when I casually brought up the tonsils again. I sneakily asked what his thoughts were and if he could guarantee that the screaming hadn’t caused the bleed. I’ll never forget how he looked at me during that appointment with a practical and decisive glance. He said, “We will likely never know for sure what caused the bleed, and his screaming likely could’ve been a factor. With that said, you’re still his mother and you had to give him consequences, but he didn’t have to scream, that was his choice, not yours.” Suddenly by hearing his words I knew the strategy for moving forward. I would have to do exactly what I had to do with every other obsession that haunted me. I’d have to sit in the what-ifs, not knowing with certainty who caused what or why, but resting in the fact that eventually the anxiety about never fully knowing would pass. It would take time and intentional decisions not to ruminate or ask for anymore reassurance, but I could move on.
I may not know with certainty why things went the way they did all those years ago, but God knows why. Not only does He know all the details about the why and how, but he ordained it all and allowed for us to experience what we did. I can rest in His all-knowing sovereignty, knowing that He is over all the things and walks with me through every uncomfortable “what if.” My faith is the foundation for all my OCD strategies as I can utilize God’s unfailing love as a means for claiming forgiveness in Christ that surpasses any sin or uncertainty I may fear. It’s not a Band-Aid or an Ace bandage that provides momentary relief, but instead is the life-saving surgery that cuts away the earthly power of fear, sin, and death in my life. I can take hold of the promises God gives as the firm foundation that will ground my recovery with the practical strategies He provides in counseling. Under my care, I will fail my children; it’s inevitable. As true as that may be, so is the all-encompassing saving grace that Jesus bought for me on the cross. No matter the sin, when I repent, I am forgiven. God doesn’t keep a record of my mothering wrongs because I have been bought with the blood of His son and I can forever rest in that saving forgiveness. Uncertainty has no power over me because even when I fail, because I have and will again, I can know with certainty that God is my Redeemer.
