Energy Crash and Burn: Defeat? Or a Time to Learn?

I love these steps. 

The cool moist air rushed to meet me as I pushed open the church's sanctuary doors. It had happened again, and I was not happy.

"It" was a familiar experience to me a couple of years ago: I'd wake on Sunday morning, take a shower, get dressed, and slather on some makeup. Even after dawdling over a cup of coffee and a bit of breakfast, by the time we headed out to the car to drive to church services, I would be able to tell that I was pushing my energy boundaries.

"It" played out true to form last Sunday almost as if all those months of rituximab-created energy had never happened. I felt as if I were in a time warp that zapped me back into my earlier Sjogren's years: as we drove into the parking lot, John looked over at me, and after a quick assessment, pulled up directly in front of the church. "Why don't you get out here, hon? I'll meet you inside."

The man knows me. I should just ask him how I feel instead of guessing for myself. He's always right.

After taking a seat in the back, I shrugged off my coat in the hopes of stemming the flood of exhaustion-induced perspiration.  My face began to slowly turn icy cold as surely as if I had begun to rub ice cubes over my skin. By the time John slid in beside me on the pew, I had serious doubts about my ability to participate in the service. The unwelcome symptoms of a crash and burn made me feel frustrated and angry.

Why now? I NEED this! I want to be here! I feel cherished, lifted up, and so loved here. I want my prayers to join with everyone else in this room. I want to listen to God's word. I want to sing. I want to hear Father's words of inspiration. And after it's over, I want to linger on the church steps, visiting and laughing and enjoying just being together with my spiritual family.

I toughed it out for the first half of the service, until waves of nausea began to wash over me and I realized that I wasn't experiencing any of the good things that I had wanted; instead I was just miserable. It was time to wave the white flag and call retreat.

All I had to do was tap John on the arm. He whispered: "Do you want to leave?"

I nodded, grabbed my coat and purse and followed him down the aisle after which I stood on the church steps in a fog. We rolled out of the parking lot with me in a sickeningly familiar posture: in the car with seat back completely flat, feet propped up on the dash, vents open and fan blasting cool air.

Dang. I hate the fact that this seems to be routine.

I was deep in thought as John carefully maneuvered the car around twists and turns in the road on our way home. I realized that there was one small thing that differed in this experience from years past.

I was thinking WHY? as I always do. But instead of thinking WHY ME? I was examining my morning routine step by step and evaluating the energy expenditure from each action. I was truly wondering WHY in terms of why this particular experience happened, and then WHAT could I do to minimize the chances that it would happen again.

Then my thoughts turned to wonder whether this little mental exercise was a capitulation to the reality of this disease. That I wasn't even allowing myself to entertain the thought of living without the presence of autoimmune dysfunction in my body. That I was giving in and giving up on the fight.

Or.....

Another thought slowly pushed it's way though the brain fog: is this what real disease acceptance is? To skip the tantrum phase of a crash and move on to the recovery and strategizing part of things?

After ten years of living with Sjogren's, I certainly hope so.

Have I finally arrived there?