I Have to Take Care of Both

I was trying to finish my training.

Online teaching requires its own kind of preparation, and I had tasks I needed to complete. I was sitting there determined to get through them when I noticed my eyes getting heavy.

I was tired.

Not exhausted enough to stop, apparently.

Just tired enough to negotiate with myself.

Maybe I need some fruit.

I don't know why I thought a mandarin was going to wake me up, but it made sense at the time.

I peeled it and put a piece in my mouth. The moment I swallowed, I felt something on the right side of my throat.

Pain.

Not terrible.

Just enough to make me notice.

I ate another piece.

It hurt a little more.

That's when I stopped.

There was a time when I probably would have kept eating the mandarin.

Kept doing the training.

Kept pushing through the heaviness in my eyes.

Kept telling myself, It's nothing.

But I've learned some things about what happens when my body whispers and I decide it isn't speaking loudly enough for me to listen.

So I closed the training.

I'll finish another day.

I got up and plugged in my red-light therapy wand. I'd been drinking water throughout the day, so I didn't feel particularly dehydrated, but I sipped some anyway. I put castor oil on the skin around my neck, covered the area with a small cloth, and gently massaged underneath my neck.

Then I put on my heated eye mask.

And there I was, tilted back in my bed, massaging my neck, trying to understand what my body was telling me.

Does it still hurt?

Swallow.

Yes.

Massage.

Swallow again.

Still there.

Then I remembered the week before.

A couple of nights I'd awakened congested. One side of my nose would be stopped up, so I'd turn over onto the other side. I slept with my air purifier running. By morning I'd get up, start moving around, and the congestion would be gone.

At least I thought it was gone.

It wasn't serious enough to interrupt my day, so I didn't give it much attention.

Last night made me reconsider that.

Maybe my body had already mentioned this.

Maybe I just hadn't considered the first conversation important enough.

By morning, I wasn't negotiating anymore.

I pulled out the humidifier.

I needed ginger tea.

I didn't have any ginger, so that meant a trip to the store.

I bought lemon ginger tea and medicine to help loosen the mucus. I picked up things that would make it easy for me to drink liquids and eat soup while I wasn't feeling well.

And then I saw fresh croissants.

I bought those too.

Then there was a turtle fudge brownie sitting in the bakery.

Now, did my sore throat require a turtle fudge brownie?

Absolutely not.

But I bought it.

Because somewhere between the soup and the tea and that brownie, I started thinking about my children.

If this were my daughter, what would I get for her?

If one of my sons called and told me his throat hurt and he wasn't feeling well, how would I care for him?

I wouldn't tell him to hurry up and get back to work.

I wouldn't tell my daughter that her body hadn't become sick enough to deserve attention yet.

I'd get the tea.

I'd get the soup.

I'd probably get the croissant.

And yes, knowing me, I'd get the brownie too.

I'd want them comfortable.

I'd want them resting.

I'd want them to know that somebody was paying attention.

So I commenced to doing the same thing for myself.

I even bought a grapefruit.

I'm probably not eating that today. My throat and that grapefruit can meet each other tomorrow when everybody is behaving better.

But I bought it because I was thinking ahead.

Thinking about what my body might need tomorrow.

There is something deeply tender about that to me.

Because living with endometriosis and the other reproductive conditions I've had to manage has taught me that taking care of myself cannot only happen when something becomes unbearable.

My body requires attention.

Intentional attention.

Mindful attention.

Sometimes inconvenient attention.

I've called myself fragile before.

And I don't mean fragile as incapable.

I mean that I've learned that my body responds best when I handle it with care.

There are things I have to notice.

Things I have to honor.

Things I cannot bulldoze through simply because something else is on my calendar.

Maybe those nights of slight congestion were my cue to pull out the humidifier sooner.

Maybe they were an invitation to pay closer attention.

But they seemed minor.

So I ignored them.

Last night wasn't as easy to ignore.

And perhaps that's one of the lessons my body keeps teaching me:

Listen while I'm whispering so I don't have to scream.

There was another layer to all of this, though.

While I was lying there massaging my neck because my throat was bothering me, my lower abdomen was still hurting.

Apparently my pelvis did not receive the memo that we had a new problem.

There was no meeting where everybody agreed:

Her throat hurts tonight, so we'll give her the evening off.

No.

My throat hurt.

My pelvic area hurt.

And I had to take care of both.

I have to take care of both.

That sentence stayed with me.

Because sometimes chronic illness doesn't politely step aside when an ordinary illness arrives.

One discomfort doesn't cancel another.

The body can ask for care in several places at once.

So this morning I moved slowly.

Not only because my throat hurt.

Not only because I hadn't slept well.

I moved slowly because my pelvic area still needed gentleness too.

And somewhere along this journey, I've had to learn that moving slowly is not the same thing as falling behind.

I will get back to my training.

I intend to finish it.

Do I like knowing that I'm behind where I wanted to be?

No.

But I know what I would dislike more.

Knowing I neglected myself to stay on schedule.

The priority had to shift.

My health came before the training.

Yes, the training helps me earn income.

Yes, responsibilities are real.

Yes, bills still arrive whether my throat hurts or not.

But I had to ask myself a question:

Who comes first—me or the job?

Because for the job, I am replaceable.

Someone else can teach.

Someone else can complete an assignment.

Someone else can fill a position.

But for me?

I am irreplaceable.

There is only one me living inside this body.

After the store, I came home and took a hot shower.

I didn't rush through it.

I let the water run over me, then lavished my skin with lemongrass shea butter and slipped into my comfortable robe.

And then I did something that probably looked insignificant.

I went and got my TV tray.

I warmed my roasted vegetable soup. I poured myself orange juice even though I already had tea. I added some fruit. The croissant made the tray.

So did the turtle fudge brownie.

I arranged everything like little favorites.

Not because any of it was extraordinary.

Because I wanted the woman receiving it to feel cared for.

Me.

I looked at that tray and realized I wasn't simply feeding myself.

I had served myself.

There's a difference.

Feeding myself meets a need.

Serving myself says the person with the need matters.

And somewhere between the warm shower, the smell of lemongrass on my skin, the tea and the cherries arranged around my cup, something about all of it felt familiar.

I had learned this language somewhere before.

My father.

When I was a little girl with a headache, he never simply tried to make the pain disappear.

He created tenderness around it.

The eucalyptus.

The music.

The cool towel.

The glass of water.

My bonus mom followed with the Epsom salt, the oils, the breathing exercises and the peppermint tea.

They didn't just care for what hurt.

They cared for the person who was hurting.

Maybe that's why I instinctively understand that care is allowed to feel beautiful.

That comfort doesn't have to be clinical.

That I can put on the good moisturizer.

I can wear the comfortable robe.

I can make the tea and pour the juice.

I can arrange cherries around my cup simply because they're beautiful there.

I can put a brownie beside my soup.

I can make being cared for feel like being cared for.

I used to sometimes think, I wish somebody else were doing this for me.

And sometimes I still do.

It would be nice to have someone bring the tea.

Someone notice I'm tired.

Someone say, "You've done enough. Go lie down."

Someone walk through the store and think about what might make me feel better tomorrow.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to be cared for.

But today, that thought didn't make me sad.

Because I looked at what I had prepared for myself and realized:

I'm happy to take care of me.

Not resigned to it.

Not doing it because nobody else will.

Happy to do it.

Maybe that's what I'm learning in this season of my life.

I know how to survive discomfort.

I've had years of practice with that.

I know how to function while something hurts.

I know how to keep appointments, meet deadlines, care for people, work, mother, think, create and keep going while some part of my body is asking for attention.

Living with endometriosis has taught me many things I never asked to learn.

Pain.

Patience.

Endurance.

The necessity of listening to a body that doesn't always cooperate with my plans.

But perhaps somewhere among those lessons, it has also taught me something softer.

How to nurture myself.

How to notice.

How to respond.

How to stop treating care as something I have to earn by becoming sick enough.

My body does not have to collapse before it becomes worthy of my attention.

Neither do I.

My throat needs care.

My pelvis needs care.

My responsibilities still exist.

My training will still be waiting.

But right now, the woman underneath all of those things needs care too.

She doesn't have to earn it.

She doesn't have to become sicker first.

She doesn't have to finish the work first.

She doesn't have to wait for somebody else to notice.

And yes, I move slowly.

But I'm worth moving slowly for.

I'm worth paying attention to.

I'm worth taking care of.

I have to take care of both.

My responsibilities and my body.

My ambition and my limitations.

The woman who takes care of everybody else and the woman who deserves to be taken care of too.

Both are me.

But perhaps the greatest change is that I no longer feel abandoned when I'm the one doing the caring.

I notice her.

I'm happy to take care of her.

And today, I served her soup.

The Prescription of My Fragility

 Today I have not felt my best.

A headache interrupted my entire day. It wasn’t the kind that asks for permission. It simply arrives, settles behind my eyes, and everything else has to wait. By late afternoon the ache had finally loosened its grip, but my body still felt drained. I found myself sitting quietly with a bowl of sliced watermelon. The sweetness felt refreshing against my tongue. I sighed out loud, “God…I’m so fragile.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sitting at my table anymore.

I was a little girl telling my dad, “My head hurts.”

My bonus mom once told me my dad was always the most concerned about me out of all four of us girls. Not because I was sick more often, but because of how I loved. She said he would look at me and say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. She’s so sensitive.”

Then he’d shake his head almost as if he were talking to himself.

“She’s so sweet.”

Those words mean something different to me now than they did then.

To everyone else my father was this big, assertive man. His “Hey!” could shake the walls. His presence filled every room before he even walked into it. But somehow my softness quieted him. My sensitivity introduced me to a version of my father many people never knew existed.

He never raised that booming voice at me.

He’d simply look at my face and somehow know.

“Come here.”

I remember lying down while 101 Eastbound by Fourplay echoed softly through the room. The piano floated through the air as incense burned nearby, the fragrance wrapping itself around me until even the room seemed to exhale.

Then my dad’s hands.

To this day, when I smell eucalyptus, I don’t think of essential oils. I think of him.

His fingertips, lavished with eucalyptus oil, would begin beneath my chin, moving slowly in rhythm with the piano. Across my jawbone. Around my lips. Over my cheeks. Gently across my closed eyes. The bridge of my nose. My temples. My forehead. The crown of my head. Then the back of my head where his fingers lingered just long enough for me to feel the tension begin to surrender.

Not once did I feel rushed.

Not once did I feel like my headache had become everyone else’s problem.

If anything, my interruption became an invitation for tenderness.

Then came the ear candles.

I honestly thought my daddy had lost his mind.

My head already hurts, and you’re about to put fire next to my ear?

But I trusted him.

Afterward he’d hand me a glass of water and wait until I finished it. Then he’d lay a cool towel across my face. I can still remember the relief of that first cool touch against warm skin.

Then he’d ask for my hand.

He’d massage each finger, applying pressure down the center until he reached the palm of my hand. I never understood why he did it. I just knew it felt comforting. Years later I watched my bonus mom doing the same thing to him while he had a headache.

I asked her, “If Daddy’s head hurts, why are you rubbing his hands?”

She smiled.

“The hands have pressure points that connect to the head.”

I remember looking at her in complete shock.

So every finger he massaged…
Every place he pressed…
Every movement of his hands…

He knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time he reached my second hand, I was asleep.

When I’d wake, my headache would be gone. The air always felt crisp afterward, almost as if the whole house had rested with me. I’d smell dinner coming from the kitchen before I even opened my eyes. My dad would already be cooking while my bonus mom peeked into my room asking how I felt.

Then she’d remind me to soak in Epsom salt.

She’d run crystals over my head, guide me through breathing exercises, anoint me with oil, and remind me how wonderful I was.

By the time I finished my bath, there was peppermint tea waiting for me.

Looking back, I realize something I couldn’t have understood as a child.

My dad never treated my headache like an inconvenience.

He never told me to go take medicine and sleep it off.

Instead he’d ask me, “Where’s my headache?”

Not, “Where’s your headache.”

“My headache.”

He’d ask how much water I’d been drinking. When was the last time I exercised? What had I been thinking about before my head started hurting?

He wasn’t just trying to get rid of the pain.

He was trying to understand me.

Maybe that’s why, when I whispered today, “God, I’m so fragile,” I didn’t hear it as criticism.

I heard my father’s voice.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

“She’s so sensitive.”

“She’s so sweet.”

As a little girl, I thought those words meant he worried about me.

As a woman, I think they meant he treasured me.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to see my sensitivity as something that needed fixing.

My father never treated it like a flaw.

He treated it like something precious enough to protect.

Sometimes I wonder if God made me this way on purpose.

Not only so my father could teach me gentleness, but so I could teach him gentleness too.

Maybe my fragility wasn’t an accident.

Maybe it was God’s way of softening a strong man while teaching a little girl that needing care never made her a burden.

It made her precious.

And perhaps learning to love myself has simply been remembering the way my father loved me whenever life interrupted with something as small as a headache.

Before the Uniform

 

Lately, I’ve been looking at old videos of my father, reading newspaper articles, and tracing dates that once felt insignificant. Funny how a date can sit quietly on a page for years until one day it decides to speak.

I never met my grandparents, John Franklin Thomas and Loretta Hilda Thomas. Looking at their photographs now hurts in a way I did not expect. Perhaps it is because they no longer look like someone’s grandparents to me. They look young. They look like people who should have had more time.

My grandfather died in May of 1968. Ten months later, my grandmother died in October of 1969.

Every time I say “ten months,” I think about childbirth.

The amount of time it takes to bring a child into the world is the same amount of time that passed between my grandfather leaving this one and my grandmother following behind him.

Ten months.

When I learned that, I stopped looking at my father’s football career the same way.

Most people begin his story when he was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys in 1970. They begin with the uniform. The statistics. The contract disputes. The headlines. The silence.

But what if the story begins before that?

What if the story begins with a young man whose childhood had already been interrupted by responsibility?

My parents became parents while they were still children themselves. My oldest sibling was born in 1964. Another followed in 1966. My father was attending West Texas State while my mother was at Bishop College in Dallas raising toddlers. Neither one of them knew exactly what they were doing.

How could they?

People like to say young parents “grow up fast,” but I don’t think that’s entirely true. I think they figure things out while life keeps moving. There is trial and error. There are mistakes. There are victories no one applauds because survival itself becomes the accomplishment.

Then my grandparents died.

When people tell my father’s story, they often talk about what he lost or gained in football.

I find myself thinking about what was lost at home.

When my grandparents died, my father lost his parents.

His brothers and sisters lost their parents too.

The family lost its foundation.

The weight became heavier.

And yet, almost immediately afterward, the world met Duane Thomas the football player.

What fascinates me is how little room there seems to be in sports history for a person’s actual life.

Fans remember touchdowns.

Newspapers remember controversy.

Commentators remember contracts.

Yet very few stop to consider what existed before a man’s feet ever touched the field.

My father once told me that people did not care what was happening in your personal life. They cared about your performance.

The older I get, the more I understand what he meant.

A young man can be grieving.

He can be helping support a family.

He can be helping his wife through college.

He can be worrying about younger siblings.

He can be carrying the pressures of racism in a changing America.

He can be trying to learn how to be a husband and a father.

Yet when Sunday arrives, none of that matters.

The crowd wants production.

The newspaper wants a story.

The organization wants results.

Everything else is expected to wait.

Stress, however, is not polite.

It does not wait to be invited.

It does not knock.

It barges in unannounced and makes itself comfortable.

Reading old articles now, I find myself wondering how often people mistook the symptoms for the story.

How often did they see frustration but not pressure?

How often did they see silence but not the reason for it?

How often did they see an athlete and miss the human being entirely?

My father used to tell me that famous people were people first.

I remember him introducing me to athletes and reminding me not to become starstruck.

“They’re people.”

Such a simple lesson.

Yet it may have been one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me.

Because I knew him as a person first.

Not as number 33.

Not as a headline.

Not as a controversy.

Not as a legend.

As a person.

As the man who loved words.

The man who painted.

The man who cooked meals so beautiful they felt like works of art.

The man who once looked at me and said, “I don’t know how to be a dad. I’m still figuring this stuff out.”

Maybe that is why this journey has made me emotional.

I am not discovering who my father was.

I already knew him.

I am discovering the weight he was carrying while he was being himself: Before the uniform.