Lover of Old and Broken Things

By Jennifer Floyd

We sat around the dinner table, too full from the meal to move. The old family stories bounced around less familiar ones. Laughter erupted after my husband Jason, and his sister hashed out exactly what happened that time she pushed him out of the car. Jason’s dad shook his head while we all teased him about the time he thought we were going to get struck by lightning on a terrace in Paris. But the moment Jason’s Camaro is brought up, a smile spread across Dad’s face. He loved to tell the story. He and Jason’s mom shared a knowing look … 

My husband’s dad remembered that one day, driving down the country road when Jason, at fifteen, saw the old, gray Camaro.

 “I’m not buying that,” his dad said, glancing between Jason and his mom, hoping to deter the idea he knew they were forming. Before Dad could make his case against the sorry excuse for a car, Mom said, “We’re buying it,” and that was that. Laughing around the table, Jason’s dad shared how just weeks after purchasing this vintage Camaro, his son blew out the engine—his son not aware of how frequently an older vehicle needed oil checks. 

Dad paid for diagnostics and parts but had told his disappointed son, “You have to fix your car.” He hoped a valuable lesson would come from this old, expensive, broken thing. 

Fifteen-year-old Jason had finally met a challenge. Day after day, his dad would come home from work to find Jason and his high school buddy spending hours in the garage huddled over a manual, pouring over each page with furrowed brows. They slowly taught themselves how to rebuild the engine.

On the day they were ready to see if the Camaro would start—Jason’s dad laughed about the double and triple checking—and the dozens of reminders to make sure the oil was properly filled. His son in his coveralls, anxiously climbed into the driver's seat. Mom and dad were standing close by, whispering a prayer for the engine to turn. Jason held his breath with the key in the ignition, and cranked the engine.

“I’ll never forget the look on his face when the engine roared.” Dad’s knowing eyes squinted through a proud smile. 

//

My first symptom begins on a Tuesday afternoon, like a blur I can’t blink away. In the evening, after the kids are all in bed, Jason and I sit down in the dark living room to watch a show. I curl up next to him and try to let my mind relax. “My left eye feels weird,” I tell him.  “When I look at the screen with just my left eye, it’s almost like there’s extra noise and grain.” Jason suggests it may be the beginning of a headache. We shrug it off, and I assume a good night’s rest will resolve a barely noticeable change to my vision.

The next morning, I am up with my alarm and sleepily pull on my workout leggings. In the garage, I tighten the velcro straps to my bike shoes and clip in. I set a thirty minute ride and as the minutes tick by, I watch the orange and red circle in front of me fill in, showing a completed workout. Throughout the ride, I test my vision by blinking one eye at a time and notice no improvement from the night before. 

I head back inside the house and make four breakfast plates. I make sure each child is ready for the day and drop off the oldest two at school. My symptoms persist, and I feel pain any time I move my left eye. Naturally, I consult Google, even though it’s universally agreed upon that this is a bad idea. I can’t really find any simple explanations for what I am experiencing, but the clearest diagnosis is one I’d also like to blink away. Optic neuritis is commonly known as an early marker for multiple sclerosis.

Like any good person who wants to pretend they didn’t see what they saw from Doctor Google, I quickly close the tab and begin the mental gymnastics of trying to decide what to do next.  

//

Jason and I have been married for all of nine days. The first seven were spent in warm, sunny Jamaica. The last two, Jason had to pack his belongings from his home in Minnesota and mine from my home in Chicago. After a fury of loading cars and saying goodbyes to our parents, we spent twelve exhausting hours driving from Chicago to Virginia. For the last two hours, we watched the sunset over the grueling D.C. traffic. 

Once there, our tired legs carried us up the three flights of stairs, pillows tucked under our arms. I stepped inside exhausted and excited to see our first home. I hit the light switch to take it in and—nothing. Twenty-something newlyweds don’t always remember to set up their electricity account before move-in day. 

The main level, clean and perfectly decorated floor model I toured months ago was much more glamorous than this third story, scuffed up apartment. On our way up the stairs, I noted that there is no elevator, and I’m already dreading unloading the moving truck the next day. The sound of cars flying by on highway 95 has me convinced a window is open, but on further examination, it’s just proof of paper-thin glass. Each room is a little smaller than I remember. 

Too tired to unpack a single item, we meander into our little bedroom and plop our pillows onto the floor. Jason quickly made himself comfortable on the carpet, but I’m reluctant to join. This moment feels anticlimactic to me. The first night in our home together? Completely lackluster. I lay down anyway, hoping sleep will come in spite of the questionable resting place.

Jason’s arm wraps me into a hug. “I’ve waited my whole life for this.” 

//

By Thursday morning, I cannot deny that my vision is more distorted, and the discomfort is still present. I haven’t been to an eye doctor since I was seven. Google, where’s the nearest highly reviewed ophthalmologist?

After three days of worsening vision, I am able to schedule an appointment that takes place in thirty minutes.  Sitting in a darkened exam room, a young ophthalmologist begins his exam. He acknowledges that yes, the symptoms I am communicating with him aligns with optic neuritis but no, from what he can see there is no swelling of the optic nerve. To really check for swelling, he’d have to order an MRI, but concludes this doesn’t seem necessary. I’m sent home with artificial tears and told to return if my symptoms worsen.

For three nights, I lay down facing the window beside my bed and stare into the dark, winter woods. I look closely at the linen curtains with windowpane lines running across them. Left blink. Right blink. How different is what I see? Google, how to tell if your vision is getting worse or better? I take note of the differences and anxiously pray that in the morning, when I blink the night’s rest out of my eyes, my vision will be clearer.

//

Well into my second trimester with our first baby, I waddle into the garage and face the dryer. I am irritated because I already know what I am going to find when I open it—damp clothes. The sensor has not worked ever since we purchased this supposedly refurbished machine.  

I storm into the house. We invited friends for lunch after church, but I’m too angry to care that they are about to watch an epic fight in my marriage unfold. Jason and I danced around the room with our usual stubborn stances on the dryer. He insisted that with more time, he can fix it. Unacceptable. I needed a working dryer before the baby came. I refused to navigate life with a newborn and nursing and bottles and diapers with an added layer of walking into the garage every twenty minutes to check if the clothes are dry, and then inevitably restart the dryer upon finding that they are not. 

But Jason argued in favor of repair over replacement, even though we’ve already spent $250 on parts. My fury builds, my voice raises, and fiery words leave my lips before I can think about it. 

“This garage is full of old broken things that you love to tinker with. Why can’t the dryer be the one thing that works?” 

//

“How’s your eye?” Jason hands me a cup of coffee with his considerate question. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s better, but maybe it’s the same? Maybe it isn’t getting worse?” I can’t make any sense of the differing information I am receiving from my body, Google, and the doctor. I second guess my symptoms every moment of the day, and I struggle to remain present. We try to spend a normal Saturday together—chores around the house and keeping all the children fed and happy. After lunch, we send the kids to the basement to play, and Jason suggests we do yoga together.

During the flow between chaturanga and downward-facing dog, new sensations move across my cheekbone and forehead. I try to flow through another sun salutation, but the tingling across my face becomes clearer and overwhelms me. I freeze and sit down on my mat. I am not getting better. I tell Jason what I am feeling. He doesn’t have answers for me. He seems uneasy with this new information, and he stays home with the kids and I drive myself to the hospital.

The emergency triage moves quickly and soon confirms I’m not having a stroke. The tingling is there, and the vision in my left eye is blurred, but the nurse seems skeptical when I pass my vision test. Jason was able to arrange childcare and joins me. He walks in the room quietly. I can’t tell if he is annoyed because he thinks I am overreacting or concerned by all the ambiguity surrounding my vision loss. 

“It’s an eye migraine,” the ER nurse decides. ”Even if you don’t have a headache, you can get a migraine in your eye.” Jason and I exchange skeptical glances between each other and the nurse. I know what I am experiencing in my body, but I can’t seem to convince anyone else that something is wrong. I’m sent home with a few printouts that say nothing I haven’t already read and instructions to take Tylenol and use artificial tears for discomfort.

//

It’s a lazy Saturday morning and Jason’s first Saturday off in two months. We are easing into our new life with two children under two. Isla is curled into me nursing, and Charles is finishing a banana at the table. Jason is in the kitchen, shuffling through the cabinets and setting ingredients out to make breakfast. “You know what would really make Saturday morning better? A waffle maker!”

I explain to Jason that I’ve looked, and the ones I want are a little more expensive than that. He grins. “It doesn’t have to be nice, Jenny.”

After breakfast, Jason heads to the thrift store. An hour later, he returns home with a smile. Like a trophy, he shows me the waffle maker he found. The outside of it used to be white—I think. A big Goodwill sticker that only harsh chemicals and God can remove is stamped front and center. “Can you please wash it before you use it?” I ask through a cringe. 

“I already did!” he laughs. 

Skeptical, I give it a scrub in the sink and yes, this waffle maker is as clean as it is going to get. 

Over the coming years, I threaten to donate it more times than I can count. It’s too dirty looking and embarrassing. I insist I can find a pretty one for under $30 online, but an argument from vanity’s side has no pull with Jason. No, he insists, this waffle maker works, and that’s what matters. 

His unexplainable attachment to a greasy waffle maker from Goodwill annoys me. But for as many times as I tried to give it away, Jason has pulled it out and made waffles my kids and I all love. 

//

What do you do when your body is telling you something is wrong but no one believes you? My anxiety only rises through the next few days, and my sister drives in to visit over her spring break. I debated canceling plans, but I didn’t want to overreact. When she arrives with her two kids, the energy among the cousins is buzzing.

“I’ve been having some vision issues,” I tell her between laughter and squeals, “so tomorrow morning after I drop my kids off at school, I’m going to go to the eye doctor and get it checked out.” I try not to sound worried. “Will you be OK here while I’m gone?” She happily agrees. 

I am awake before any sign of daylight. My clock says 4:03 a.m. Left blink. Clear vision. Right blink. I can barely see anything. I know something is very wrong, but I don’t know how to get anyone to believe me. 

In an act of stubborn will, I start my Monday morning as if everything is normal. I hop on the Peloton for a thirty-minute ride, and I pedal hard, climbing the hills. Maybe if I push myself, I’ll be able to see the screen in front of me. 

When I’m through, the boys are making breakfast for everyone. I get myself dressed then get them ready and drop them off at school. I call the eye doctor as soon as the office opens and they schedule an appointment within the hour. 

Once in the waiting room, a nurse says my name, and I follow her to an exam room. Ophthalmology pleasantries begin. I take a deep breath and I tell my story from the beginning. The nurse casually types her notes. She spins around on her stool and stands up. She flips the lights off. 

“Look straight ahead,” she tells me. I know the drill.

She checks and re-checks both eyes. The chatter slows. She types a few notes. She does one more slit-lamp exam and lets me know she’ll be back in a few moments. The pit in my stomach grows. Tingling sensations return to my face as anxiety increases. I’m frantically texting Jason through shaking hands every inconclusive detail. Confusion has been my constant state of mind for seven days now. I want to be relieved that someone is about to believe me, but I don’t like what it might mean. 

Moments later, the nurse returns with an ophthalmologist. He calmly listens to my story of vision loss then tells me he wants me to go to the hospital. But before I can go, they want to do several vision tests and get photographs of my eye and optic nerve. 

I walk into a small, dark office with every available wall lined with state of the art medical equipment. “Please sit here and put your hands on the handles,” the technician instructs. I look over the machine. On the top, it says Nikon. I hold a Nikon in my hands every day, to capture the beautiful life that unfolds in front of me. I carefully tucked my Nikon in my hospital bag so I would have it with me when my twins were born. It perfectly captured their little button noses and the way they turned towards each other in their shared clear bassinet. At home, when I see a huge mess of creativity, I sigh—then grab my Nikon off the shelf. It reframes what I see from an everyday mess to a home where creativity is nurtured. When I wrap my hands around my Nikon and pull it close to my face, it reveals the way I want to see and remember this one sweet life I get to live.

But right now, I’m putting my hands on a Nikon that’s about to tell me I am going blind.

I follow the nurse back to another exam room where my ophthalmologist talks me through the results of the tests. He begins explaining that I have optic neuritis, which may be caused by multiple sclerosis, but it can only be confirmed by an MRI. He is already communicating with the neurologist at the hospital. I call Jason and put him on speaker phone. He can be the voice of reason and be another witness to what I am hearing. “I’m on my way,” Jason tells me. 

When he arrives, he shows no trepidation of his own. He rushes to my side—unafraid of my brokenness and ready to draw near. 

In the next twenty-four hours, I have two MRIs and a spinal tap. Optic neuritis is confirmed, but no lesions are found on my brain or spine. Dozens of tests will take weeks to produce results. In the meantime, I am prescribed five days of IV steroids in hopes of recovering the vision I’ve already lost. 

I feel a sense of relief from the clean MRI reports, but I am not in the clear. My nurse comes into my hospital room to begin my first steroid treatment. Before she leaves, she asks if I’ve ever been on steroids before, to which I reply no. She gives me a look. “These steroids are gonna make you feel crazy.”

//

Outside, snow fell endlessly and cold wind rattled the windows. I priced out what I’d still like to purchase for the nursery, but as I looked over the bank accounts, my anxiety rose. The list of things we still needed for the twins’ arrival was endless. Knowing they would very likely be my last babies, I channeled all my positive energy into creating a beautiful nursery. 

I framed a print from Emily Winfield Martin’s The Wonderful Things You Will Be. Whimsical watercolors—soft shades of blues, pinks, and greens—are the perfect inspiration for the room. With extra huffing and puffing, I assembled the Ikea cribs, and tossed the cardboard into the hallway. I carefully placed tiny diapers into the top drawer of a dresser I found at the thrift store, and I put down a rug from the clearance section of Target. Pottery Barn blankets are my splurge, and I draped one over each crib rail. The room was put together with love and pennies pinched, but I wanted it to be more.

“Uncle Mike is selling his camper!” The words excitedly flew out of Jason’s mouth hours later when he shut the front door behind him. He’s just arrived home from work and his whole face was beaming with excitement. 

“OK,” I replied. I’d made myself comfortable on the couch while I folded piles of tiny clothes around my swollen belly. “And what does that have to do with us?” 

“I think we should buy it. It’s a steal! We are about to have four kids—camping is the perfect adventure for our family to have.” He was sure of his idea—it doesn’t matter that the camper looks a lot like Uncle Eddy from Christmas Vacation just pulled in. Or that it’s the last thing we needed before the twins were born. 

But on a late September evening a year and a half later, we pulled into Two Harbors, MN in our camper. The campground was swallowed in the night sky, and I was anything but helpful at getting the trailer parked and our campground set up. Instead, I corralled the kids. I shuffled the five and three-year-olds out of their car seats and into the camper. One at a time, I slid an eighteen-month old onto either hip and climbed the steps inside.

The ambiance of the wall-to-wall yellow was only intensified by the dim lighting. With everyone in and getting pajamas on, I changed diapers on a tiny bench. After Jason had everything set up outside, the six of us settled in. I shared a bed with Dean and Amelia, our twins, who were one-and-a-half. I didn't sleep deeply, but my heart's contentment deepened when Dean’s fuzzy head bumped up against mine throughout the night. I listened to the rhythm of Amelia soothing with her two fingers, and memorized the way she held her lovey to her lips. As sunrise slowly began over the north shore, I fully came out of my shallow night’s rest. 

Amelia’s bum was high in the air, and I pulled her close. I peeked out the back window and saw the sun breaking through the clouds—vivid pinks and blues and greens. The kids began to stir at the first sign of light and later, we walked our little family to the rocky shore. Jason handed me a cup of coffee, and we sat on a piece of driftwood watching our four children laughing and throwing rocks into the water. With the camper parked behind us, my head rested on Jason’s shoulder. Here was more beauty than I could have imagined would come from an old, rusty camper.

//

My first days home from the hospital require a visit to the neurology clinic for my final three steroid treatments. We pull up to a mid-century modern building overlooking a beautiful Minnesota lake. Fear rises as I consider what unwanted future I might see in the clinic. How often will I need to come here? I sheepishly offer that Jason doesn’t need to come in with me. Steady as always, he gets out of the car.   

I hold his arm tight as I check in. We head into the clinic, greeted by a compassionate, smiling nurse. A row of a dozen infusion chairs look out a wall of windows onto the lake, winter sunshine streams inside. Here, time does not exist. Past, present, and future cases of varying diagnoses sit together. Everyone is kind, compassionate, and the exchanged looks are silent liturgies hoping for something better, for each other and for ourselves.

For several days prior to this, I was frozen on the couch, barely able to function. My preschoolers kept themselves busy while I tried not to completely lose myself in fear and paranoia. A creative mind on steroids is a scary place to be. Dozens of MyChart emails came through with results completely indecipherable by me. Google, am I dying? I awaited the bad news I knew must be coming.

After my final steroid infusion, Jason worked from home for the weeks of my recovery. He coordinated child care for appointments, managed school drop-off and pick up. But mostly he cared for me. He’d prepare me a plate of food and as he handed it to me, it pulled me out of a dark place and into the room, around the table, surrounded by warm, bright faces full of love and hope.

One day, my vision was better but still awaiting real answers, my anxiety had paralyzed me to mere existing in the corner of the couch. Jason looked at me, took his headset off, and walked away from a dozen demands and meetings. “Let’s go in the hot tub for a few minutes.” It’s where we go when we both need a break from the noises and demands of the day.

Reluctantly, I agreed. Date nights are few and far between, but twenty minutes in the hot tub together works just fine. I sink into the hot, clean water and hold my knees to my chest. Jason sits across from me. Where the winter air meets hot water, steam swirls between us. He is less than three feet in front of me, yet I cannot see him clearly.

“What are you really afraid of?” Jason looks right at me. He’s never been afraid to ask the hard questions.

“I’m afraid I will be really sick, that death is nearer than I thought.” Tears form and my voice starts to shake. “I’m afraid that you and the kids will have to take care of me.” Hot tears pour and join the well of cleansing water. Tiny icicles form around the nape of my neck. My arms and legs float, weightless. I am utterly exposed. With my deepest fear in the open, his gaze stays locked with mine. ”I will cause you all to suffer and burden your lives.” I gasp for the breath I was afraid to take for weeks. Tears stream down my face. 

“Isn’t that just what love is?” he says softly. 

In the coming weeks, I will learn that I do not have MS. My diagnosis will be an isolated case of optic neuritis, cause unknown. My eyesight will return to normal. I will see my neurologist every six months for a follow-up. I will learn to live with a new kind of presence, where every morning starts with a hallelujah in the form of a whispered prayer: Today, I am healthy. This is a gift.

But here, in this moment, I sit across from the man I’ve loved for sixteen years. A man whose love has always come with a reckless abandon. I have rolled my eyes, shaken my head, and argued for newer and better. I have watched him tinker with engines that people would toss without a thought. I’ve seen him create breathtaking adventures out of lost causes and bring light and joy with secondhand treasures. 

He has always been a lover of old and broken things. Even if the old and broken thing is me.  

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Essay and photo by

Jennifer Floyd

. Jennifer, her husband, and four children landed in Anoka, Minnesota after eight years of living in warm climates like Arizona and California. She loves photographing families (including her own) to see the eternal beauty of simple, everyday moments. When she isn't washing dishes, she is exploring creation, learning of our Creator, and creating art with her family alongside.

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