Today, November 6, marks the day of success. I have now "blogged" every day (except the first) of November. In addition, I have now "blogged" more in the month of November than I did in the entire first ten months of the year. Nice.
I've come to realize that my problem is prioritizing. I can't blame it all on my work-from-home job, though I'm sure that is part of it. At the end of the day, though, there are more than enough hours to raise my girls, do my job, clean my house, and fulfill my drive to create. There have to be, or I'm not going to make it through the next 18 years until Addie is on her way to the University of Notre Dame (or Cornell).
Oh, to master prioritizing.
Oh, to master getting out of bed at 5:45 a.m. to take my shower, get in some devos (at DeVos or in my big, comfy chair), blog a bit, and then make breakfast for the girls. That, of course, means prioritizing the end of my day--vegging in front of the TV, watching the news for the 10th time that day, or climbing into bed? It all depends on what my priorities are . . . vegging or becoming who I'm supposed to be.
I used to meet my Dear Writer Friend at DeVos for devos once a month. It wasn't really devos as much as outlining our goals--physical, spiritual, financial, emotional, creative, and professional. I found my notes the other day from our last meeting before DWF moved to the sunset. That was years ago. She's back now, and I'm no further on crossing those things off my list. Well, except for write a letter to/call Grandma once each week. She's in heaven now, so I'm exempt from that one.
So . . .
Physical. I need abs. And I have dozens and dozens of pounds to lose to be healthy. I want to be a runner some day.
Spiritual. I need to pray. More. Some. At all.
Financial. Thanks to Dave Ramsey, we have had some success here. There is still a long way to go, though. Gotta snowball.
Emotional. I need some space. Some time. Something for me. Tomorrow I should have time away. But I need to create that time with my friends, too. And some accountability to get it all in.
Creative. Blogging daily is a good start. How about that journal which shall be burned upon my death? (Really. I think I mastered that spell from reading through the Harry Potter series three times.) I have a lot of books on my shelf that need to be read, too. They're crying out for it, and so is my brain.
Professional. I need to develop a work schedule for each week and stick to it. There is much for me to learn to do my job well, so I should learn it. I also need to chat with Mom about the blogging (there it is again!) and other social networking she needs me to take on for her. Creativity in exchange for free child care? Works for me! And DWF just might get me on Twitter after all, though it my be as my mom.
So maybe success actually equals six, but five is a better start than I've made in a long, long time.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Happy Unbirthday, Baby!
Today is the day we originally assigned as the birthday of our youngest children. When your labors are as predictable (short and late) as mine, you get to do just that: assign a birthday. Seems like this entire pregnancy had ideas other than predictable, though.
As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.
The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.
Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.
I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.
Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.
Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.
As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.
The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.
Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.
I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.
Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.
Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Surreal Wednesday
Two Wednesdays ago was one of the most surreal days of my life. I was due yesterday. I should have had a one day old today, but instead I have a two week old. Despite all my thoughts and plans, my water broke on Wednesday, October 21, at midnight. I spent that night in a delivery room receiving penicillin through an IV and delivered a healthy baby girl around 10:40 a.m. Then I spent the next week trying to comprehend that I was holding the baby in my arms instead of my womb.
In honor of that surreal day in late October, we will begin celebrating Surreal Wednesdays. Today's surreal moment:
Meggie meets Starbucks.
In honor of that surreal day in late October, we will begin celebrating Surreal Wednesdays. Today's surreal moment:
Meggie meets Starbucks.
You buy the kid one apple juice in a red holiday cup and suddenly she's too grown up to even come in the house when she's told.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Baby, don't ever let anyone cheapen you.
Let's get something out in the open right away: having a baby is never cheap.
There is research that puts the cost of raising a child near $200,000, not including college. It really is worth every penny, but that doesn't mean it isn't shocking. I'm due today, but our beautiful daughter decided to take it upon herself (or my Alaskan Seattle friend paid her off!) to arrive two weeks early. That means that yesterday, the eve of her "birth," we received our first of at least three bills related to her.
$1,729.70.
In August, just 11 short weeks before our expected arrival, BeauDon took a new job, which meant new insurance. Through the grace of God the former insurance carried us through the dreaded COBRA period and right up until the new insurance took effect on October 1. That saved us nearly $1,200 in out-of-pocket (and nonreimbursable) expenses. Whew. Dodged that bullet.
That said, the new insurance just isn't as good as the old. Say what you want about Former Job, but the coverage was decent. I do have to say that Current Job coverage is better than nothing (WAY better), but we do now have a $2,500 deductible. Then we have to pay 20% of our bills, up to another $2,500. Nobody wants to anticipate delivery of a newborn knowing it is likely they will be billed $5,000. Thank goodness for HSA accounts and Current Job's generous seed money in said account! Now that we have (at minimum) reached our deductible, everyone in the family is invited to get sick and/or need some sort of medical care. Commence all elective surgeries and medical treatment (ahem and sorry, BeauDon).
$1,729.70. Yeah. Even with the HSA, we're going to need a while to pay that off. (Baby girl, does anyone else think it's excessive to charge us $1,390.00 for the nursery you were in for less than two hours?)
This is only bill number one, you say? Of three, you say? And the next one will be more? That would be the true reason I don't get an epidural. I'm too Dutch to pay for it.
Ah, well. When we're all cold again next winter because our tax return had to pay you off instead of buy new windows, we'll just snuggle you extra tight, young one.
The silver lining:
Today's call to billing services revealed that our account has not yet been adjusted to reflect the discounted rate we're eligible for through our insurance company.
So, darling Addie Maye . . . never let anyone cheapen you. Except maybe the insurance company.
There is research that puts the cost of raising a child near $200,000, not including college. It really is worth every penny, but that doesn't mean it isn't shocking. I'm due today, but our beautiful daughter decided to take it upon herself (or my Alaskan Seattle friend paid her off!) to arrive two weeks early. That means that yesterday, the eve of her "birth," we received our first of at least three bills related to her.
$1,729.70.
In August, just 11 short weeks before our expected arrival, BeauDon took a new job, which meant new insurance. Through the grace of God the former insurance carried us through the dreaded COBRA period and right up until the new insurance took effect on October 1. That saved us nearly $1,200 in out-of-pocket (and nonreimbursable) expenses. Whew. Dodged that bullet.
That said, the new insurance just isn't as good as the old. Say what you want about Former Job, but the coverage was decent. I do have to say that Current Job coverage is better than nothing (WAY better), but we do now have a $2,500 deductible. Then we have to pay 20% of our bills, up to another $2,500. Nobody wants to anticipate delivery of a newborn knowing it is likely they will be billed $5,000. Thank goodness for HSA accounts and Current Job's generous seed money in said account! Now that we have (at minimum) reached our deductible, everyone in the family is invited to get sick and/or need some sort of medical care. Commence all elective surgeries and medical treatment (ahem and sorry, BeauDon).
$1,729.70. Yeah. Even with the HSA, we're going to need a while to pay that off. (Baby girl, does anyone else think it's excessive to charge us $1,390.00 for the nursery you were in for less than two hours?)
This is only bill number one, you say? Of three, you say? And the next one will be more? That would be the true reason I don't get an epidural. I'm too Dutch to pay for it.
Ah, well. When we're all cold again next winter because our tax return had to pay you off instead of buy new windows, we'll just snuggle you extra tight, young one.
The silver lining:
Today's call to billing services revealed that our account has not yet been adjusted to reflect the discounted rate we're eligible for through our insurance company.
So, darling Addie Maye . . . never let anyone cheapen you. Except maybe the insurance company.
Monday, November 02, 2009
For Wendy, who always seems to somehow know what is best for me
It's the dreaded guilt-inducing month yet again (already?!), and I failed miserably at it last year. One might wonder why I would ever give it a go again this year when my win-loss record rivals that of the Detroit Lions, but like the Lions I can be assured that I have faithful (to the point of eligibility for sainthood) fans in my corner. So, in honor of WMW, my committed inch-by-inch writer friend; our better-than-average elder and his beautiful wife; our lovely neighbor who is moving too soon; my favorite worship leader who always believes the Lions will play football that first Sunday in February; my hubby's former WW coworker who thinks I really am funny--or at least worth laughing at--and any cyber stalkers I don't know about, I give you my best efforts at posting every day this month except for the first.
(NOTE: Full disclosure statement--last year I blamed my lack of posting on my nearly full-time work schedule and my toddler and preschooler. While this year I have (naively) added a newborn into the mix, I also happen to have the entire month of November off. Thus, I lost the major part of my excuse and have added 2:00 a.m. feedings in as the perfect time to doze off or dream up witty blog entries. Or explore excuses for my failure at NaBloPoMo.)
As a tribute to last year's failure, I have decided to dedicate today's post to all the times (since November began) that I have meant well and, well, fell short in the final minutes of the game:
* My Fantasy Football team, Sassy Frass, had far too many Packers on it this week . . . normally that works for me, but this year my defense is no match for the grand ol' #4.
* It is day two of odd-even parking in this fair city--and my ninth annual effort at it--and I still can't remember which side I should use on which day.
* The "over easy" egg I made for my preschooler ended up closer to over hard than raw. She cried.
* I took aforementioned preschooler's "Yes, I want toast, Mom," to mean she actually wanted it toasted. She didn't. She cried.
* I left the newborn on the chair for a bit too long while trying to make said egg and toast. She cried. Then she stopped. I came out to find aforementioned preschooler holding her and rocking. Without supporting the baby's head. She meant well. I almost cried.
* Prior to newborn's most-recent feeding (about 1 hour late, according to the shrillness of her cry), I neglected to secure a cup for toddler to fill with her healthy ten-minutes-before-lunch snack of Cheese-its. She found a shoe.
Here's hoping that none of this rubs off on the baby wrap auction ending tomorrow morning. So far that thing is mine, but the hours to go make me fear my chances. Stupid eBay and getting all my hopes up only to steal the dream from me at the last second.
I'm sure there's more, but it's all slipped my mind for now. And the kids are a 1/2-hour late for their naps, which means there is apple pie calling my name. Ooh, and Halloween candy. One day down. How many more to go?
(NOTE: Full disclosure statement--last year I blamed my lack of posting on my nearly full-time work schedule and my toddler and preschooler. While this year I have (naively) added a newborn into the mix, I also happen to have the entire month of November off. Thus, I lost the major part of my excuse and have added 2:00 a.m. feedings in as the perfect time to doze off or dream up witty blog entries. Or explore excuses for my failure at NaBloPoMo.)
As a tribute to last year's failure, I have decided to dedicate today's post to all the times (since November began) that I have meant well and, well, fell short in the final minutes of the game:
* My Fantasy Football team, Sassy Frass, had far too many Packers on it this week . . . normally that works for me, but this year my defense is no match for the grand ol' #4.
* It is day two of odd-even parking in this fair city--and my ninth annual effort at it--and I still can't remember which side I should use on which day.
* The "over easy" egg I made for my preschooler ended up closer to over hard than raw. She cried.
* I took aforementioned preschooler's "Yes, I want toast, Mom," to mean she actually wanted it toasted. She didn't. She cried.
* I left the newborn on the chair for a bit too long while trying to make said egg and toast. She cried. Then she stopped. I came out to find aforementioned preschooler holding her and rocking. Without supporting the baby's head. She meant well. I almost cried.
* Prior to newborn's most-recent feeding (about 1 hour late, according to the shrillness of her cry), I neglected to secure a cup for toddler to fill with her healthy ten-minutes-before-lunch snack of Cheese-its. She found a shoe.
Here's hoping that none of this rubs off on the baby wrap auction ending tomorrow morning. So far that thing is mine, but the hours to go make me fear my chances. Stupid eBay and getting all my hopes up only to steal the dream from me at the last second.
I'm sure there's more, but it's all slipped my mind for now. And the kids are a 1/2-hour late for their naps, which means there is apple pie calling my name. Ooh, and Halloween candy. One day down. How many more to go?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A Mother's Intuition and a Father's Preparation
I got pregnant in February. It has never been hard for us to conceive--we've been blessed to get pregnant in the month that we have started trying for all three of my pregnancies. It's a blessing that not many woman get to enjoy.
So, knowing that we wanted our last two children close together, shortly after our youngest daughter's first birthday we conceived our "number last" child. During the early stages of pregnancy I struggle with nausea, tiredness, soreness, and many other ailments common to those early days. I also struggle with anxiety, wondering if the baby will be okay, if it will live, who it will look like, how it will fit in our family, what gender it will be . . . again, common to any newly-pregnant woman.
This time was a bit different. This time my cravings were different and some of my normal symptoms weren't there. This time my anxiety led me to check with friends and call the doctor's office. This time I just knew there was something wrong.
I explained those feelings away by referring to the postpartum depression I struggled with after the birth of our second daughter. I explained them away by chuckling at my belief that God could never give us only good, being afraid of what blessings He had for us, and knowing that the shoe would have to fall eventually. But they persisted. Even through the two checkups where we heard the heartbeat and I measured the right size, they persisted. Something was wrong and soon we would learn what--I just knew it.
Our one and only ultra sound was scheduled for June 16 at 2:45 p.m. As I tried to sleep on Monday night, I was plagued by dreams and anxiety that I haven't known for years. I woke early on Tuesday morning and laid in bed wishing, willing, praying, breathing away my anxiety. Nothing worked. I spent the day being quite productive in the office--it helped to keep my mind off the knots in my stomach--and left for my appointment at 2:30 p.m. Walking out of the office, I had the overwhelming sense that I would not return the same. I knew that our appointment that afternoon would change everything about our lives.
"Don't WE have a flair for the dramatic," I thought. Then I whispered a prayer that God would prepare us for whatever we would learn that afternoon.
Leaving the parking garage AFTER the appointment, I admitted to God that it would have been hard to be prepared for what we learned. But I thanked Him for doing it anyway.
We got called early for our ultra sound, and I settled in to the bed and the goop and prepared to see our baby for the first time. As the tech zoomed around, we caught a glimpse of Baby. She kept moving, and we saw Baby again. She said, "Is this your first ultra sound?" We said yes. Then she focused on Baby again, but I couldn't see its heart beating. Momentary panic. As focus became more clear, however, we saw a little heart beating away. 146 beats per minute. Strong, solid, consistent. Beautiful.
Then in a quiet voice, the tech said, "I see something else that I have to tell you. There's something here." I cannot express the terror that sets in at words like that. Then rationality: a hole in the heart, a problem with the brain, a missing limb . . . we can deal with these things.
I held my breath, and I'm sure Beau did, too, as we heard her say, "There is a twin, but it's heart isn't beating. It's much smaller, and it stopped growing. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry?!
We're having twins?
Our baby died?
How? Why?
Does this dead baby stay in me until I deliver?
I have to deliver it?!
Will the other baby be okay?
What would we have done with two?
Can I please go home now?
So many questions, and almost no answers. Even worse, so many conflicting feelings flooding my mind. Grief over the baby we lost. Joy over the baby that is there. Relief that we never knew there were twins and didn't have the chance to wrap our hearts around two babies. Pain. Fear. Regret.
Peace.
We were prepared, if you can be. I had known that something was wrong, so I was ready for it, even though I couldn't have dreamed up this reality. We had no reason to suspect twins, and the doctor had nothing but apologies to offer us. But we had more than that. We had peace. We had the knowledge that our beautiful baby--whose gender we may never know--is now Baby Zion, celebrating eternity in heaven with a Father who has always known its identity, its heart, its beauty.
The rest of the ultra sound was thankfully much less eventful. Except for gender, we got every glimpse, picture, and reassurance that we needed from Twin A. And every time the tech typed "Twin," my heart lurched. The true pain came when she needed to record the heart beat, or lack thereof, of Twin B. To watch her push record on a flat line and see our baby on the screen with its still heart . . . I have never known that pain. The true joy came after I got to go to the bathroom (a small joy in itself!), and she resumed the ultra sound on the healthy baby. Up until that point, the position had been wrong to get a picture of its heart. I laid back down, accepted the goop again, and settled in . . . she put the paddle on my stomach, and we were immediately rewarded with a beautiful four-chambered heart. I have never known that relief.
So here we sit. There is one healthy baby in my stomach, and it is kicking me regularly. That, in itself is a gift from God, because I normally only feel it every 2 or 3 days. It kicked me to sleep last night and is reminding me again this morning that life goes on. That I am loved and held and have beheld the true beauty of life--and death--in the presence of God. There is also one dead baby in my stomach, and its little body will remain unchanged while we monitor the growth of its twin. In 20 weeks I shall deliver them both. One will be tested, and the other will test us. One will live with God and in our hearts, the other will live with us and in our arms.
Someday what I have written here, and the kind thoughts we have received from our Family, will perhaps help our living twin to understand what it lost and what it gained in its 14 1/2 weeks shared with Baby Zion. It will be an entry to talk about heaven and eternity and how God carries us. Delivery day, baptism day, birthdays, the first day of kindergarten, graduation, wedding day . . . every day will be tempered with what could have been and what is. We will always wonder, yet we will always rejoice that our Zion is in eternity forever without ever having to spend a day living in sin and pain. To slip from its mother's tummy, from the love it was created with and our desire to have it with us, into a world with no more night is a beautiful thing. It's a sad thing, but it is joyous too.
My grandfather died in September of 1998. My grandmother died last October. My sister's father-in-law, who was like a dear uncle or extra grandfather to my own girls, died in January. Countless friends have lost babies they didn't get to hold. All of these people--these people we love and who loved us--were there to greet our Baby Zion on its arrival on a day in mid May. This is the first of his great grandchildren that my grandpa got to meet. There is comfort there. May they know true joy together until the day that we are greeted by them and can celebrate eternity the way we were made.
We are blessed.
So, knowing that we wanted our last two children close together, shortly after our youngest daughter's first birthday we conceived our "number last" child. During the early stages of pregnancy I struggle with nausea, tiredness, soreness, and many other ailments common to those early days. I also struggle with anxiety, wondering if the baby will be okay, if it will live, who it will look like, how it will fit in our family, what gender it will be . . . again, common to any newly-pregnant woman.
This time was a bit different. This time my cravings were different and some of my normal symptoms weren't there. This time my anxiety led me to check with friends and call the doctor's office. This time I just knew there was something wrong.
I explained those feelings away by referring to the postpartum depression I struggled with after the birth of our second daughter. I explained them away by chuckling at my belief that God could never give us only good, being afraid of what blessings He had for us, and knowing that the shoe would have to fall eventually. But they persisted. Even through the two checkups where we heard the heartbeat and I measured the right size, they persisted. Something was wrong and soon we would learn what--I just knew it.
Our one and only ultra sound was scheduled for June 16 at 2:45 p.m. As I tried to sleep on Monday night, I was plagued by dreams and anxiety that I haven't known for years. I woke early on Tuesday morning and laid in bed wishing, willing, praying, breathing away my anxiety. Nothing worked. I spent the day being quite productive in the office--it helped to keep my mind off the knots in my stomach--and left for my appointment at 2:30 p.m. Walking out of the office, I had the overwhelming sense that I would not return the same. I knew that our appointment that afternoon would change everything about our lives.
"Don't WE have a flair for the dramatic," I thought. Then I whispered a prayer that God would prepare us for whatever we would learn that afternoon.
Leaving the parking garage AFTER the appointment, I admitted to God that it would have been hard to be prepared for what we learned. But I thanked Him for doing it anyway.
We got called early for our ultra sound, and I settled in to the bed and the goop and prepared to see our baby for the first time. As the tech zoomed around, we caught a glimpse of Baby. She kept moving, and we saw Baby again. She said, "Is this your first ultra sound?" We said yes. Then she focused on Baby again, but I couldn't see its heart beating. Momentary panic. As focus became more clear, however, we saw a little heart beating away. 146 beats per minute. Strong, solid, consistent. Beautiful.
Then in a quiet voice, the tech said, "I see something else that I have to tell you. There's something here." I cannot express the terror that sets in at words like that. Then rationality: a hole in the heart, a problem with the brain, a missing limb . . . we can deal with these things.
I held my breath, and I'm sure Beau did, too, as we heard her say, "There is a twin, but it's heart isn't beating. It's much smaller, and it stopped growing. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry?!
We're having twins?
Our baby died?
How? Why?
Does this dead baby stay in me until I deliver?
I have to deliver it?!
Will the other baby be okay?
What would we have done with two?
Can I please go home now?
So many questions, and almost no answers. Even worse, so many conflicting feelings flooding my mind. Grief over the baby we lost. Joy over the baby that is there. Relief that we never knew there were twins and didn't have the chance to wrap our hearts around two babies. Pain. Fear. Regret.
Peace.
We were prepared, if you can be. I had known that something was wrong, so I was ready for it, even though I couldn't have dreamed up this reality. We had no reason to suspect twins, and the doctor had nothing but apologies to offer us. But we had more than that. We had peace. We had the knowledge that our beautiful baby--whose gender we may never know--is now Baby Zion, celebrating eternity in heaven with a Father who has always known its identity, its heart, its beauty.
The rest of the ultra sound was thankfully much less eventful. Except for gender, we got every glimpse, picture, and reassurance that we needed from Twin A. And every time the tech typed "Twin," my heart lurched. The true pain came when she needed to record the heart beat, or lack thereof, of Twin B. To watch her push record on a flat line and see our baby on the screen with its still heart . . . I have never known that pain. The true joy came after I got to go to the bathroom (a small joy in itself!), and she resumed the ultra sound on the healthy baby. Up until that point, the position had been wrong to get a picture of its heart. I laid back down, accepted the goop again, and settled in . . . she put the paddle on my stomach, and we were immediately rewarded with a beautiful four-chambered heart. I have never known that relief.
So here we sit. There is one healthy baby in my stomach, and it is kicking me regularly. That, in itself is a gift from God, because I normally only feel it every 2 or 3 days. It kicked me to sleep last night and is reminding me again this morning that life goes on. That I am loved and held and have beheld the true beauty of life--and death--in the presence of God. There is also one dead baby in my stomach, and its little body will remain unchanged while we monitor the growth of its twin. In 20 weeks I shall deliver them both. One will be tested, and the other will test us. One will live with God and in our hearts, the other will live with us and in our arms.
Someday what I have written here, and the kind thoughts we have received from our Family, will perhaps help our living twin to understand what it lost and what it gained in its 14 1/2 weeks shared with Baby Zion. It will be an entry to talk about heaven and eternity and how God carries us. Delivery day, baptism day, birthdays, the first day of kindergarten, graduation, wedding day . . . every day will be tempered with what could have been and what is. We will always wonder, yet we will always rejoice that our Zion is in eternity forever without ever having to spend a day living in sin and pain. To slip from its mother's tummy, from the love it was created with and our desire to have it with us, into a world with no more night is a beautiful thing. It's a sad thing, but it is joyous too.
My grandfather died in September of 1998. My grandmother died last October. My sister's father-in-law, who was like a dear uncle or extra grandfather to my own girls, died in January. Countless friends have lost babies they didn't get to hold. All of these people--these people we love and who loved us--were there to greet our Baby Zion on its arrival on a day in mid May. This is the first of his great grandchildren that my grandpa got to meet. There is comfort there. May they know true joy together until the day that we are greeted by them and can celebrate eternity the way we were made.
We are blessed.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A Subtle Reminder.
"People, I love this country. It's the best Babylon on the face of this earth, but it's still Babylon. This is not the kingdom of God, and my ultimate allegiance belongs to Jesus and so does yours."
- Tony Campolo
- Tony Campolo
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Keeping Up Appearances
I honestly thought it would be more romantic than this . . . I'm not referring to marriage or motherhood, though in both instances life is a bit more changing diapers and washing dishes than lingering the days away on the beach or exploring foreign countries.
This 109-year-old farmhouse that is now in the city.
I pictured it as cozy and full of history. It is those those things, but it is a bit more dust and falling apart and cupboards smaller and shorter than reality demands.
I spent the better part of the past two days cleaning. The bleach smell on my hands and the cracking skin lead me to believe that it is likely a bad thing that I can literally count the times I've scrubbed those cupboards (six) and the time that I cleaned under the hood of the stove (yesterday) in the 8 years we've called this home. But there is a party at my house today, and in the interest of keeping up appearances, I have scrubbed cupboards and floors, forced my husband to recaulk the tub and the toilet, put away a month's pile of clothes in the girls' rooms, and sucked cobwebs out of windows, blinds, and crevices.
Come on in, company.
As I was scrubbing the kitchen cupboards, my mind was wondering to how silly it is that I clean and clean only when my house will be full of my casual acquaintances. It's nice to have friends that at least my house can be itself with.
But what about me? Don't I do the same for me when I'm about to walk out of my house? The things I say and the things I do are not always an accurate reflection of myself. It's often an act that I adopt in keeping up appearances. And those appearances aren't even for just the casual acquaintances. I told a friend how much I weigh the other day. She is the only one who knows besides my doctor, and he is bound by doctor/patient confidentiality.
I know it isn't just me, and I know it's important to adopt social skills in public even if I don't really have them in real life. The challenge is this: in a lot of ways I'm embarassed about who I really am.
Perhaps my only resolution for 2009 should be to get appearances and real life come more in line. Instead of resolving to lose10 20 at least 30 pounds this year or clean my house regularly, I should just resolve to be more real. Not that I shouldn't try to fix those things, but I shouldn't try to fix them just in keeping up appearances. If they embarass me so much that I'm frantic that someone might see them, perhaps I should try to fix them permanently. I just might save myself another four months with a counselor.
So, in the interest of not keeping up appearances:
* I hate exercising. I hate it so much that I just don't do it.
* I wasn't joking when I asked for a creative solution to my lack of self-discipline.
* I hate cleaning. Especially the dishes and the bathroom. Yuck.
* I LOVE food. In fact, I hate how much I love it. No. I don't even hate it. I love loving food.
* Candy is my weakness. Followed by peanut butter, ice cream, and mint. Oh, and red meat. And carbs. See what I mean?
* Sometimes I'd rather read "People" or "US Weekly" than some great work by Dostoevsky. And I'd generally rather discuss the latest celebrity gossip than said great work. Unless it's a David McCullough book . . . no, probably even then.
* I find it difficult to not spend money. Even when it's something I don't want.
* Most days I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom without doing the laundry, washing the dishes, cleaning, cooking, putting kids to bed . . . mostly just the stay-at-home part.
* I have to force myself to pray, and I can't remember the last time I did devotions.
{Deep breath.}
Okay. Now it's out there. Embarassing. Seriously.
Even this blog is judging me. I'm going to go call my therapist.
This 109-year-old farmhouse that is now in the city.
I pictured it as cozy and full of history. It is those those things, but it is a bit more dust and falling apart and cupboards smaller and shorter than reality demands.
I spent the better part of the past two days cleaning. The bleach smell on my hands and the cracking skin lead me to believe that it is likely a bad thing that I can literally count the times I've scrubbed those cupboards (six) and the time that I cleaned under the hood of the stove (yesterday) in the 8 years we've called this home. But there is a party at my house today, and in the interest of keeping up appearances, I have scrubbed cupboards and floors, forced my husband to recaulk the tub and the toilet, put away a month's pile of clothes in the girls' rooms, and sucked cobwebs out of windows, blinds, and crevices.
Come on in, company.
As I was scrubbing the kitchen cupboards, my mind was wondering to how silly it is that I clean and clean only when my house will be full of my casual acquaintances. It's nice to have friends that at least my house can be itself with.
But what about me? Don't I do the same for me when I'm about to walk out of my house? The things I say and the things I do are not always an accurate reflection of myself. It's often an act that I adopt in keeping up appearances. And those appearances aren't even for just the casual acquaintances. I told a friend how much I weigh the other day. She is the only one who knows besides my doctor, and he is bound by doctor/patient confidentiality.
I know it isn't just me, and I know it's important to adopt social skills in public even if I don't really have them in real life. The challenge is this: in a lot of ways I'm embarassed about who I really am.
Perhaps my only resolution for 2009 should be to get appearances and real life come more in line. Instead of resolving to lose
So, in the interest of not keeping up appearances:
* I hate exercising. I hate it so much that I just don't do it.
* I wasn't joking when I asked for a creative solution to my lack of self-discipline.
* I hate cleaning. Especially the dishes and the bathroom. Yuck.
* I LOVE food. In fact, I hate how much I love it. No. I don't even hate it. I love loving food.
* Candy is my weakness. Followed by peanut butter, ice cream, and mint. Oh, and red meat. And carbs. See what I mean?
* Sometimes I'd rather read "People" or "US Weekly" than some great work by Dostoevsky. And I'd generally rather discuss the latest celebrity gossip than said great work. Unless it's a David McCullough book . . . no, probably even then.
* I find it difficult to not spend money. Even when it's something I don't want.
* Most days I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom without doing the laundry, washing the dishes, cleaning, cooking, putting kids to bed . . . mostly just the stay-at-home part.
* I have to force myself to pray, and I can't remember the last time I did devotions.
{Deep breath.}
Okay. Now it's out there. Embarassing. Seriously.
Even this blog is judging me. I'm going to go call my therapist.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
A Year in Random Review
So 2008 is over, and we're three days in to 2009. If this year is anything like the last, then these three days might as well be three hundred for how fast this year will go.
I don't really get the whole "celebrate 'til you puke" at the sunset of a year or the sunrise of another. Even the worst year of my life--2001, which was also oddly the best--didn't provoke that sort of feeling in me, though there was hope that maybe "this year would be better than the last."
All that said, I do have the desire to somehow recap 2008 with a list of my significant discoveries from the year. Some even with links to demonstrate my internet savvy or perhaps just prove that I'm really not making these things up. Many of my discoveries were wonderful, some were a bit disappointing yet significant, others were rediscoveries, a few were discovered on the very last day possible, and most were actually discovered by others but noticed by me. In the end, electricity, Coca Cola Classic, and the internet are much the same (thanks for that last one, Al Gore).
And now for a tribute to those whose passing (regardless of the date) left an indelible mark on me in 2008. . .
Tim Russert
Brooke Astor
May Boatwright
Esther VanderMeer
Harvey Milk
Jesus Christ
Julie's cousin Joshua
I don't really get the whole "celebrate 'til you puke" at the sunset of a year or the sunrise of another. Even the worst year of my life--2001, which was also oddly the best--didn't provoke that sort of feeling in me, though there was hope that maybe "this year would be better than the last."
All that said, I do have the desire to somehow recap 2008 with a list of my significant discoveries from the year. Some even with links to demonstrate my internet savvy or perhaps just prove that I'm really not making these things up. Many of my discoveries were wonderful, some were a bit disappointing yet significant, others were rediscoveries, a few were discovered on the very last day possible, and most were actually discovered by others but noticed by me. In the end, electricity, Coca Cola Classic, and the internet are much the same (thanks for that last one, Al Gore).
"Forever" by Chris Brown
iPod Touch
Taylor Swift
Guitar Hero
Missing Grandma
The Favre-less Green Bay Packers
Ben Barnes
Harvey Milk
James Franco
Old Friends
New Friends
True Friends
Michael Buble
"Doubt"
". . . faith and desire and the swing of your hips . . ."
"I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said"
A friend's baby born with spina bifida
John Mayer's cover of "Free Fallin'"
The twisted emotions of having a deployed soldier
Megan Leigh McDowell
Laughter
Amazing harmonies
Fighting children
Prince Caspian
Knock knock jokes from a three year old
Mrs. Astor Regrets, Meryl Gordon
Hope
Using cash
Death by Christmas tree
David Cook
"Jericho"
Facebook
"Fringe"
"Freaks and Geeks"
Seth Rogen
"I tried to be chill, but you're so hot that I melted . . ."
"Thunder" by Boys Like Girls
Post-partum Depression
Down Came the Rain, Brooke Shields
Edward, Bella, and Jasper {*SIGH*}
Beaver Island
Camping in a pop-up
The ER in Ludington
November 4, 2008
And now for a tribute to those whose passing (regardless of the date) left an indelible mark on me in 2008. . .
Tim Russert
Brooke Astor
May Boatwright
Esther VanderMeer
Harvey Milk
Jesus Christ
Julie's cousin Joshua
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Busyness gets in the way of the business
Church Meetings
Dishes
Laundry
Work Meetings
Cleaning
The revenue side of the budget
Bathing, cleaning, and feeding the girls
Writing
Playing in the snow
Exercise
Chatting with a friend
Reading
An online game of Scrabble
Catching up on a friend's blog
Honoring World AIDS Day
Keeping the Sabbath
Snuggling the girls
Collapsing in a chair at the end of the day, she sadly acknowledges that there is a lazy element to the busyness. But, it must be said, that is largely driven by the busyness.
Tomorrow. Please. Let tomorrow be a better day. Then, she thought, she will happily settle in to her sabbath lifestyle. For now she'll keep it in her heart.
Just because I was busy, please don't think I didn't think of you, dear friends. He knows your name, and your faces are written on my heart. One day your pain will be gone. One day we will be free. If I could keep you, if I could heal you, if I you were mine . . . carry on, my friends. Your strength, your courage, your smiles . . . Walk on.
{December 1 * World AIDS Day . . . Every Day * A day to care}
Dishes
Laundry
Work Meetings
Cleaning
The revenue side of the budget
Bathing, cleaning, and feeding the girls
Writing
Playing in the snow
Exercise
Chatting with a friend
Reading
An online game of Scrabble
Catching up on a friend's blog
Honoring World AIDS Day
Keeping the Sabbath
Snuggling the girls
Collapsing in a chair at the end of the day, she sadly acknowledges that there is a lazy element to the busyness. But, it must be said, that is largely driven by the busyness.
Tomorrow. Please. Let tomorrow be a better day. Then, she thought, she will happily settle in to her sabbath lifestyle. For now she'll keep it in her heart.
Just because I was busy, please don't think I didn't think of you, dear friends. He knows your name, and your faces are written on my heart. One day your pain will be gone. One day we will be free. If I could keep you, if I could heal you, if I you were mine . . . carry on, my friends. Your strength, your courage, your smiles . . . Walk on.
{December 1 * World AIDS Day . . . Every Day * A day to care}
Friday, October 31, 2008
Softly and Tenderly
My grandma died on Tuesday night. I wasn't there. To hear it told, though, and I have, over and over, it was beautiful. It's a lovely thing, to hear it over and over.
It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.
Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.
Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.
Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.
She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.
Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson
Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.
It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.
Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.
Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.
Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.
She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.
Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson
Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Voter fraud is alive and well.
So I still don't know which candidate should have my vote in November. I have listened to the speeches, watched them interact with their chosen Vice Presidential candidates, watched them with their families, blah, blah, blah. And I still don't know.
McCain=experience and perseverance
Obama=hope and change
McCain=reckless
Obama=inexperience
McCain=stiff and old
Obama=WAY liberal
What's a girl to do? I'm seriously considering selling my vote to the highest bidder. Not the candidate, mind you, or even anyone officially involved in the campaign. Nope. Just your average, every-day citizen who might want their candidate to win. So, commence bidding.
I'm really trying quite hard not to think about how many years back into voter reforms and such that this sends us. Maybe it's okay because no one is badgering me for my vote. Instead, I'm badgering them to pay me for my vote. Then I can use that money to fill up my gas tank or something.
Seriously, though. When politics are full of party lines and lies and rhetoric and lofty dreams and attacks and mockery, who is a girl to believe?
McCain=experience and perseverance
Obama=hope and change
McCain=reckless
Obama=inexperience
McCain=stiff and old
Obama=WAY liberal
What's a girl to do? I'm seriously considering selling my vote to the highest bidder. Not the candidate, mind you, or even anyone officially involved in the campaign. Nope. Just your average, every-day citizen who might want their candidate to win. So, commence bidding.
I'm really trying quite hard not to think about how many years back into voter reforms and such that this sends us. Maybe it's okay because no one is badgering me for my vote. Instead, I'm badgering them to pay me for my vote. Then I can use that money to fill up my gas tank or something.
Seriously, though. When politics are full of party lines and lies and rhetoric and lofty dreams and attacks and mockery, who is a girl to believe?
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I've Lept.
Go JETS!
Sorry, Packers. Bad move.
Rest assured, I do wish Aaron Rodgers the best, and I will be hoping for Jennings on my fantasy team. But I would also like a new jersey.
Sorry, Packers. Bad move.
Rest assured, I do wish Aaron Rodgers the best, and I will be hoping for Jennings on my fantasy team. But I would also like a new jersey.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Ready? Commence Breathing
He's back!
I must confess to being relieved. I thought the retirement was premature. I thought he had one of his best seasons last year. I thought they were one pass away from the Super Bowl, and they could do it again this season. They own our division. Sorry, Aaron. They do.
Normally I'm not a fan of people retiring and unretiring. If you're done, then you're done. But this whole thing sounded a bit shady to me from the beginning.
So now what? He doesn't have to be a Packer. I'm okay with that, I guess. They may have a good future in Aaron Rodgers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be Aaron and get thrown back onto the bench. But then what?
Oh, gosh. What if he's a Viking? THEN what would I do?!
I must confess to being relieved. I thought the retirement was premature. I thought he had one of his best seasons last year. I thought they were one pass away from the Super Bowl, and they could do it again this season. They own our division. Sorry, Aaron. They do.
Normally I'm not a fan of people retiring and unretiring. If you're done, then you're done. But this whole thing sounded a bit shady to me from the beginning.
So now what? He doesn't have to be a Packer. I'm okay with that, I guess. They may have a good future in Aaron Rodgers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be Aaron and get thrown back onto the bench. But then what?
Oh, gosh. What if he's a Viking? THEN what would I do?!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Journey Through the Valley - Part Two
There was a time not long ago when nearly every smile that crossed my face was fake. It was also a time when my toddler's voice or my newborn's cry brought shivers only duplicated by fingernails on a chalkboard. The ringing phone caused me to sink deeper into my chair, and I longed for someone else to take the children that looked like me but couldn't possibly be mine to bed so that I could be alone.
Today is a winding road
It's taking me to places that I didn't want to go
Today in the blink of an eye
I'm holding on to something
And I do not know why I tried
I tried to read between the lines
I tried to look into your eyes
I want a simple explanation
For what I'm feeling inside
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out
It was a dark time. I didn't know where I was or why, but I was quite certain that I would stay there forever. I couldn't figure out why I rarely felt connected to either child that I knew I loved . . . except when I did, and then it was obsessive. I was fine to let everyone, anyone, care for my girls . . . except when I wasn't, and then I was obsessive. I couldn't stay awake, but when I slept I couldn't rest. I was mean. I was ugly. And I didn't care a bit. About anything. And I figured no one else did either.
Except there were some who did, some who noticed. I thank God daily for those people. Without whom I would still be in my chair, not caring, going through the motions that I wished belonged to someone else. I wouldn't be me.
Postpartum depression. Really? Because I'm certain that only happens to other people. Depression is such a strong word. It doesn't really define me. But then again "a mental state characterized by a pessimistic feeling of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity" certainly sounds like me. Sadness? Check. Hopelessness? Check. Low self-esteem? Check. Sleep disturbances? Check. Exhaustion, emptiness, inability to enjoy things one previously enjoyed, social withdrawal, low energy, becoming easily frustrated? Check, check, check, check, check, and check.
Okay. Deep breath. Maybe it's true.
Today is a winding road, tell me where to start
And tell me something I don't know
Today I'm on my own, I can't move a muscle
And I can't pick up the phone, I don't know
And now I'm itching for the tall grass
And longing for the breeze
I need to step outside
Just to see if I can breathe
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out
It's interesting that Webster's defines depression as "a falling in of the surface; a sinking below its true place," because I think that there is nothing that describes it better. I felt like I wasn't myself, and I wasn't. I had truly sunk below my true place as a wife, a mother, a friend, a valued person.
Yeah, I'm walking on a tightrope
I'm wrapped up in vines, I think we'll make it out
But you just gotta give me time
Strike me down with lightning
Let me feel you in my veins
I wanna let you know how much I feel your pain
Today my smiles are genuine. Today my daughters' voices are beautiful. Today I remember how to laugh. When the days get bad, I remember that day lying on the bed in Mackinaw City when I laughed, really laughed, as I was being smothered in "tickle kisses" from my patient husband and my beautiful toddler. It was a long time in coming, and I know it wouldn't have come without medicine and therapy.
I never wanted to be a medicine taker. I hate the idea. Maybe I'll talk about it more in a post on a different day, but I'll confess to being scared, nearly panicked, about starting an antidepressant. But I knew that it might help lift me back up to my true place and I had to find a way out, so I did. And it remains one of the best decisions I've ever made.
Oh, Ellie and Meggie. We've come so far. You are my beautiful girls.
Your voice
[Is] the soundtrack of my summer
Do you know you're unlike any other
And you'll always be my thunder
[My girls], your eyes
Are the brightest of all the colors
I don't wanna ever love another
You'll always be my thunder
So bring on the rain
Oh, baby bring on the pain
And listen to the thunder
Song lyrics from "Thunder" by Boys Like Girls, quoted here for my daughters.
Today is a winding road
It's taking me to places that I didn't want to go
Today in the blink of an eye
I'm holding on to something
And I do not know why I tried
I tried to read between the lines
I tried to look into your eyes
I want a simple explanation
For what I'm feeling inside
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out
It was a dark time. I didn't know where I was or why, but I was quite certain that I would stay there forever. I couldn't figure out why I rarely felt connected to either child that I knew I loved . . . except when I did, and then it was obsessive. I was fine to let everyone, anyone, care for my girls . . . except when I wasn't, and then I was obsessive. I couldn't stay awake, but when I slept I couldn't rest. I was mean. I was ugly. And I didn't care a bit. About anything. And I figured no one else did either.
Except there were some who did, some who noticed. I thank God daily for those people. Without whom I would still be in my chair, not caring, going through the motions that I wished belonged to someone else. I wouldn't be me.
Postpartum depression. Really? Because I'm certain that only happens to other people. Depression is such a strong word. It doesn't really define me. But then again "a mental state characterized by a pessimistic feeling of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity" certainly sounds like me. Sadness? Check. Hopelessness? Check. Low self-esteem? Check. Sleep disturbances? Check. Exhaustion, emptiness, inability to enjoy things one previously enjoyed, social withdrawal, low energy, becoming easily frustrated? Check, check, check, check, check, and check.
Okay. Deep breath. Maybe it's true.
Today is a winding road, tell me where to start
And tell me something I don't know
Today I'm on my own, I can't move a muscle
And I can't pick up the phone, I don't know
And now I'm itching for the tall grass
And longing for the breeze
I need to step outside
Just to see if I can breathe
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out
It's interesting that Webster's defines depression as "a falling in of the surface; a sinking below its true place," because I think that there is nothing that describes it better. I felt like I wasn't myself, and I wasn't. I had truly sunk below my true place as a wife, a mother, a friend, a valued person.
Yeah, I'm walking on a tightrope
I'm wrapped up in vines, I think we'll make it out
But you just gotta give me time
Strike me down with lightning
Let me feel you in my veins
I wanna let you know how much I feel your pain
Today my smiles are genuine. Today my daughters' voices are beautiful. Today I remember how to laugh. When the days get bad, I remember that day lying on the bed in Mackinaw City when I laughed, really laughed, as I was being smothered in "tickle kisses" from my patient husband and my beautiful toddler. It was a long time in coming, and I know it wouldn't have come without medicine and therapy.
I never wanted to be a medicine taker. I hate the idea. Maybe I'll talk about it more in a post on a different day, but I'll confess to being scared, nearly panicked, about starting an antidepressant. But I knew that it might help lift me back up to my true place and I had to find a way out, so I did. And it remains one of the best decisions I've ever made.
Oh, Ellie and Meggie. We've come so far. You are my beautiful girls.
Your voice
[Is] the soundtrack of my summer
Do you know you're unlike any other
And you'll always be my thunder
[My girls], your eyes
Are the brightest of all the colors
I don't wanna ever love another
You'll always be my thunder
So bring on the rain
Oh, baby bring on the pain
And listen to the thunder
Song lyrics from "Thunder" by Boys Like Girls, quoted here for my daughters.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Journey Through the Valley - Part One
Something happened yesterday that has struck me and my family in a deeply personal way. A man, struggling with depression, allegedly (though he confessed, so there's nothing much alleged about it) entered a realty office in Muskegon, asked for his realtor, and fatally shot him. News reports vary on whether he was shot in the face, in the back of the head, or in the side of the head. Any way you look at it, it was at point blank range. And any way you look at it, the victim was a dad, a husband, a middle school youth leader.
And he was a realtor.
My mom, the realtor, is at work today. She was going to go in yesterday, but then Troy was shot, so she stayed home. My sister joked that my mom should borrow my dad's flak jacket from when he served in Iraq to go to work today. Mom said, "Over my face?"
There has been discussion surrounding the shooter, this Robert Johnson. He is a 73-year-old man who was angry over the declining housing market, which meant that he would lose money on the sale of his current house. He blamed Troy for that. So he (allegedly) shot him. Dead. A life ended. Hope ended. Because someone was angry. And depressed.
And that's where the discussion is now. Everyone who has something resembling an excuse to share prefaces it with, "I'm not condoning what he did . . ." And then they say something about the despair that encompasses those suffering from depression. I agree with that. Wholeheartedly. But he (allegedly) killed someone. And how many more depressed people are in Muskegon and maybe mad at my mom? Or maybe my pastor dad? Depression doesn't give you license to do what you want, consequences be damned.
So what is it? Is it stricter gun control laws? (I maintain that people who shoot other people don't care much if they get their guns illegally too). Is it metal detectors at the doors of all buildings? Is it working in pairs so that no one can blindside you? Or is it the community--each person's own community--making sure that people with mental illnesses get treatment?
I have postpartum depression. For about six weeks, I was deeper in the valley than I ever have been. Thankfully I have amazing friends who stepped in and told me they missed me and wanted me back. They helped me help myself. Because they're my friends. Because they love me. Because they love my girls and my husband. Now my depression was never psychosis, and I never thought about hurting myself or my children. Some people do, and if those thoughts and compulsions are like the other symptoms that accomapny depression, they truly are uncontrolable. My depression is being treated with medicine and therapy, and I'm back, now. Still journeying through the valley, but back.
What about Robert Johnson? He had family. He had someone. He had a community who should have seen him and helped him help himself. After he (allegedly) shot Troy, he ran to his former son-in-law's house. The ex-son-in-law turned him in and, while not speaking formally to the press, told someone that Johnson had been angry about the house and had been suffering from depression.
Let me get this straight. You knew? You knew that this man, who I'm sure is a lovely, lovely man when he is healthy, was depressed and you just watched? You didn't step in? And now one man is dead, and another is charged with premeditated murder. Two lives ended. Two families destroyed. A community shocked at the first murder in 20 years. A profession trying to figure out how to work without fear in a turbluent economy and falling market. Because of depression?
Depression is treatable. For some it involves inpatient treatment. For some it involves outpatient therapy. For some it involves antidepressants. But it's treatable. No one needs to die because of it.
So now as Troy's family makes plans to donate his organs and arrange a funeral, middle school children from a church youth group try to cope with the loss of a friend and mentor, a little boy and little girl try to understand that they will never see their father again, and I send my mom to work wishing that she could wear a military flak jacket, I have to wonder. Where were the people who loved Robert Johnson? Why didn't they step in before his depression drove him to do something that cannot be reversed? Something that cannot be fixed? Something that cannot be treated?
I wish they had. The VanderStelt family wishes they had. Roosevelt Park and the greater Muskegon community wishes they had. The Nexes realty company and the WMLAR group wishes they had. And I'm sure, in the end, Robert Johnson wishes they had.
It's a journey through the valley, and while it is your burden to carry, you cannot carry it alone. That's what community is for.
And he was a realtor.
My mom, the realtor, is at work today. She was going to go in yesterday, but then Troy was shot, so she stayed home. My sister joked that my mom should borrow my dad's flak jacket from when he served in Iraq to go to work today. Mom said, "Over my face?"
There has been discussion surrounding the shooter, this Robert Johnson. He is a 73-year-old man who was angry over the declining housing market, which meant that he would lose money on the sale of his current house. He blamed Troy for that. So he (allegedly) shot him. Dead. A life ended. Hope ended. Because someone was angry. And depressed.
And that's where the discussion is now. Everyone who has something resembling an excuse to share prefaces it with, "I'm not condoning what he did . . ." And then they say something about the despair that encompasses those suffering from depression. I agree with that. Wholeheartedly. But he (allegedly) killed someone. And how many more depressed people are in Muskegon and maybe mad at my mom? Or maybe my pastor dad? Depression doesn't give you license to do what you want, consequences be damned.
So what is it? Is it stricter gun control laws? (I maintain that people who shoot other people don't care much if they get their guns illegally too). Is it metal detectors at the doors of all buildings? Is it working in pairs so that no one can blindside you? Or is it the community--each person's own community--making sure that people with mental illnesses get treatment?
I have postpartum depression. For about six weeks, I was deeper in the valley than I ever have been. Thankfully I have amazing friends who stepped in and told me they missed me and wanted me back. They helped me help myself. Because they're my friends. Because they love me. Because they love my girls and my husband. Now my depression was never psychosis, and I never thought about hurting myself or my children. Some people do, and if those thoughts and compulsions are like the other symptoms that accomapny depression, they truly are uncontrolable. My depression is being treated with medicine and therapy, and I'm back, now. Still journeying through the valley, but back.
What about Robert Johnson? He had family. He had someone. He had a community who should have seen him and helped him help himself. After he (allegedly) shot Troy, he ran to his former son-in-law's house. The ex-son-in-law turned him in and, while not speaking formally to the press, told someone that Johnson had been angry about the house and had been suffering from depression.
Let me get this straight. You knew? You knew that this man, who I'm sure is a lovely, lovely man when he is healthy, was depressed and you just watched? You didn't step in? And now one man is dead, and another is charged with premeditated murder. Two lives ended. Two families destroyed. A community shocked at the first murder in 20 years. A profession trying to figure out how to work without fear in a turbluent economy and falling market. Because of depression?
Depression is treatable. For some it involves inpatient treatment. For some it involves outpatient therapy. For some it involves antidepressants. But it's treatable. No one needs to die because of it.
So now as Troy's family makes plans to donate his organs and arrange a funeral, middle school children from a church youth group try to cope with the loss of a friend and mentor, a little boy and little girl try to understand that they will never see their father again, and I send my mom to work wishing that she could wear a military flak jacket, I have to wonder. Where were the people who loved Robert Johnson? Why didn't they step in before his depression drove him to do something that cannot be reversed? Something that cannot be fixed? Something that cannot be treated?
I wish they had. The VanderStelt family wishes they had. Roosevelt Park and the greater Muskegon community wishes they had. The Nexes realty company and the WMLAR group wishes they had. And I'm sure, in the end, Robert Johnson wishes they had.
It's a journey through the valley, and while it is your burden to carry, you cannot carry it alone. That's what community is for.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Still Checking Closets
I've been thinking lately about Narnia. Not the films, though I am irresistably drawn to them. Not the books, either, which I read aloud to my husband over three years of road trips. I'm talking about the place itself. But there's really more to it than that even.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I Check Closets for Narnia
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say goodbye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it, too
Doesn't means that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
"The Call", Regina Spektor, from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian
This song makes me weep.
Which then grew into hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say goodbye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it, too
Doesn't means that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
"The Call", Regina Spektor, from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian
This song makes me weep.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Pray. Without ceasing.
I spent the morning, frantically looking for any proof. Any proof would have worked, but I found nothing. So I prayed. I prayed that the friend I have living in China was not in the school that will prove to be a grave for many. I prayed that she made it out of her apartment. I prayed that she didn't even live in that part of China. I prayed. And I continued to look for her address, a note, a clue, anything.
Finally. Proof. The northern part is her home. Not the central part that saw the death of many of its youngest and brightest. Safe. I breathed in deeply, with gratitude.
And then I ceased praying.
But why? Just because I don't know them, are they any less? Do the daughters, sons, friends, family members of others matter less than those who are mine? No.
Dear Abba, be with these, our Brothers and Sisters, and those who are not. Give them safety this night as they struggle with pain from wounds physical and emotional. Give them breath. Give them peace. Give them hope. And give them You. Amen.
Finally. Proof. The northern part is her home. Not the central part that saw the death of many of its youngest and brightest. Safe. I breathed in deeply, with gratitude.
And then I ceased praying.
But why? Just because I don't know them, are they any less? Do the daughters, sons, friends, family members of others matter less than those who are mine? No.
Dear Abba, be with these, our Brothers and Sisters, and those who are not. Give them safety this night as they struggle with pain from wounds physical and emotional. Give them breath. Give them peace. Give them hope. And give them You. Amen.
Friday, May 09, 2008
400 Days--Part Two
Our four hundred days are over. In the end, it was less than 400 days and it wasn't as hard as we thought it would be. And yet every day was a tender one, with tears at the ready. We did get to talk on the computer quite a few times, Curly-haired Cutie remembered her grandpa with a passion, and She Who Is Named After Him was smiley to see him. Our reunion was tearful and joyful and giggly. Not to mention early in the morning.
All that said, it seems as if we are still waiting as I keep forgetting to take the yellow ribbon from my old oak pillar, and our National Guard Deployment flag is still in our window.
Here was our four hundred days:
* Three wedding anniversaries, including one for my parents
* Seven missed birthdays, because Soldier Dad was home for Grandma's and Brother-in-law's.
* One hurt birthday girl on a warm day in May when her mom neglected to call on her birthday, her dad was states away hadn't talked to her in nearly a month and still didn't call, and her sister was too busy to call.
* One pregnancy announcement, and seven subsequent doctor's visits with reports of the babe's growth
* Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Day, Super Bowl, Valentine's Day (whatever), Easter. Oh, and Flag Day, which FunnyWriterMommy's husband thinks is important to include.
* Eleven Curly-haired Cutie's overnights at Grandma & Grandpa's without Grandpa
* Eleven dinners on the Tuesdays after the overnights
* She Who Is Named After Him's birth on Super Fat Tuesday
So much of my world was gone, but now he's back. And it's like he never left. But it's still good to have him back for many more birthdays and holidays and overnights and dinners and maybe another pregnancy announcement and birth.
He is such a good, good man. And we are so, so blessed.
All that said, it seems as if we are still waiting as I keep forgetting to take the yellow ribbon from my old oak pillar, and our National Guard Deployment flag is still in our window.
Here was our four hundred days:
* Three wedding anniversaries, including one for my parents
* Seven missed birthdays, because Soldier Dad was home for Grandma's and Brother-in-law's.
* One hurt birthday girl on a warm day in May when her mom neglected to call on her birthday, her dad was states away hadn't talked to her in nearly a month and still didn't call, and her sister was too busy to call.
* One pregnancy announcement, and seven subsequent doctor's visits with reports of the babe's growth
* Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Day, Super Bowl, Valentine's Day (whatever), Easter. Oh, and Flag Day, which FunnyWriterMommy's husband thinks is important to include.
* Eleven Curly-haired Cutie's overnights at Grandma & Grandpa's without Grandpa
* Eleven dinners on the Tuesdays after the overnights
* She Who Is Named After Him's birth on Super Fat Tuesday
So much of my world was gone, but now he's back. And it's like he never left. But it's still good to have him back for many more birthdays and holidays and overnights and dinners and maybe another pregnancy announcement and birth.
He is such a good, good man. And we are so, so blessed.
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