tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41781367424620987412024-03-05T01:50:48.634-08:00the truth will set you free...motherhood 101the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-55174932438083341052023-12-08T11:40:00.000-08:002023-12-08T11:40:46.268-08:00There Will Be People<p> A letter to my 2012 self,</p><p>I know that everything is upside down today. I know that there is a deafening static in your ears as the realization of what you're experiencing washes over you. Right now, and for the next year, you'll be in the tunnel. You'll have no idea what you're supposed to do with yourself in the coming days. People will ask why you're out and you won't know how to answer. The static stays. And it stays loud. It drowns out any rational thought. </p><p>This past week has been a veritable Hell for you. You were alone in that room when the unknown doctor came in and confirmed what you'd known in your heart for quite some time. He stayed for awhile but you didn't hear him once the first sentence left his lips. The static replaced his voice. </p><p>You made an impossible decision. You told your babies and they hit you and screamed at you to fix it and give them their brother back. You just took it. You let them pelt you with their little fists and their big feelings and you held them closer, almost as if you could keep them from breaking through sheer will and love. </p><p>You held him. You sang to him. You cradled him in your arms for the rest of his life. </p><p>Right now it seems that everything from breathing to walking is impossible. It feels like they forgot to pronounce you gone at the exact same time. It's impossible to even begin to imagine any kind of "life" after this...</p><p>But...there will be people.</p><p>On that first day home, your neighbors, who are also grieving parents, will carry you into your house. </p><p>For the first few months a tribe of women will gather over and over again, despite having their own lives, to sit with you to let you scream in pain. </p><p>One of those women will literally pick you up out of the snow. And she's still holding on, 11 years after this day. </p><p>People will honor his life with kindness and love for others. Hundreds of people. </p><p>Your closest people will listen to the pain. They'll hear the stories of these final days and they won't back away. But instead, sit with you in your brokenness. </p><p>A friend, and fellow broken mother, will be a lifeline on more days than I can count. </p><p>Every year at this time, your "people" will see your fragility. They'll handle you with care and love you in the most beautiful ways. </p><p>At some point you'll take breaths that don't crush your soul. You'll reach for others who have experienced this pain and you'll hold onto them as much as they do to you. </p><p>You'll still want to leave this world. And you'll explain that you only mean to see him, to be his mother, to want what all mothers want. And sometimes that desire will wash over you with a force that you're sure you can't withstand...</p><p>But...there will be people.</p><p>Your babies who once pounded your chest in pain, will grow and thrive and look at you with different eyes. </p><p>Friends will gather to bring you meals, and a clean home so that all you have to do is to remember and to grieve. </p><p>The static will soften and be replaced with a different sound. It will be the voices of those who continue to love you despite your brokenness. You are surrounded with such an overabundance of love that it will almost fill those cracks made in your heart so many years ago. Almost. You still get the odd comfort of your grief. You will remain broken and some days, shattered. But you'll breathe again. You'll even smile. And all because...</p><p>There will be people. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp0MhsTFYGDmZTVGTnqmdGP0GU2l9K64O3js3WX1LE3XReEVfiGfH6MdbJqgdm-Pz96lwiUz-JXh-kt3lj7aHq7bltEImkmf96TUGs0C6HedmKNaTxJ4ZnyGVTP_x8aphjj3L2bB2Z169RVkv6P7-SaK_xJ0EE_SNwWLsZPTQi-YYeSU9puWvChVQfMw3E/s540/FB_IMG_1702045602045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="540" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp0MhsTFYGDmZTVGTnqmdGP0GU2l9K64O3js3WX1LE3XReEVfiGfH6MdbJqgdm-Pz96lwiUz-JXh-kt3lj7aHq7bltEImkmf96TUGs0C6HedmKNaTxJ4ZnyGVTP_x8aphjj3L2bB2Z169RVkv6P7-SaK_xJ0EE_SNwWLsZPTQi-YYeSU9puWvChVQfMw3E/s320/FB_IMG_1702045602045.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-62479576918526726812023-11-07T17:41:00.000-08:002023-11-07T17:41:45.549-08:00Fragile<p> Today was a "fragile" day. I call it that because that's how I feel. I don't really know exactly how to describe the extent to which my fragility affects me. It's said time and time again that grief comes back again and again like a "tidal wave". And while that's true, that isn't the only thing that happens. </p><p>I'm always surprised at how blind-sided I am by this tsunami of grief that washes over me. It feels like, that at this point, I shouldn't be so caught off guard. But I am. Every damn time. This is a rough time of year, which may seem obvious given upcoming holidays, but this season is particularly tough for me in relationship to my timeline of loss. The thing is, I "know" that, in my brain. I could tell you that if you asked. However, it still somehow sneaks up on me. And my body knows first. Every time, my body feels the pain, the anguish, the weight of grief before I'm consciously aware. </p><p>Today I woke up and my son was dead. I actually panicked. My chest burned like it was on fire as the bastard that is PTSD coursed through every inch of my body. I don't just "remember" the pain, the fear, the guilt. I'm actually THERE. I'm transported back to the smell of the hospital room. I'm being asked to make that same decision again. I feel the immense guilt and searing pain of signing on that line. My arms are actually heavier. My lungs unable to take on air in the way I could just moments ago. At one point I was pretty sure that if someone even accidentally brushed up against me that I'd crumble to the ground. I felt as if my skin was not enough to keep me from going everywhere at once. Fragile. I feel fragile. </p><p><br /></p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-73820135568170617442023-09-16T00:21:00.002-07:002023-09-16T00:21:31.190-07:00Grief Apple<p> Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, and my son is dead. That's the best description I can give for being slapped with reality in these moments. It's odd to me that after years of grief and very much "knowing" this fact, that it would continue to hit me SO hard at times. </p><p>It's mentioned frequently that grief is like a tidal wave when it hits out of nowhere. I can't believe the accuracy with which that describes the absolute blast of reality I experience. There is no special date or anything right now, and I've found throughout my grief life that these waves can be even more damning when the latter is true. A random Tuesday will hold so much pain and so much reality that your chest is crushed with the weight of it. Sometimes I'll be seemingly oblivious to anything but mundane tasks and I'll reach for an apple in the produce aisle of the grocery store and that sneaky bastard, Grief, will deliver a blow so devastating that I simply have to abandon that grief apple, as well as my cart and walk out of the store. </p><p>He isn't here. He isn't physically ever going to be here again. He won't see his siblings graduate, begin their careers, maybe marry and have children. That's real and right now it's so raw. My babies feel it too. I've seen it in them. Two of them recently left for college and the reality of who isn't here has hit, at times, with a new vengeance. I wish I could take their pain. But I also know that it is my grief, my pain, that connects me to that boy sometimes. It's the thing people can see. They can't see him, but they can look into our eyes and recognize that he was here, that he IS here. The dichotomy of raging against that grief while also pulling it close and holding onto it for dear life is something I couldn't have imagined if I'd tried. </p><p>As I get older, maybe wiser, certainly more grateful for the gifts in my life, I recognize that my grief has shaped this skin I'm in. It has tormented and twisted me inside and out. It has found me on a couch at 2am, listening to the sobs of my now teenager as he/she laments the loss. Grief has added lines and scars. It has shoved me to the depths of human despair, and has also raised me to a height I would have never known possible. I often don't know what to do with the absolute tsunami of grief I sometimes experience. All I know, is that sometimes, in the quietest dark, I wake suddenly and realize in the screaming silence that my son is dead. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-49798200087314073872023-08-12T08:26:00.001-07:002023-08-12T08:26:14.056-07:00MIZ...I'll see you<p> I don't fit again. The loss of a child changes so many things about the way you used to fit into society. When that piece of you dies with them, and a new you fights for life again, the end result is a person who no longer recognizes the you that you left behind. </p><p>Confused? Me too. My oldest two children are leaving for college on Wednesday. We've been packing and planning for a couple of months now, but official move in day is in less than a week. I've talked to each of them separately about how I'll miss them, and that I'd love it if they'd send me a text every once in awhile. But there are no tears. There is no longing. I'm not sad that they're in this place in their lives. In fact, if anything, I'm really excited. </p><p>I know I've talked about this particular sentiment before in that I've mentioned that I don't have typical "mom" feelings anymore. That's probably to be expected. But there is a sense of guilt, or almost like I need to hide how I'm feeling because it doesn't meet the social norm. And that's why I chose to write today. As always, I write to process difficult emotions. I write to heal. And I needed to see, in writing, that what I'm feeling is ok. Maybe someone else needs to see that, too? </p><p>I don't begrudge you your feelings about your children leaving for college, or starting kindergarten for the first time. I don't hate your posts about your worries and fears as they make their way into the world outside of you. I guess what I need, is for my feelings to be ok, too. I need for it to be ok that when I DO read the posts lamenting college drop off, that it's ok that I don't feel that. I need for it to be acceptable that because I don't feel that, I hurt a little inside. </p><p>Once, early in my grief, I tried explaining to a worried coworker why I mentioned wanting to die in such a nonchalant manner. It wasn't that I wanted to take my own life. I just wanted college drop off day, like everyone else does. Why do you drop your kids off? Because you want to see their new home. You want to meet some of the people with whom they'll now be spending their time. You want to make sure they're comfortable in their new surroundings. That's all I want as well. But, for me, in order to do that, I'd have to go to heaven, right? I can't see his "room". I can't see his "friends". I just wanted what we all want. </p><p>I'm so proud of the two young adults I'm "dropping off" next week. I only take so much credit for them, but I believe they're pretty good humans, and that was always the goal. They're kind and compassionate. They're accepting and loving. And they're both going to love this next adventure. So though I'm not at all sad, and I likely won't have any tears for them, what I will have is an overabundance of gratitude for getting to witness this day. I may not have a map to heaven, but I can sure as hell get to Columbia...go be awesome, my babies! </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-91407238158987632512023-01-04T12:14:00.002-08:002023-01-04T13:37:40.461-08:00Grief Gratitude<p> I haven't talked about grief in awhile, and there's a reason for that I suppose. It's just always there. It shifts and changes. It teaches and torments. It causes darkness and provides clarity. But one thing remains steadfast through all the changes, and that is simply that it never leaves. </p><p>When I used to think about a lifetime of grief, it made me nauseous. I would physically react to the thought of carrying the weight of this burden for the rest of my life. However, in true "what-the-hell-is-grief-gonna-do-next" fashion, that thought has shifted once again. </p><p>Christmas felt different this year. It's felt different every year since Easton died, of course, but this year's differences struck me as more unexpected than normal. This year I noticed my gratitude for Christmastime was greater than even before our loss. The family time and togetherness I was able to experience felt deeper and richer than I've previously felt. And that's not to say that I didn't appreciate Christmas when my earthly family was whole. I did. I just didn't understand fully, exactly how gracious I could be for that specific time. </p><p>Christmas used to be my favorite time of year. I, like many, would get swept away by the magical feeling it brings. I loved decorating. I loved buying the perfect gift. I loved the family time. And I THOUGHT I knew what it meant to be grateful for that. But I didn't. Even though I knew in my head that not everyone enjoys the holidays, that some experience depression, and that some people don't have loved ones around, I didn't ACTUALLY KNOW the depths of that pain. You can know something, and not KNOW it. If grief has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that! Although I could articulate that I was grateful for family and friends, somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious I felt OWED those things. Almost like it was whispering "well sure I'm grateful, but of course I have a happy, healthy family. Of course I have a loving partner and kids opening presents." That sounds ridiculous even as I write it, but ultimately it's true. So, after Easton died, I mourned many things, obviously. One thing I was really PISSED about was that grief had taken my love for Christmas. I couldn't breathe on what used to be my favorite holiday. I resented family members who could still enjoy moments of Christmas. It opened an already bleeding wound that I was sure would never heal. My grief, my pain, my agony, showed up in sheer anger. And I've felt this way for MANY years. </p><p>The past few years, while anger has certainly been my companion at Christmastime, it has softened, slowly. The addition of two children whose Christmas experiences needed to be good ones, certainly softened some edges. My best friend being a professional gift giver and lover of making a big deal out of birthdays and holidays was a huge part of my ability to sort of hold pressure on that wound, at least long enough to mimick her process. The past couple of years, I've overbought for my children. And it isn't because I think they need THINGS. It's because I was trying to heal a portion of myself I assumed had long since died. Despite the fact that my children are older, I still choose wrapping paper they've never seen. I hide their gifts from them, and I put them out the night before Christmas after they've gone to bed. They humor me now, as a way of honoring both my grief, as well as their own. Even if they don't realize that's what they're doing, it most certainly is a part of the healing process. </p><p>This year, I not only looked forward to Christmas, I sat and listened to my now teenage grievers and asked them what THEY would like to see happen in relationship to their brother on Christmas. It was healing and eye opening, and only this year have I been in a place to even ask the question, let alone honor the answer I was given. And I make no apologies for that. I have done exactly all that I could in order to keep breathing each day of the past 10+ years. I'm so grateful for each agonizing step we've taken that has gotten us to this place. I've spent this year having HARD conversations about grief with my children. They've shared their current pain as well as their childhood pain that I wasn't able to hear about when they were young. I'm in a place now in my grief life that I can hold some of that for them. I can let them know that I realize they lost their mother for awhile, and that although I couldn't have done it any differently, that I'm sorry for the intense pain and fear that caused them. I'm able to do the same for my husband. We left one other while grieving. We had to. Not physically, but emotionally, and that's certainly worse in my book. We couldn't be what the other needed at that time. And so we're using our combined knowledge of our own specific grief to carry one another through this particular part of the journey. That's not to say that it won't shift again someday. We aren't naive enough to believe we have learned all things "grief". </p><p>I guess this rambling is simply meant to highlight my gratitude for my grief journey. Would I prefer ignorance and having my son here doing all the preteen things that make a mother crazy? Sure. But that wasn't our soul plan. That wasn't what was mapped out for us. So, I'll take our mutual agreement to learn grief, longing, sacrifice, and gratitude, and I'll see things differently than I would have had I never known the honor of being his mother. ❤️💛💙</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-37536537059731582682022-10-18T00:23:00.008-07:002022-10-18T01:22:08.712-07:00Woman Up! <p> I've always loved my job. It isn't lost on me what a gift that is, to love the work you do. But these past couple of years have given new meaning to my gratitude. Suffering from long covid changed so many things about my life. As I get healthier and stronger, I get more and more of myself back. And getting more of "me" back means getting to be the nurse I strive to be. </p><p>I'm back to work full time now, and have been for about three months. I never realized how much I truly needed to use the part of my brain that exists as a labor and delivery nurse. I always tell people I have the greatest job on earth. I believe that because I don't know anyone else who walks into work and meets a stranger, but by the end of their workday, is present for one of the most important moments in that person's life. Each delivery is a gift. And I don't take that for granted. </p><p>Usually when you tell someone you're a labor and delivery nurse, you get one of two responses: "oh, I'd LOVE to rock babies all day!" OR, "oh that must be the happiest place to work!" While the first response is mostly just annoying 😉, the second one definitely has some truth to it. Am I happy where I work? Yes! But I'm happy because I love my job. I love my team of coworkers. And my bosses are the best. However, you know what the best part of my job is? I get to watch women empower women every single day. How many people get to say that? Whether it's a nurse or physician encouraging the mother, a family member or spouse, it's incredible to watch a woman realize her true strength in such an intense moment. I absolutely love it when a patient says, "I can't believe I just did that!" Believe it, sister. And it was an honor to be here. </p><p>I've been thinking a lot lately about the power of female relationships. I'm so blessed to be surrounded by incredible women. They've pulled me from some very dark places, and held me upright when I couldn't stand alone. I currently talk to other adoptive mothers on a daily basis, and we reach across the country, across the world at times, to build one another up. I look at the strength and resiliency of my four beautiful daughters as well, and I marvel at their tenacity. Is there anything more beautiful than women lifting up other women? I'm not sure there is. </p><p>So, I guess what I'm saying is, if you find yourself hurting, or needing a change in your life...WOMAN UP! Find that sister that just brings out the beauty in you. I'm grateful to the amazing women I call mine. Thank you for the gifts each of you bring to my life. You're appreciated and loved beyond measure. ❤️</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-56379514871314285922022-05-24T20:51:00.003-07:002022-05-24T20:57:45.016-07:00Twelve<p> Twelve. You're supposed to be 12. I don't even know what that looks like. What does that mean? Anyone who knows me has heard me say that "I hate 12". As a parent, I've always felt like 12 is where I stop having the answers, and hormones kick in, and the craziness starts. But right now I'm so angry that I don't get to be annoyed by "12". </p><p>Are you bigger? What kinds of things do you like to do? What do you want for your 12th birthday? I know what I want for all of your birthdays. I want to complain about how busy I am because it's the end of May and so many things are happening around us as we celebrate your day. Instead, I'm doing what I always do the night before your birthday. I turn inside myself. I let the pain and the hurt wash over me. I allow my tears to wear me out to the point of falling asleep, only to awaken on that day and cry again. Everything else gets shut out, buddy. It's our day. Me and you. I can't let anyone else in, and I don't apologize for it. </p><p>Still...none of that explains why you're not here. I'll never understand it. I used to be so very angry. I was even angry with YOU for leaving. I know that's not rational, but nothing with grief is ever rational. Sometimes I wonder what I had done to deserve this level of pain? What has anyone done to make them know the depths of Hell that are reached when you lose a child? But I know that isn't rational either. No one deserves this. No one. And ultimately, it doesn't even matter how it happened. The bed is still empty. My arms are still empty. </p><p>I wonder if I were able to see you tomorrow, on your 12th birthday, if you'd be as tall as your big brother was when he turned 12. I know you saw him graduate recently. Were you a proud 12 year old brother, who showed his "brotherness" by poking fun of him and laughing at his expense? Or are you our sweet, loving, cuddly baby brother with blue eyes as deep as the ocean? Could I drink in your baby soft curls if I were allowed to visit for the day? </p><p>These are the questions that won't be answered. These are the things that gnaw at my heart, and bring me to my knees in the strangest moments. I'll never know why you had to leave. I'll never know if my decisions were the "right" ones. I won't get to do it over again, and change the story. So, I'll do what I do on our day. I'll go to our place. I'll sit in the screaming silence. I'll let the burning wash over me. And tomorrow, I'll love "12". </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-70082008703036770802022-05-14T18:30:00.001-07:002022-05-14T18:38:39.685-07:00Tomorrow<p> I had absolutely NO idea what I was doing. I was barely 21, and roughly the size of a house, and I thought I knew what to expect....kind of. Then I experienced this long, tumultuous labor and delivery. It was one filled with fear and uncertainty near the end. Little did I know, that was only the BEGINNING of the uncertainty. I thought my baby was tiny. I thought my baby was going to get here quickly and effortlessly, and that I'd be able to go back to finish my senior year of nursing school with no problem. Aaahhhh....ignorance, it truly is bliss. That September day in 2003, I was handed 10 pounds 12 ounces of uncertainty. </p><p>While it took me awhile to figure out how to sleep, shower, cry, feed, dress you, dress myself, etc...you were a little piece of perfection right from the start. My big, "tiny" baby with inquisitive eyes from day one, you gave me the role of mother. I learned more from you than you're likely ever going to learn from me. You've always been so aware of those around you, so in touch with the emotions of other people. Your ability to read the human condition from a very young age has always inspired me. From your sweet, little toddler voice to those days when you began towering over me, each day, each moment with you has been a gift. </p><p>Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day that you officially leave high school. I know I'm supposed to be sad, or "happy/sad", but I'm just not. I'm so unbelievably grateful to have been the person who got to watch you get here. I got to see all of your "big" moments, and the little ones that were actually bigger than we knew. I've gotten to stand in front of you and reach back for your little hand. I've gotten to stand beside you, when you no longer needed that reach. And now I get to stand behind you as you go off to be amazing. The thing is, you already are amazing. You were that first day I saw you. You've been everything I could have expected in a son, but oh so much more. Our family life took a hit that no one should ever experience. And maybe that's why I'm not sad. I know what NEVER seeing this day looks like. But our loss of him does not define you. You are so much more than your losses. As you've grown into the man you've become, my proudest moments are the ones where you're not even around and a friend, teacher, relative, stranger, tells me what a kind, compassionate, and thoughtful young man you are. There is no greater gift than that. </p><p>Logan John, we know better than most that nothing is guaranteed, but I choose to believe that if we're going to be here to live life, we may as well LIVE it. I'll hold your hand when you need it. I'll stand beside you when standing alone feels too hard. I'll stand behind you when you need a safe place to land. But no matter where you want me to stand, know that every part of you makes me proud. You are more than ready, more than capable of doing amazing things all on your own. I just happen to be the woman honored enough to watch what you do....tomorrow. </p><p>(I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be)</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-28535192915995340142021-09-13T20:19:00.000-07:002021-09-13T20:19:24.455-07:00Covid Survivor<p> September 14, 2021</p><p>It has now been a full year since I contracted Covid-19. I remember those first few symptoms, and how sure I was that I was going to be the mildest of cases. I had BARELY a tickle in my throat, but because of my husband's positive test, my proximity to him, and the nature of my job, I chose to stay home an extra day after my initial negative result. I will always be glad I made that decision. Little did I know, the previous shift would be my last full time shift for at least the next year. </p><p>I tested positive 4 days after my negative test, and the fevers had started. I was still able to walk each day with my husband and we made sure to move as much as possible. Living in our shed so that we could quarantine away from our children was a luxury that I realize many do not have. People started bringing meals and sending up prayers, and we were incredibly grateful, but still pretty certain that we'd come away from this unscathed. </p><p>It was day 8 of infection when we went for our evening walk, and I remember looking at Jeff and saying, "you know what? I'm a little winded. That's weird." I was able to walk about another 100 feet for so before I decided that maybe I should go back and rest and try again later. That night the pain that overtook my body was horrific. My skin hurt so badly that touching the sheets of the bed felt like razors. I tried to get up and make the walk to our bathroom that only he and I had been sharing in the house, and I had to stop twice to try and catch my breath. The following day, I had a telehealth appointment with my physician and she all but begged me to go to the hospital. (Nurses are terrible patients...) I really felt like if I could just get through this little bump in the road, I'd come put on the other side just fine. I think I left for the hospital about a half hour after getting off the phone with her. </p><p>The hospital stay was frustrating and long and really showed me just how little we understand about covid. The staff was wonderful. We just didn't know what to do with people who made no clinical sense. I spent 10 days there, and the massive amounts of steroids I received sent my pancreas over the edge, and I now get to experience being a true diabetic. </p><p>I've spent the last year going to countless doctor appointments, as well as physical, occupational, and speech therapies. I've tried about every supplement available. I read about covid ENDLESSLY. My physical therapist is incredible, and is truly the only reason I have good days with my breathing right now. His dedication to my health and his fascination with the body's response to covid has been invaluable to me. I'm extremely grateful. </p><p>I continue to experience some shortness of breath. I still have dizzy spells, headaches, crippling fatigue, tachycardia, and vision changes. I'm down to about 1-2 fevers per week. I AM getting better. Each day is a new challenge, and I'm trying with everything I have to get back to being the mom, the wife, the nurse that I once was. </p><p>I know there are those who believe I'm being dramatic, and that I'm making this up. And you know what? That's ok. Honestly, if I hadn't experienced this myself I probably would have never believed the extent to which one virus can transform your daily life. I have an incredible support system. My bosses and coworkers, my family and friends, could not be more supportive and understanding. I know how lucky I am. And thank everything that is holy that I have people to talk to who know exactly what I'm feeling related to long covid. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but I'm so grateful that I'm not alone. Unfortunately, there are MANY of us. </p><p>I'm grateful for each step forward. I'm grateful that with each fall backward, someone is there to help pull me back up. I'm grateful for good research and advances in medicine. I'm grateful for my vaccine and for those around me who are protecting those of us who clearly don't handle this well. And mostly I'm grateful that after a year of dealing with this, I can still say that I'm a survivor. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-13570694288643312362021-07-21T16:54:00.000-07:002021-07-21T16:54:49.676-07:00TEENS <p>So, one of the things I've learned in my 39 years of navigating whatever the hell this life of mine is, that I always seem to do better when I can read about someone else's shared experience. Grieving parents, unfortunately there are many of us, but it is oddly helpful to be able to see that someone else has been where you are, isn't it? Covid long hauler? Nurse? Wife? Sister? Daughter? No matter what hat I wear, there is comfort in knowing I'm not alone. And it is that frame of mind that brings me to this blog...</p><p>Teen and tween moms....HOLY HORMONES, amiright?! I don't know why we spend so much time focusing on the "parenting we'll have to do when we have teens" revolving around drugs and sex ed. I mean, that's not even on the radar! We're too busy over here dealing with all the existential crises....good lord. I swear if one more kid says to me, "I don't know what I'm going to do with my life!", I'm gonna lose it. No shit, kid? Me either. And that's always met with, "oh mom, why do you always say that?" Um, because it's TRUE! This isn't for your benefit or to make you feel better, child. I seriously feel like some days I'm still searching. And guess what?...that's ok. Sheesh. </p><p>I've got 5 of these people in my house. Who thought that was a good idea? If we're not bitching about who stole the last tampon, we're complaining about who's using the most wifi🙄. I have always said that my least favorite age to parent is 12-13. I stand by that. Yes I love all of my kids, blah blah blah, but come on, let's be honest....they be nuts. Somehow that bridge between childhood and teen years is the most difficult to cross. The fact that I can't do more to help them over it, makes me crazy! I feel like I spend an insane amount of time explaining that we all have insecurities in life, and that we all have moments where friendships shift and change, and that sometimes you're just going to have shitty experiences when it comes to other people. Good grief, I need a counseling degree for this stage, and *spoiler alert*, I don't have one! 🤦♀️</p><p>But let's get down to the real nitty gritty of what makes this stage of parenting life such a pain in the ass....HOW MANY EMPTY WATER BOTTLES CAN ONE PERSON STORE IN THEIR BEDROOM??? And why???? Phew, I feel like getting that off my chest is a real breakthrough. </p><p>And parenting teens during a pandemic?! We should get medals. All of us. And free booze for as many months as we've parented a teen during this crazy ass time. I mean, we love them, right? But we're used to having days filled with activities and school (the kind where they actually leave your house), and friend dates, etc. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely saw the beauty in the extra time with my teens. Most of the time we're so busy with life that we miss out on these precious last years at home, but Lord grant me the serenity....we have HAD togetherness. I think it's ok to talk about both, right? I mean, yes they're great but I also need space in my own brain for my own shit! </p><p>I swear it's like trying to live the lives of each of them FOR them as they figure shit out (because sometimes they really prove their "teen-ness" and you kind of wonder how the hell they walk and chew gum at the same time) while simultaneously letting them go a little more each day. Um, that's maddening. </p><p>It's an endless loop of seeing your babies turn into young adults and being inspired by their growth and also trying not to strangle them for clearly misunderstanding how to change a damn toilet paper roll!! And have you noticed that each time you bring that simple task up to your teen, through clenched teeth, that somehow it is ALWAYS them that has to put the new roll on while their siblings apparently eat bon bons and sunbathe all day?? How is that possible?! Cause I've never seen one of you "apparently intelligent" children, EVER put the stupid thing back on unless there is smoke coming out of my ears.</p><p>Yes we do chores. Yes my kids cook their own meals and clean the kitchen afterward. Yes they mow the lawn. But life gets in the way, and hormones, and emotions and feelings push their way into the forefront and those things get forgotten or ignored. So, we get back on track and feel good about ourselves for...about 2 hours, before someone else has some kind of crisis. I knew that running around after toddlers would be exhausting, although admittedly you can't know HOW exhausting until you have them. And I had of course heard about how "hard it is to have teens", but again...CLUELESS until I got here myself. I have great kids. They make good decisions for the most part and they have huge hearts, all of them. And someday, they're going to be incredible adults that change the world. But, for today, if they really want to bring that tear of pride to my eye...toilet paper is the answer!🤦♀️</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-76032994923702988932021-02-23T14:22:00.000-08:002021-02-23T14:22:33.492-08:00Writing Therapy<p> I had some more appointments for post covid syndrome today. I hate going to the doctor. I think most nurses do! We can be truly awful patients. :) Sorry, docs! I felt compelled to write today because something has been weighing on my mind, and writing is my best therapy. Now, some may say, "then get a journal and keep it to yourself." I know I could do that, and lots of times I do. I have a notebook and pen next to my bed for when my brain can't turn off at 3am. But I write this blog, and share with others because I've had some really special moments of human connection related to something I've written. When you experience something of significance in your life, whether positive or negative, you seek out others who understand. It's just human nature. </p><p>When I wrote primarily about seizures and the life of a mother caring for a child with a mystery diagnosis, I was able to connect with many other moms in similar situations. We became a sounding board for one another. We shared our joys and triumphs over epilepsy, as well as our deepest fears related to our fragile babies. </p><p>Years later, when I became a broken mother and my son was taken from me in the worst way possible, I belonged to another group. I still hate that this group exists, and I hate even more that its growth is infinite. However, I needed it. I needed the camaraderie. I needed to be able to say seemingly outrageous things and have them simply nod along, knowingly. There is power in that. There is peace....</p><p>So fast forward to today, and my desire to share my experiences with this damn virus that has stripped me of my "normalcy." This virus that has taken everything I know as a nurse and thrown it away in one fell swoop. Covid-19 has been a buzzword. It has caused rifts in relationships regarding it's very existence. It has literally stolen mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, friends from their loved ones. But despite its fame, despite the differences in interpretation of this virus, for me, it's the thing that I continue to deal with nearly 6 months after initial infection. It's not something I can ignore or something I can "remain positive about and pull through." And that's maddening. I can't just wish it away. I WANT to. Believe me, if there were anything I could do to speed this recovery process up, I would do it! Yesterday! But there isn't. And I'm having to learn patience...patience at a snail's pace. I'm having to learn mindfulness, and breathing, and "practicing the pause" in a very real way. In some ways, I'm grateful for the experience, because there is literally nothing else I can think of that would have caused me to SLOW DOWN my life and take it in. I've been more present. I've been more mindful of the moments that I do get that feel more like "me". But, I'm also so very ready to be done with this lesson. </p><p>I recently experienced someone questioning my illness and claiming that I am "attention-seeking and have likely hit the guiness book of world records with my number of covid days." Now, upon discovering that the coward making the comment was a fake name used on facebook in order to make unkind remarks on several pages, I was able to let it go more readily. But I won't lie, when I first read it, it hurt. I struggle constantly with guilt over not being able to work or to parent my children the way I'd like to. I'm not able to be the wife I want to be for my extremely supportive husband. So, reading that, and for a brief moment allowing even a fictional person to validate those deep fears was stomach twisting. I've since learned who the actual person is, and that too has helped to allay any fears of truth to the statements made. But it did make me think about how cruel and unkind people can be when they aren't standing in front of the person they intend to hurt. I think this translates well to pandemic life and this past year. I think we can do better in our efforts to meet someone where they are and to accept that their experiences, although perhaps not felt by you, have validity. It shouldn't matter that everyone you know "only had a cold." You shouldn't have to know me to care about the fact that I'm struggling with the after effects of this virus for so long. And it isn't even about me, or covid, actually. I guarantee you I've broken no records with my "supposed days of covid". I'd venture to guess I'm not even in the top 1,000 sufferers. People from all walks of life, from all over the world have been suffering far longer than I. But forget covid. This is the same for fibromyalgia, for multiple sclerosis, for Parkinson's, for depression, etc. There are people everywhere fighting silent battles all the time. Be kind. Be compassionate. And honestly if you can't do those two simple things, just be quiet. </p><p>Today while in my first appointment with an occupational therapist, she was giving me tests to evaluate my cognitive abilities. I can't describe how different it feels to use my brain now as opposed to pre-covid. I have to look at things differently in order for them to compute in my head. That's a terrifying feeling. As she continued through her list of questions she asked, "do you have trouble stepping up onto a curb?" I immediately thought, "no". But I hesitated and described for her what stepping up onto a curb looks like for me now as opposed to pre-covid. I'm absolutely capable of stepping up onto it without falling, BUT I have to THINK about it before I do it. Do you make a conscious effort to think, "ok, now I'm going to have to raise my foot" in a way that interrupts other thought processes in your brain? I do now. And that thought rocked me. All of my previous guilt about "being lazy" or "not pushing through" seemed to melt away in that moment. I'm sick. I'm STILL sick. And that's ok. I have to do what I'm able to do when I'm able to do it, and not a minute sooner. </p><p>And if I want to write about that, and share my experiences with others with the hope that even one person out there feels less alone, I'm allowed to do that. I have no hidden agenda. I have no "ideology" related to covid. I'm just a person who caught this awful virus and for some unknown reason, am one of the MANY, "lucky" ones who get to sort through the fallout of its negative effects on my body and mind. </p><p>I don't know when I'll be able to do several tasks in one day and not have to nap. I don't know if I'll ever have another day where I don't have a fever. But I do know that a few days ago, I felt like myself again. I realized at that time, that I'd been lying to myself about feeling good before that. I'd accepted that "good" simply meant having only a few symptoms to deal with that day. But the truth was, this was the only day in the last 6 months that I have truly felt like myself. And THAT "me" is what I'm striving for. SHE is the person I'm working to get back to. SHE is worth mentioning and sharing. I lost her once, when my sweet boy left my arms....I will not lose her again. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-19223813041978179032021-02-12T10:56:00.002-08:002021-02-12T10:56:11.683-08:00We're not crazy....right??<p> "How are you feeling?" I don't know. I don't even know how to begin answering that question. Are you asking because you're genuinely interested, or because that's just what we do as humans when we've heard someone doesn't feel well? Honestly, I understand either perspective. I do the same. But good god I have no idea how to even being to approach answering that question accurately. </p><p>How am I feeling? Well, some days I feel so close to my normal self that I chastise myself internally for not "doing more" or ultimately "going back to work". Some days I just feel mildly crappy....like I'm on the verge of becoming ill, but not quite yet. And still other days I wake up and every time I move, I hurt. My lungs scream and burn with effort. My stomach rolls and rejects food. All food. Sometimes even water is questionable. My head feels like someone is squeezing it in a vice and just slowly twisting further and further into my brain. There are times that all of these symptoms last only an hour or two, and the rest of the day I'm relatively functional. If I do try to do too many things that look like living, it's like I pay for it in one way or another. </p><p>I see specialists. I have labs and tests. Often. It is so unbelievably disheartening to have test after test come back "negative" or "normal". That isn't helpful. Because I'm still sick. I still feel terrible. And I don't ever know when it will be so terrible that it's debilitating. I don't know how to plan life that way. Hell, I don't know how to plan an hour that way. I have a newfound respect for all chronically ill patients. This sucks. I'm sorry you've gone YEARS without relief. It's miserable and no one deserves to live like that. Every single time I go to the doctor, she has to prove to short term disability insurance that I can't work. The last time they asked, they called and followed up because we hadn't sent the lab and test results that prove that I'm still too sick to work. Well, you see, that's a problem because WE HAVE NO IDEA WHY I FEEL THE WAY I DO. When can I come back to work? No idea. Why can't I function for longer than a couple of hours at my normal capacity? I don't know. And the thing is, my employer has been incredibly patient. I can't imagine if I were someone who was feeling pressure to return when we literally just can't. It honestly wouldn't be safe for me to do my particular job in my current state. </p><p>My physician is incredible. She continues to cling to hope that I'll actually recover someday. One of us should, so I'm grateful to have her in my corner. Thank god for my therapist. That poor woman needs the world's biggest raise. But this isn't just a bitch and moan post. I promise :). I'm actually writing because some days when I just can't take the disappointment anymore, I read accounts from thousands of other long haul covid patients and it makes me feel less crazy. It makes me feel less alone. I know it typically makes people feel better to think that they'll get covid and won't be me. That I'm some sort of outlier. But that just isn't true. I'm not a unicorn. There are millions of us, and we're all different races, genders, body shapes and sizes. I wish there were a rhyme or reason to why some of us become so ill and others don't. While we're on that subject, maybe refrain from talking to a long hauler and saying, "really?? I just had a sore throat for a few days." Oh yeah? Great. Truly. I'm happy for you. But....I don't know what the hell to do with that, so...let's just not. For those who need to know that they aren't crazy and that someone else feels the weight of this damn virus, here I am! Over here! Probably celebrating the fact that I can typically walk down a flight of stairs now...</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-79285662607291152792020-11-11T11:02:00.005-08:002020-11-11T12:46:11.161-08:00You Are Not Alone <p> Many may skip this post, and honestly I hope you do. We're all so tired of hearing about, reading about covid. And if you skip reading the rest of this post, I hope that it means you haven't experienced this beast firsthand. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I don't wish the pain of this virus on anyone. However, many of us haven't been so lucky. I've realized that what has made me feel the least alone in all of this is my unfortunate connection to people I've never met, who also happen to understand the complexity of symptoms I've experienced. So this isn't going to be scientific research. It isn't going to be published in any journals. And it probably isn't even going to make sense to those who are in healthcare, because COVID DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. But, what I'm hoping it can do is make one more person feel less alone. </p><p>Let's talk symptoms....</p><p>So when you first become infected with Covid-19, you'll likely have no idea. For the first couple of days you'll feel nothing. But then you'll start to feel tired, like you just can't get enough rest. But who isn't tired, right?? Who isn't over life right now between the pandemic, family life that isn't normal, politics, etc, right? We all have reasons to be tired. Then occasionally you may notice a tickle in your throat. It doesn't hurt and it only happens maybe 3 times a day at random times. Who notices that? Someone must be burning leaves, harvesting crops, something to cause a little throat irritation. It's so minor and so sporadic, you'll all but ignore it. At that point you'll notice the beginnings of a headache. Unfortunately, this bastard will likely move in and set up camp for the duration. Now it isn't going to be like normal illnesses where you feel the symptom, take some pain medicine and get relief. It won't get worse, then better, and be done. This jerk isn't effectively treated with pain medications, and it does occasionally go away, but it comes back with a vengeance. There are some who have found minimal relief with prescription migraine medication and occasionally ice packs to the back of their head, but other than that, not so much. </p><p>As I continue through other symptoms, I want to preface this by saying I'm not discussing them in this way in order to perpetuate negativity, or to discourage others. Believe me, I needed the moments of positivity, the goals I set for myself each day, and the belief that I'd get better. However, I also needed to not feel crazy. I needed my symptoms, experiences and feelings to be validated. So, it is that concept that compels me to continue. </p><p>After the headache, or maybe along with it, will come the low grade fever and body aches. You'll have chills like your fever is extremely high, but it may only hit 99-100. This happened about day 5 or 6 for me. You'll have body aches with this, that at times feel like if someone even touches your skin you'll cry...even your eyelashes hurt. Then you'll wake up the next day and feel like maybe you were making it up the night before because now you feel fine and surely that can't happen. Viruses don't work like that. Well, wait for 4pm...it will remind you that you very much did NOT make it up. </p><p>Now let's discuss taste and smell. Not everyone gets this symptom, but if you do get it, you don't even need the test to confirm it. You're covid positive. This one is so completely covid that it's the no brainer symptom. I say this because so many of the other ones can be mistaken for any other virus/illness. I noticed my complete loss of taste on day 10. It was odd, and honestly it was an emotional symptom for me because I already felt awful, and now I couldn't even taste my food. I do remember eating a lot of raw broccoli with no dip because why not??? Can't taste it anyway! May as well take advantage, right?? :) So for me, I could eventually taste very extreme sweet, salty, or spicy, but they didn't taste extreme to me. It was like everything was muted. It did come back eventually but it was slowly and sporadic. I have my taste and smell now for the most part, on day 57, but I also now have a very strange smell in my nose sometimes that I can't get away from, and it is accompanied by a fun burning sensation. Some have reported having these sensations for 7-8 months after infection. There are groups that specifically discuss ways to help with this and it involves retraining your brain and nose to smell again. </p><p>The muscle aches and body aches are another off and on symptom. Many of us have experienced cramping in our legs, specifically in our calves. I tried to stay as hydrated as possible to counteract this, as I assumed it was mostly related to electrolyte imbalance. </p><p>The breathing and shortness of breath aspect of covid is certainly the scariest for most people. For me it was infuriating. It felt like someone had wrapped saran wrap around my lungs and just kept wrapping tighter. It wasn't like I just couldn't take a deep breath, I couldn't "finish" any breath. I would breathe in and feel like I was being stopped. Covid-19 is different than most pneumonias in that you can be extremely short of breath and your oxygen saturation can look fine. That is the part that was infuriating for my nurse brain. It didn't make sense. And I knew I was short of breath. I was not making it up, but it made me feel like people thought I was crazy. Luckily for me, I have an incredible physician. She listened to ME, not numbers. She knows my baseline and I wasn't there, so she worked with me every day to help me get back there, even when we were both frustrated and had no answers. I will always be grateful for that. I know not everyone is that fortunate. </p><p>The only thing that helped at all for the shortness of breath was lying in the prone position. I would spend 5-6 hours a day lying over a pillow with barely enough energy to lift my head, but it gave me brief moments of relief from the constant pressure. </p><p>So basically, the symptoms can be all over. You will likely feel ok in the mornings and like someone hit you with a truck in the afternoon. You will often feel like you're "making it up." You aren't. And you are not crazy. And you do not have to do this alone. Find someone who understands. Ask questions. Believe you'll get better, but it's ok to also be over it. It's ok to say this sucks. And it's ok to be angry. Just uh...hey, use that anger and help us get people to mask and distance, ok? We can use all the help we can get. :) Love and peace to all of us as we navigate this beast.</p><p><br /></p><p>Edit: So after I posted this I somehow forgot to mention the INSATIABLE thirst. I spent many nights filling up my 32 ounce yeti cup with water all night long. I had to drink constantly in order to get any sleep at all. I believe this had to do with the neurological effects of covid. One of the worst of these is not being able to sleep. The insomnia is horrible. And I'm not just talking waking up in the middle of the night. I'm talking like sitting up for 8 straight hours, unable to sleep. Then when that does get better, you can be woken up gasping for air and a racing heart. Those things are gone for me now, and I'm honestly grateful I forgot! I was pretty sure that would never get better. Now my neurological symptoms are forgetting words, losing my train of thought, and a brain fog...and yes Dad, that is different than normal. 🙄 Hang in there guys!! </p><p> </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-14365642033443152232020-10-16T12:42:00.001-07:002020-10-16T12:59:15.502-07:00Covid Kindness<p> My name is Shannon Zanger. I'm a 38 year old registered nurse, and mother to 6 children. I was diagnosed with Covid-19 on 9/18/20. I'm currently on day 31 of symptoms. My symptoms included, early on, a scratchy throat, occasionally mild cough, and a low grade temp of 99. After day 8, my symptoms worsened and included shortness of breath. I was hospitalized for 10 days and received oxygen via nasal cannula, IV antibiotics, IV antivirals, steroids, inhalers, vitamins, blood thinners, etc. Although I'm no longer hospitalized, my symptoms persist. I spend at least 4-5 hours a day lying in the prone position (on my stomach) because it is literally the only thing that gives me temporary relief from chest pain/pressure. </p><p>I know most are aware of this part of my covid journey, and that isn't the point of this post. My focus now is on the mental health aspect of this virus. As my symptoms continue, and render me essentially useless at home, I spend a lot of time thinking, and admittedly too much time reading Facebook posts. The latter has certainly been detrimental to my mental health. Of course the political climate is ridiculous right now, on both sides, by the way. But mostly, I find myself reading through tears the comments from people who KNOW me who question the severity or validity of this virus. I don't understand that. I specifically don't understand the claim that this will be "over after the election". What?? Does that mean that after November 3rd I won't have to inject myself with insulin 4 times a day? My heart won't race when I'm simply lying down and sleeping for an hour at a time, waking me with gasping for breath? Because if so, I'd love to see that. Why would it benefit me to make this up? This has changed my life. My biggest accomplishment during the day is being upright for longer than an hour at a time. I promise you I don't care who you're voting for, I'm miserable. </p><p>And let's talk masks. Do they protect you from covid 100% of the time? Hell no! In fact, I'm guessing that masks may give less than 20% coverage if made with cloth. But you know what? That percentage is better than nothing. And combined with avid hand washing and MOST IMPORTANTLY social distancing, we can help to keep each other as safe as possible. </p><p>I want normal life back!! I so badly want my kids to be able to play their sports again and go back to school. I honestly believe they could do that safely! However, I think we as parents should sacrifice our "need" to be present for games in order for our kids to be able to play. I hate that I would miss even one of my kids' activities. However, I love them enough to know that they need this part of their lives, so I'm more than willing to stay away or only attend outside events far away from other spectators. </p><p>We can do this, Adam's County! We can care for others without knowing them. And I'm not "living in fear." Believe me, my family learned long ago that you can't live that way. What we are doing, is living in a caring and responsible way. I care about YOUR health. I care that you NEVER know what I have experienced at the hands of this beast. I promise to NEVER be the reason your child is on a ventilator, your friend is hospitalized, or your grandmother doesn't survive this. </p><p>Reinfection is now a very real possibility. If you don't want to take my word for it (and honestly you should never take anyone's word for it. Look up your own information!!!), join a fb group called Covid-19 Support Group. It's an incredible resource for those of us considered "long-haulers". You may not know too many of us right now, but we are all over the world. Every race/country/ ethnicity is represented, and we all have the same story. Thank god for them, because eventually on this journey from hell you start to feel like you're insane. Seeing that others are experiencing the same thing is incredibly helpful. </p><p>We don't sleep. And I'm not talking about a couple of hours here and there. I just sit up, awake. Or if I do fall asleep, I wake within the hour gasping for air with a racing heartrate. Our hair is falling out. We can't taste or smell our food. We struggle to breathe while being upright for longer than an hour at a time. Today, a fellow long-hauler, compared having covid to how she felt when she had chemotherapy. Immediately people came out of the woodwork agreeing that they do in fact agree that it is exactly how their bodies felt on treatment day and two days after chemotherapy. Now, I have never experienced chemotherapy, but it makes sense to me as this beast has affected my entire body. </p><p>Again, I'm not looking for sympathy! That isn't going to do anyone any good. What I want people to consider is that although you certainly hear stories of mild cases of this virus, do not turn a deaf ear to those of us who aren't, simply because it makes you uncomfortable. There is no reason I should have reacted in this way. I'm a healthy person, with no underlying conditions. THAT makes people uncomfortable. This is very reminiscent of when my son died and everyone wanted to know "how." Now, of course, some were interested in our story, but mostly they wanted me to tell them something that would mean that THEY were safe; that their child couldn't contract something so awful. You could actually see the relief on people's faces when I mentioned genetic disorder. But the thing is, there is no safety net. A few days after Easton died, someone opened fire in Sandyhook elementary school. None of those children had genetic disorders, that I know of anyway. But those parents, like me, went home to an empty child's bed. The point is, you just don't know. Now, one could argue that if we're all in danger anyway, why care about preventing further covid spread? Here's why...you have no idea which end of the spectrum you'll fall under. None of us does. And you know, if there had been ANYTHING I could have done to prevent my son's decline in health, I'd have done it. You would too. Believe me, you'd beg for them to take your heart from your chest in order to avoid witnessing that last breath from your little boy as he lays in your arms. </p><p>But I'm not asking you to take your heart from your chest. I'm just asking you to wear a mask and to maintain distance. That's all. Please, for me, for you, for our entire community, do these simple things. We can learn so much by caring for strangers, by modeling selflessness for our children. There is so much potential for love right now, so much potential for some covid kindness. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-12159811598354271932020-10-11T09:21:00.001-07:002020-10-11T09:21:37.416-07:00Covid "Recovery"<p> Today is day 26. Twenty-six days of dealing with this damn beast, and there are many times I wonder if I will ever return to my baseline function. That's a daunting thought when dealing with prolonged illness. And this is "just a virus." Believe me, there has been nothing "just" about this. </p><p>I've been home from the hospital for a little less than a week now, and although that helps tremendously, the amount of fallout I'm battling related to covid is mind-boggling to me. When I first came home, and even now, I had to do some serious work on my blood sugar regulation. I'm not diabetic and my sugars hold pretty steadily around 250. But I've been known to hit the upper 300-400 range. That doesn't feel good, in case you were wondering. Because of elevated blood sugar, I am lethargic, my head hurts constantly, and I can't see more than 3 feet in front of me because my vision is so blurry. This makes balance difficult as well. When my sugar is really high, I'm pretty much incapacitated for awhile until I can get it back to a relatively normal range. While diabetics can live with sugars far outside the norm, someone who isn't used to having such fluctuations doesn't function as well. </p><p>Aside from blood sugar, a major issue for me is chest pain. I continue to have a tightness in my chest that gets worse with exertion. I'm trying each day to push myself further because I'm SO TIRED OF BEING DOWN. But even a walk to the end of my cul de sac requires a break, and a forward leaning inversion so as to take some of the pressure off of my chest. The most disheartening part of this aspect is that from a medical standpoint, I'm "ok." My xray does not show permanent damage. I am not showing further signs of pneumonia. I'm so grateful for these facts, but I still can't breathe, and certainly not comfortably. It feels as though someone is wrapping saran wrap around my chest and pulling tighter and tighter until it is impossible for my lungs to move without the added support of leaving forward. I still lie prone on my stomach for a few hours daily just to give myself a break from the pressure/pain. </p><p>I've recently discovered a support group of post covid individuals and it is so helpful. No one understands what we're living through unless they've been there. It's so helpful to hear that I'm not alone, and that I'm absolutely not making up these symptoms, because sometimes you just feel crazy. The group celebrates wins together and we encourage each other each day as much as possible. Today several of us celebrated taking a shower without falling over and/or needing a shower chair. There are many discussions daily about how often you are able to shower each week. It is a huge undertaking as our shortness of breath and balance issues make it an extremely difficult task. So many talk about the continued chest pain, shoulder blade pain, shortness of breath, hair loss, peripheral neuropathy, etc, for months after covid infection. Some people are going on 7 months of symptoms. Some have relief for awhile and then months later have a sort of "relapse". </p><p>The point of this post is that this isn't over. This is a long, arduous process and for those of you out there wondering, like me, if this will ever get better, you are not alone. I'm mentally done as well. The steroids make me hungry and angry, but I can't eat freely because my sugars are terrible . I'm exhausted but want/need to have something that looks like a life. So I'll continue working and pushing my body to adapt and get better. So many out there are suffering the sequelae of this virus. Many are in far worse shape, and I'm grateful to only be afflicted in the ways that I have been. Just please know that when you say something about the "insignificance" of the death toll, or the "hoax" of this virus, you are hurting real people. We're not making up the pain, or the fear of our unknown future. Be mindful, and know that just because someone doesn't die from this virus, doesn't make us insignificant. We matter. And we're hurting. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-12782283282351064722020-09-30T07:00:00.005-07:002020-09-30T07:20:52.853-07:00A Covid Story <p> So it started in early March...all this talk, all this noise, all these "facts" being thrown around about this "new virus". The novel coronavirus...covid-19....I remember thinking, "really? This is worse than flu? People get really sick from the flu. It can't be worse." Then people started getting really sick, and worse than that, oddly sick. Sick in a way that modern medicine wasn't able to keep up. The hospital I work for started getting very serious and very nervous more quickly than I anticipated. We started paying attention, I mean, REALLY paying attention. We started learning the new policy changes, and there were MANY. The policy changes and the fear surrounding the unknown was incredibly draining. </p><p>The uncertainty of the end of the kid's school year, and the eventual realization that school wasn't happening this spring was daunting as well. Then the "summer" came and all of the shutdowns and opinions and hate made for a LONG "vacation". Fast forward to the start of school and a new resurgence of fear and unknown policies started coming out of the schools. Teachers began asking the questions that we healthcare workers had been asking for three months....more frustration. More debating. More hate. </p><p>We began to worry about mental health, and rightfully so!! Our elderly population, our children, our parents working and "teaching" from home...we're all going crazy. We crave socialization, even if only in small doses, it's just human nature. I began to allow my kids to do more with their friends. They needed it, right?! I was being a good parent. And you can't live in fear, right? I mean my family learned that in a horrifying way. So, how bad could it be? They understood my demands for mask wearing and were always compliant. They wash hands, socially distanced, and didn't argue when I asked them to refrain from some larger gatherings. </p><p>And then...in the darkness of the early morning as I got up to go to work...."hey Shannon, before you leave will you take my temperature." Here we go. It was 99.9. But if he was asking, I knew it was legitimate. So we did what I felt was responsible, called the health department, called our places of work, and got my husband Jeff tested as soon as the facilities opened. I planned to stay home from work only until he got a negative result. He was positive. But even before we found out about his result, I began to have symptoms. They were so subtle I was convinced it was the power of suggestion. Low grade fever, like 99.0 which is not considered a fever by most standards anyway, but I did also feel fatigue. But hell, I've got 6 kids and a full time job. Then the headache came. I was tested the next day. For the record, my initial result was negative. However, I knew I wasn't negative my symptoms, although still mild, persisted. I'm still so grateful I didn't go to work with that initial negative. My coworkers and patients deserved that precaution. </p><p>The first 6 days of our illness was pretty mild. We were tired but nothing worse than any regular cold I've had. We oddly got fevers the same time every day but never very high. In fact, the highest either of us have ever gotten is 101. The odd thing I found with a covid fever was that even though it was low, I felt that general malaise and all over pain rather quickly. But still, very manageable. In order to shorten our children's quarantine as much as possible and obviously in an attempt to keep them safe, Jeff and I moved out to our shed behind our house. We were very fortunate in our ability to do this and we're grateful. The only amenity we really didn't have that we needed was a bathroom, so we just masked up, told the kids to leave the room, and used our master bathroom in our bedroom. Our kids were never allowed to use it so only Jeff and I were being exposed in there. It worked well. But it was walking this distance that eventually helped me to decide that maybe I was declining. I noticed that it was getting more and more difficult to make it to the bathroom and back without taking long breaks afterward. This continued through days 7-8 and I actually went to the ER for lower oxygen saturation and difficulty breathing while walking. I was sent home thinking that was probably the best idea. But I was about to find out that this thing can change as quickly as they say. Admittedly as a nurse, it took my primary physician nearly scolding me and telling me to go back in before I finally decided to go. After several hours of tests, it was determined that I'd be admitted to the hospital. However, I don't believe the physician on at that time believed it was necessary based on my numbers. At this point, it didn't matter to me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat because I didn't have enough oxygen reserve to get me through chewing. And whether my numbers were reassuring or not, that's not living. </p><p>One of my biggest concerns about going to the hospital was my children. For all of them, illness and a need for medical attention of any kind means death. For them, people actually die and they all know it. I couldn't hug them. I couldn't reassure them. And even Dad couldn't offer comfort because he too is still quarantined in our backyard shed, unable to overcome daily fevers. </p><p>So no, I'm not in the ICU. And yes, this is certainly "survivable", but I've gotta tell you, it has been anything but easy. Luckily our support system is incredible. We want for nothing. Our kids are loved and cared for from afar. Thanks to technology, in moments that I'm able to speak, I can facetime my kids and give them some smiles in hopes of alleviating some of their anxiety. </p><p>I am on oxygen at all times. I have antiviral iv medication, antibiotics, steroids (and now routine insulin because steroids have made my blood sugar too high for safety). I'm on vitamin c, vitamin d, and zinc (and if I were you, I'd take those now just because). I leave my bed only to use the restroom. I'm unable to be up long enough to wash myself because it's too much work so I do what I can. Before covid, I was walking daily at least 2-3 miles and beginning to get back into running again. I cannot imagine getting back to that level of function at this point. </p><p>I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm not even looking to lecture. I just want to give people a picture. It's a real picture from a 38 year old, relatively healthy nurse who "knew" what to look for as far as signs and symptoms. And let me tell you, I would have been wrong. Dead wrong. This is like nothing I've ever experienced before. And I'm just as frustrated and annoyed by quarantine too. I want so much for my kids to get back to "normal life", but I will NOT mess with this. Please consider increasing your vigilance, at least for the next few months. You don't have to be a complete recluse!! Just be smart! Wear a mask, wash your hands and distance!! Don't attend things that are truly unnecessary. And do masks work 100% of the time? Of course not. But they're a better defense than nothing. Just know that when they call you with that positive result and you start tracing back through your contacts, you will feel much better about your life if you didn't unnecessarily kiss a baby, or touch an immunocompromised person. You do not want to be the reason someone is lying over the end of their bed, gasping for air, and being truly terrified that their lungs are just slowly betraying them. Believe me, you don't. </p><p>My nurses have been wonderful, and I will be a better nurse for having this experience. They are so kind and compassionate and caring. They're frustrated with the level of care their patients require, because they still see such a lack of care for safety in the community. They're covered in protective equipment all day long. They've listened to my cries of frustration, wiped my tears, and reassured me that I'm not crazy. I never realized how much I rely on physical touch. We hug a lot in our home, just randomly throughout the day. But it's such a normal thing for us that I clearly took it for granted. I haven't felt actual human touch in a week. And it's one of the most bizarre feelings I've ever experienced. I don't wish it on anyone. </p><p>Now, I don't mean to be all negative. I am truly grateful every single day that it is me lying in this bed and not my children. I know what it means to sit at your child's bedside and beg God to allow you to switch places, and for that prayer to go unanswered. I will take this a million times over if it means sparing them. Give it all to me. I will take it every time. They have no symptoms. And I do not take that good fortune for granted. </p><p>While I don't know what recovery will mean for me, how long it will take, nor how many lifelong issues I may have as a result of this insult, I do believe I will turn a corner eventually. There will be a day again where I don't have to take breaks between sips of water in order to catch my breath. There will be a time I get to wrap my arms around my kids, my husband, and my very best friend. I won't have to see her through pictures and notes to me on the smoothies she sends me daily because she knows I don't have the energy to chew. Someday my kids won't have to ask me when they get to see me again. It will happen. It won't be today, but someday soon. </p><p>Love and peace to us all as we navigate this most uncharted territory. Love your neighbors and even strangers enough to care about their health as well as yours. We are all part of the solution. </p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-29593642164339481752020-08-20T10:49:00.001-07:002020-08-20T10:49:39.045-07:00Tears That Never Fall<p> I know I've touched on this subject before, but for some reason (likely the unprecedented nature of the current school process) this year is just a little harder. This post is for myself, as always, but also for those who struggle with this particular step in the child loss world. </p><p>For those of you who can't open Facebook right now because you can't see one more post about someone's "baby leaving for kindergarten" or that their "chest feels tense" as their son or daughter goes off to college, I see you. I see your pain. I see your loneliness. I see your attempts at fitting in to the social norm of parenting. </p><p>Let me clarify to those of my friends and family who don't know this pain. This post is not specifically about you. It's not about anyone in particular. And it's totally normal and even OK for you to feel those feelings as your child "leaves" you. However, what is equally ok, and much less represented is the feeling of those parents that have suffered child loss. That's why this post is therapeutic for me. I NEED for my feelings to be known too, and not because I need reassurance or some kind of weird apology from someone whose children are still here. I need it because these are the feelings that connect me to my child. And I miss him. My god, do I miss him. </p><p>I will never reluctantly let go of my son's hand as he takes his toothless grin and oversized backpack into his first day of school. I will never feel the pull in my heart at both wanting him to flourish in college, while silently begging him to stay. Those are feelings that were taken from me when he took his last breath. That's the thing with child loss...you can't possibly know all the ways in which your child will "leave" you in that first moment after he's gone. Instead you learn that every day for the rest of your life. I would literally give anything for the burning in my chest to be there because instead of waking up with him in my house, I'd have to drive or even fly a few hours to see him. What I wouldn't give to be able to make THAT flight. And that doesn't diminish your pain or feelings of loss if your child is still here. They're valid, and noteworthy of course. But mine matter, too. And they cannot be commemorated in a fb post with a picture of a happy, healthy child doing exactly what is supposed to happen as children grow. </p><p>Covid doesn't make this any easier, because of course everyone is fearful for their children to return to school, and I completely understand that. We have no idea what truly is or is not safe. However, as the parent of a chronically ill child, I look around and think, "this was my life for two years." There was potential danger around every corner. There were IMPOSSIBLE decisions, up until the very last decision I made. That one will haunt me for the rest of my life. And because of that time in my life, there was no first day of kindergarten. There will be no heart-gripping first day of college. </p><p>So E, I'm sorry that you didn't get squeaky new shoes this year. I'm sorry that I didn't have to find you the perfect mask to match your bookbag. I'm sorry that while your classmates run and play, that you are remembered with an empty chair. </p><p>It is difficult to send your baby to kindergarten for the first time. It is hard to see your grown child heading off to college. Forgive my broken heart when I say that these hardships are gifts, perhaps some of the greatest gifts you'll ever receive. Because as many tears as you will shed over these moments, the most painful and cruel tears a parent can experience are the ones that never get the chance to fall....</p>the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-29516857302614820522020-04-02T16:42:00.001-07:002020-04-02T16:42:34.823-07:00My Corona BrainHey, did you know there is some virus out there making everybody hella sick? Kidding. Most people who know me, know that I'm pretty adamant about people keeping their asses home right now. People are still leaving, despite the warnings to stay in place. Just do it. Don't make people beg. Don't assume your "reason" for getting out or seeing your friend is more important than someone else's. Just. Don't.<br />
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But actually, that isn't what I want to talk about right now. We all have our own ways of coping with our feelings during this pandemic, and I think writing is going to have to be mine. The thing is, like most experiences I have now, my feelings are maybe slightly different than the norm. I actually feel more normal right now than I have in about 8-10 years. While I realize that is an odd thing to say, the truth is, I've felt outside of the "norm" for so long that I didn't recognize "normal" when I started seeing it. In light of this insane turn in our daily lives, people seem to be more in tune with brokenness than usual.<br />
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Here's the thing....I learned a long time ago that we don't get answers all the time. That is something that we say to ourselves, regardless of whether or not we actually KNOW it to be true. When Easton first got sick, the hours before our world turned upside down, my life was incredibly, blissfully boring. In fact, I was complaining about what I was going to do with extra kids in my house all weekend. Little did I know, that beautiful, privileged "complaint" would be my last. I put my healthy, happy curly-headed boy to bed just as I did every night. When Jeff brought him to me at 3am, with the start of the first seizure, everything I knew about medicine, about the world, vanished right before my eyes.<br />
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When we loaded onto that ambulance, I "knew" it was scary in the moment, but we'd fix it. It would be fine. Man was this an awful thing to go through, but of course we'd look back someday and talk about the terrible night we had. Even as they moved him to an ER bed and started throwing IV lines in and pouring medications into his still seizing body....some part of the old me "knew" it would be ok. Even as they handed me scissors and I cut his red race car pajamas from his twitching body....I "knew". And even as his eyes closed and the tube was put down his throat, and the airplane landed, and I ran next to him to a place neither of us had ever been and they shouted orders all around us...I "knew".<br />
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That was the first day of my new life. The day I watched test after test after test, and stick after stick after stick wield no results, is what started my spiral into this new reality. You can have the best doctors in the world, and they can look into every possibility, and you still will not get an answer. When we began the long road to recovery, I did every single thing I could think to try. Never underestimate the power of a desperate mother trying to save her child. But it wasn't enough. It never would have been enough. Didn't I deserve for my baby to live? I tried so hard! Didn't I DESERVE for my prayers to work?? Because I DID pray. But no. The answer is no. And that's not a negative outlook or a defeated attitude. It's just true. Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes people get sick. Sometimes people die, despite your faith, despite your propensity to care for them, despite your NEED for them to stay.<br />
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So, having learned this lesson several years ago, every single day of my life since that day has been different. And right now, people seem to understand some of that on a small scale. After I watched my son die, I did get up the next day and the sun did rise. But it didn't matter anymore. Every day was the same. He was still dead EVERY SINGLE DAY. There wasn't anything I could do to change that. My new reality was one in which I could try with everything I had to get the world to bend to my will, and still not get what I wanted, or I could simply do what I could each day to make it to the next one. Right now, that's what's going on in healthcare. We are so used to making decisions based on scientific fact, on studies that give us answers. We don't have any of those right now. We don't have any definitive answers and the healthcare field does not do well without concrete answers. "This" is why we do "this". Because of this, the whole world is going a little crazy. At first we all "knew" everything would be fine. We would certainly talk about our terrible time someday, but we "knew" it would get better. As more and more people became ill, and we realized that this wasn't something that was giving us concrete answers, we became frantic in our pursuit of the elusive. Some have now settled into the feeling of living life in constant "fight or flight". We are worried at all times. We are neurotic with our hand-washing and our distancing. We are doing all the RIGHT things. So, the thing is, once you've lived in this headspace for so long, something shifts. I've heard so many people say, jokingly, that they just want to be drunk to escape for awhile. I don't think this is a joke for many. THIS I understand. THIS is exactly how I feel most days. And it isn't just drinking, it is anything that helps you to escape your reality for awhile. Because right now reality hurts. Reality is scary. And for just a MOMENT we want reality to go the hell away. YES! This is every day. THIS is why when asked if I fear death, I will always say no. I'm not suicidal (anymore). I'm just tired. I'm exhausted from living in a world that is constantly spinning in a direction that does not bring my son back.<br />
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I do live with more gratitude for moments that I would have missed before. I recognize the BIG that lives in the "small". And although that may sound lovely, I assure you that we are not made to CONSTANTLY live here. It makes you an outsider. You won't react to things the same way others do. For example, lots of graduations have been cancelled. While I know this feels like a rite of passage or something that is deserved, I can't get there. People who don't get to graduate will likely continue living and making new memories, and that will eventually be a blip in the radar of their life. So no, I'm never going to be able to cry about something like that. But that doesn't mean I don't want that for other people. I truly want others to be able to pour out big, crocodile tears over all kinds of milestones that normal people experience.<br />
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Do I want every person I know to lose a child so that they understand how I feel? God no. Of course I don't. But those fleeting moments of being finally understood, I have to admit, are welcome ones. So once again, my broken mother heart responds in a completely bizarre way to the world around me. In a world where we have never been more alone and disconnected from one another, I finally have small moments of connection.<br />
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Despite all of this, I don't want every person to know this way of life forever. I want people to go back to taking life for granted. I want people to whine about the mundane. I want someone to complain about hospital food because everything else in their hospital experience is going so well that they notice THAT. So stay the hell home. While this is a nice place to visit, believe me, you don't want to live here forever.the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-50057601296952051062019-11-10T16:49:00.000-08:002019-11-10T16:49:11.826-08:00I'm No HeroWe aren't heroes. I have to start there. I've thought about this for awhile now, and although I'm still not exactly sure how I want to present this information, I know for sure that I don't want to be called a hero.<br />
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Adoption teaches us things we can't know if we have only biological children. It teaches us hard things about ourselves and makes us take a long look in the mirror. If we're honest with ourselves, we keep looking in that mirror and we let it show us that we are, in many ways, inadequate. I'm not the "best thing that happened" to these children. I'm not "an answer to a prayer." I'm just a person who is trying to make the best of a hard situation each and every day.<br />
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When people talk about adoption, you often hear the phrase "gotcha day." This is the day the children come home to live with their new family. Our family will not be celebrating that day. Although there were some wonderful moments associated with that time, I cannot celebrate such loss for my children. They lost their home, their culture, their people, and the only sense of security they've ever known. The magnitude of that is not lost on me, and I will forever carry a certain amount of guilt for taking them from that. When I say that, I find that people are quick to respond with, "but think about all the wonderful things you're giving them that they never would have had!" Honestly, this response makes my stomach turn. This implies that the good part of their lives starts now. And if we are to assume that, then we are erasing the importance and the beauty of what makes them who they are. And I cannot accept that. I won't accept that.<br />
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I know that everyone means well, and that you can't know the depths of adoption unless you're living it. For us, know that we are not doing everything "right". We are not saints. We are not heroes. We are frustrated and tired, often confused and always uncertain. We are also experiencing things that are beautiful beyond comprehension. Also know that although you may know our part of the story, there are two more little lives involved, and their story is not mine to tell.<br />
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This was not a rescue mission. It was not "meant to be" or "orchestrated by God". I know that's difficult for some, but I will never be comfortable telling my girls that God wanted them to go through so much loss, uncertainty, and pain in order to come to live with me. We are just a family, supporting one another in all of the ways we can, and navigating this life together.<br />
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We love our girls, as we love all of our children. And like all parents, we will make plenty of mistakes. We will learn as we go, and hopefully we will experience the love and peace that each of us needs.the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-2263330766952551862019-06-09T06:38:00.002-07:002019-06-09T06:42:18.572-07:00My Noodle, My Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I write about my children because they define so much of my life in this moment. My focus has obviously been Easton, and rightfully so, because parenting a child you had to give back is a cruel and vicious beast. And believe me when I say, you still parent them.<br />
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I've also mentioned my twins recently because they are new to our family and the moments we have experienced with them are more easily processed through writing. But now I want to talk about a very special young woman in my life....my Noodle.<br />
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On April 11, 2005 at 8:28am, Jeff and I heard the first cries (let's face it, screams) of our second child and first baby girl. Addison Rae screamed her way into existence, and to be honest, she hasn't stopped since.<br />
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I remember thinking in the early years of Addison's life that she couldn't have come from the same two people as her big brother, Logan. He'd been so quiet, so observant. He processed everything before speaking, even at a very young age. And somehow we now had this spitfire of a little girl, ready to pounce on any situation put before her.<br />
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She hasn't changed in that way. But, her focus has changed over the years as she has grown and become a young woman. I love watching her navigate life. I know I'm simply a lucky spectator, and that her successes and failures have very little to do with me, and everything to do with her soul path. But, still, I'm honored. I'm honored by her grace and beauty. I'm honored by her passion and fire. I'm honored by her presence in my life.<br />
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Addi girl is a worker. and not being the most gifted player on any of her sports teams never stops her. She is driven and determined and earns every minute she plays. She shows such character and maturity in the sports arena. When her teams lose to one more deserving of a win, she acknowledges that with grace and humility. She even congratulates them! I'm not sure I had that kind of selfless attitude at the age of 14.<br />
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She is fiercely protective of the rights of others, whether she knows you or not. Jeff recently explained to someone that when presented with a controversial situation, Logan would likely consider the topic, decide for himself where he falls, and quietly leave the conversation, knowing that he is completely comfortable in his own understanding. But...hell hath no fury like our girl when presented with anything she deems a social injustice. I've never seen a more passionate teenager in my life. Luckily, with age has come beautiful compassion as well. She is not quiet, but she will hold your hand while she screams :)<br />
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Recently Addison was presented with a new role. She is big sister to two people who don't look like her, don't speak the way she does, and certainly don't share her world views. But the grace and poise and unconditional love with which this young woman has embraced these two girls is awe-inspiring. She has fervently learned as much Haitian creole as possible in the last two weeks, and her immediate grasp of the language makes me jealous!! Now I'm able to actually send her a message when I'm not with them and she can translate what I'm needing to say to them. But you know what makes me the most proud? It's not her ability to learn the language. It's that she didn't ask them to learn hers. She didn't assume that "because they're here they should speak her language." She encourages them and is their biggest cheerleader when they learn something new in English, but she embraces their culture, their language as her own as well.<br />
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The girls are so comfortable with her, and in fact, for the first time in their 11 years of life, they separated for about 2 hours. One went home with me while the other stayed with Addison. I don't know that she could ever possibly comprehend what that meant as far as their ability to trust her in that moment. She squashed years of uncertainty for them with her gentle, kind spirit.<br />
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I'm so fortunate to get to watch this baby girl grow. I'll never take that for granted. She may very well do big things with her life. But for me, she already has. So, keep screaming, Noodle! I, for one, am certain that you will give us something worth hearing.the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-4073632535194408362019-05-26T09:08:00.003-07:002019-05-26T09:27:15.039-07:00Love and PeaceAll of the emotions. That's where I am currently. All of them. All of the time. I'm tired and exhilarated, broken and whole. The "birth" of our twin daughters this week has brought more joy, more chaos, and more love than we could have imagined. Just as you cannot prepare yourself for the birth of a biological child, you cannot begin to know what it will be like when your internationally adopted, foreign language speaking, children arrive.<br />
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I've been constantly amazed at the similarities between pregnancy/birth and the adoption process. Because I have been blessed enough to experience both, I feel like I can speak to the uncanny likeness. When I found out that we were matched with the girls, I walked around the house saying "oh my god. oh my god. oh my god" into the phone. This is exactly what I did each time I saw those two pink lines appear. From that moment on, I have experienced the same emotions I had with my pregnancies. The long wait seemed excruciating at times (although for a Haitian adoption, we were VERY fortunate, and had one of the shortest wait times I've seen), and that felt like being 41 weeks pregnant with Logan when I was just SURE this kid was never coming. But, like my pregnancies, the day came to finally bring them home and my brain put the brakes on like I'd seen a state trooper while doing 70 in a 30! "Wait! What was I thinking?! I can't do this!" Ready or not, here they come...<br />
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Jeff and I traveled to that land we've come to love, and waited impatiently as our driver took us through the familiar paths to the orphanage. This time would be different. This time they would come with us. We arrived late to Port Au Prince, and so we left rather abruptly after getting there. The girls hugged us, and seemed happy to see us, but reluctant to leave without knowing that they were going to be coming back soon. I reassured them that we would return the following day for their "Bon Voyage" party. They seemed satisfied with that answer and climbed into the van.<br />
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The guesthouse is 5 minutes from their orphanage and they'd never been there. At first, they seemed to think they needed to follow me everywhere, as if they weren't allowed to go places without me. Eventually they realized that we were ok with them exploring the house a little. They ate well there, of course, because they are used to their native Haitian cuisine. Little by little we learned more about these girls who would soon be coming home to live with us forever. Katia is hesitant with people, but brave with most experiences. Djouna is more trusting with people, but lets her sister take the wheel when it comes to things they haven't seen before.<br />
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The Bon Voyage party with their friends and nannies at the orphanage was a wonderful experience. Some children danced, while others watched, patiently waiting for their turn for juice and cake. Everyone hugged our girls and said goodbye. We could tell that they needed that closure, but I was happy to know they were ready to go when Djouna asked if we could go home now. I'll always be grateful that we took the time to experience that moment with them.<br />
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My friend Michaelle accompanied us to the guesthouse, the party, and eventually onto the hotel. The girls bonded with her immediately and found comfort in her ability to converse with them in their native kreyol. I was so grateful to her for being such a good friend to them. They continue to call her daily to tell her aobut their new life in America.<br />
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The girls repeatedly said no when I asked if they were scared...that is until we boarded the first plane. Djouna decided that yes, she was most definitely scared. She quickly switched seats with Katia, who'd originally been sitting in the middle and was now all but climbing out the window trying to see all of Haiti from that small square opening. The engine started and they both looked at me in fear. I tried to reassure them as best I could, and surprisingly, take off and flight went quite well. It wasn't until we landed, spent way too much time in immigration, and missed our connecting flight that we started to see some fatigue from them. We ate a meal together at an airport restaurant, had some ice cream, and walked the halls of the airport. At this point, I was pretty sure they thought America was just an endless stream of airport nonsense. Highlights of the airport experiences were escalators and moving sidewalks. Their faces were hilarious as they tried to imitate my movements through these foreign concepts.<br />
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We got home incredibly late, but were welcomed by our bio kids and my mom with a sign saying "Welcome Home" in both english and kreyol. The girls were ushered into their new home with hugs and giggles. They took in their surroundings as best they could with 13+ hours of travel fatigue setting in, and I could tell that sleep would not come as soon as they'd like due to their fear of the unknown. So, although we showed them their room, they were elated when I suggested that they have a sister sleepover in the family room. Addison and Morgan were more than willing to accommodate and the first night at home went rather well! Although...to bed at 2:30am, and they woke me at 6...yep!...I have newborns!!<br />
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Food has been an interesting and at times, frustrating piece of the new puzzle. I try to ease them into our American diet with foods that are similar to theirs. Thanks to a group of adoptive mothers, I've gotten some tips that help a lot! Never leave the house without hot sauce....and hard boiled eggs and peanut butter are our friends. Today we discovered that they don't like pancakes, and Jeff is pretty sure that's not allowed. But we're learning likes and dislikes, things in which they take comfort and those they don't.<br />
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Poor Morgan has been dubbed the new bestie, and scapegoat for all their jokes. They follow here everywhere and she is getting a healthy taste of what it means to have pesky little sisters!! The first day home was filled with lots of outside play. All four girls went on a walk together, played volleyball, softball, and soccer together. Since that day they've met all immediate family members, and although relationships are not exactly comfortable yet, they seem to know they are loved. We've also experienced our first sibling ballgame. Anyone who knows us, knows that this will be a common theme in their lives. They did well there despite being surrounded by strangers, all eager to meet them. I can tell sometimes they are overwhelmed though and I'm grateful to those who give us space. They need it right now.<br />
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While it has been challenging at times, it has also been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I'm incredibly grateful to the woman who gave birth to my beautiful daughters. And today, on this Haitian Mother's Day, I honor her and vow to hold her babies close while she holds mine, until we are able to meet again on the other side. I'm trying very hard to be "mom" to all, and that isn't always an easy task, but I think we're getting closer to hitting a groove of our own.<br />
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"Love and peace" is something I say often after losing Easton. I try not to qualify emotions anymore, or say things like "stay strong", or "stay positive". I think it's incredibly important to allow yourself to feel all emotions, and I think telling someone to stay positive implies that breaking isn't allowed. But breaking is important, and it's real. And real is liberating. Love and peace allows people to feel the only thing I can offer. I can send love and wish for peaceful moments for them. I cannot guarantee that things will get "better" or be fixed. And this phrase has served me well over the last 6.5 years. Now in this new chapter in our lives, between new foods, new hair, and new hugs, I can say with certainty that these Haitian/American beauties have brought a whole new level of love and peace...the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-72558854379656110962019-03-20T10:23:00.004-07:002019-03-20T10:24:43.606-07:00Even the SunSometimes the sun that I've been begging to see, just hurts my eyes. Sometimes a simple conversation flips some kind of switch and transports me back to a place with less air to breathe. Sometimes the amount of "living" I seem to be doing feels like someone else's dream, and I'm just hearing about it from a distance. Sometimes the noise of the silence is so deafening that the sound of my own heartbeat feels like a betrayal.<br />
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Grief.<br />
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I lost my child. My son. Not a disease, not an illness, not a seizure. A little boy. One who spent a few hours one day, racing cars around a living room and making "vroom vroom" noises. I remember so many moments like that where I just stopped what I was doing and tried to capture every single second in my brain. I didn't use a camera. I didn't try to record the sounds. I just sat there in silence, witnessing every piece of the atmosphere, somehow knowing in some hidden recesses of my brain that this was one of those sacred moments. This was one I wouldn't want to forget, because it would be one of the few...<br />
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A wave is hitting now. It's crashing in like it does sometimes. The pain is always there, always digging. But sometimes it's so overwhelming, and so crushing that I actually hate myself for continuing to breathe through it. Then I remember that I don't get to choose that. Not really anyway. Because if I did, in any given moment, get to choose living with this kind of pain, I wouldn't do it. And that's not a cry for help. It's not something to be pitied or to cause worry about my mental health. It's always funny to me that people seem surprised by my desire to no longer be here. I happen to know that you'd want the same thing if your child weren't here.<br />
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I'm tired. I'm so tired sometimes that I have to remind myself to move. I have to actually think through getting myself out of the bed and putting my feet on the floor. Sometimes even breathing is no longer involuntary. It's as if even my brain knows it's too much to ask. It isn't bravery or the motivation to be a good wife/parent that gets me to move. I know that would probably seem more glamorous, or would at least make a better story. But the truth is, the fact that I move at all some days doesn't make any sense to me. And sometimes the fact that I can move, hurts me even more.<br />
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I'll never know why his last heartbeat didn't also signify my last. I'll never know why our time together was so brief. I have theories, and sometimes they even help with the crashing waves and moments of immense guilt. But in reality, no one knows. And theorizing about why he isn't here, just isn't helpful for me. It isn't better. It doesn't make me happy to know he's in a better place. It doesn't feel good to know someday we'll be together again...not all the time anyway. Sometimes I just want him here. Sometimes I want desperately to complain about a day full of almost-nine-year-old antics. Sometimes I NEED to hear him, smell him, feel him, and nothing eases that need. Nothing.<br />
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I have a lot going on right now in the way of living. My kids are involved in several of their favorite sports. My husband is getting busier as the school year comes to a close. And as a friend of mine puts it, I'm also in the last trimester of a difficult twin "pregnancy". I also have that job I do several times a week. As far as my kids' activities, my "after" life gets the best of me most of the time. My daughter's volleyball team recently got 2nd in state. They were crying because of the loss of the game and then end of their season, and I couldn't get there. I may look heartless and like it doesn't matter to me, but the truth is, I really am just happy to get to watch her be with her friends. I love that she can move and play and smile and even cry with them. It's a gift. All of it. And when that sports loss happens, my brain can't be in a place of disappointment. Broken people can't fully invest in that. At least this one can't.<br />
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The twins are officially ours but in another country. Yes the wait is long and frustrating. Yes, I'm worried about how life will look when they get here. But I can GET to these children. I know very well what an ACTUAL barrier to being with your child looks like. This isn't it.<br />
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I'll eventually breathe involuntarily again. I'll move my limbs without having to tell them how to do so. I'll work, and parent, and "gestate". But for right now, in this moment...even the sun hurts.<br />
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<br />the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-35855138671997957592018-12-08T12:26:00.004-08:002018-12-08T12:31:24.352-08:00This Damn DayI hate this damn day. I never know what to do with my emotions, or which ones I'm supposed to have for that matter. I know, I know...I can "feel however I want to feel." But that isn't always easy. In fact, by the time one of these "days" gets here, I'm usually to the point that I'm climbing OUT of the hole. It's the days leading up that slay me. I usually try to avoid work during this time and give myself ample time away. Several of my coworkers can probably tell you that I failed to do that this year. I had an entire 12 hour shift where I was literally just trying to remember to keep breathing. Once I stepped outside the hospital, the floodgates opened. And god did I need that.<br />
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It's been a particularly bad week, in terms of my grief. For some reason, I always underestimate the pain before it sweeps me under. It literally feels like someone is holding an open flame to my chest, while I'm trying to simultaneously recover from knocking the wind out of myself. It's crazy how physical the pain was, is, and will continue to be.<br />
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I've had to continue being a parent this week, despite my inability to breathe. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it just isn't. I know a secret that not many parents don't know. You can say it a lot, as a parent. Hell, you can even think it. But you can't KNOW it, until you know it. This is the secret....You can't live for your children. You can't. You have to find other reasons to make yourself move, or not move. And this isn't one of those, "spouse first, then children" rants. I don't believe that either. You have to live for you. You have to MOVE for you. YOU are your only guarantee. Now, although that may sound morbid to many, it's actually been the most freeing lesson I've ever learned. I know for a fact that the people in my life are borrowed. When I watch my children in a sport, I don't care how many points they make, runs they score, or stats they accumulate. I'm legitimately grateful to get to witness their movement, their smiles, their friendships. And I don't feel obligated to make sure they achieve THIS or THAT. Not at all. I'm just here for the ride. They're pretty cool little humans, and I'm glad I get to be the one they come home to at night.<br />
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The PTSD triggered by these specific days is deafening. I can literally hear nothing else sometimes. I can feel, smell, hear, taste every moment. There is a new movie coming out, and of course the timing of its advertising couldn't be better...it's about a "miracle." I'm sure it will be very popular and people will bring their tissues, and have a good cry about the boy who essentially drowned and was then prayed back to life. I know this is what sells, and that no one is going to make a movie about the boy who had thousands praying for him and still died. Where is the blockbuster in that story? It isn't there. But I can tell you it's real. It may not be pretty, but it happens all the time. It is incredibly difficult for grieving parents to hear about how prayer has saved someone. In fact, it borders on cruelty, not intentionally so, but cruelty just the same. Now, don't get me wrong, if my kid had lived after thousands of prayers went up for him, I'd be preaching at every church in town. But that didn't happen. We had love. We had support. We had faith. And we buried our son. And it isn't a "story" to me. It isn't a blockbuster hit that I'll go watch and forget about next week. It is real. And it hurts. It is loud, and it's silent. It burns and it cuts in ways I could never adequately describe. Does it make you a horrible person if you're super excited about seeing that movie? Of course not! But it does make you a lucky one.<br />
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Today, my children are literally everywhere. One daughter is competing in a basketball state tournament, and loving every minute. Another daughter is watching a play with her Grandma who knows very well how much the spoiling will mean to her today. Still two other daughters wait for me in an orphanage, a whole country away. I'm taking my oldest son to several of his own basketball games today. He's fifteen so he smells terrible...comes with the territory...so I've already washed his uniform in order to get it ready for yet another game tonight. And while I guess that could annoy me some days, today I'm so grateful to get to watch his clothes tumble around in the dryer. The fact that they're there means he is well enough to do something he loves, and the fact that I often have troubling deciphering between his laundry and his Dad's now, means that he's grown enough to make that distinction difficult. And I'm annoyingly grateful for that. Because, one set of clothes will never come through my laundry again. I will never, ever forget the day that the last mickey mouse shirt went through the dryer. And while the big moments are certainly present, it is these that cut me to my core.<br />
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I have to be a mom today. I have to go through several motions I don't want to, and although I know the choice is ultimately up to me, there are moments that feel very forced. Sometimes I can talk and laugh in the crowd, and sometimes the walls are too close, and breathing becomes my only focus. I choose to enjoy the moments for which I'm grateful, while also honoring those that burn.<br />
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Today means a lot of things, and this year is no different. Although our lives change and move with time, the significance of this day and that last breath have remained the same. Easton Scott Zanger, you were, are, and continue to be so many things to so many people. I'm infinitely proud of you for that. I'm going to need your help today getting through the moments. Please hold me when I struggle, as I did you, six years ago today...the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-63651337149635609392018-09-02T15:13:00.000-07:002018-09-02T15:13:41.478-07:00Karibe!!!Oh today will go down as one of the most unique experiences of my life. Have you ever taken a TEN year old swimming for the first time in their life? How about TWO at the same time??? I'm in Haiti visiting my twin daughters and they were allowed to leave the orphanage with me today and to go to a nearby luxury hotel to swim for the day.<br />
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These girls had clearly never seen anything like this place. I watched them look out the windows of our van, at a country they live in but rarely see. The walls inside their wonderful orphanage are pretty much their primary scenery. Then as we pulled up to the hotel lobby, I could see their eyes grow wide and they started smiling and whispering to one another.<br />
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I brought them each a swimming suit and when I asked them to put it on, they hesitated for a moment. I made the gestures of putting it on over your head and they got it right away. Neither girl would come out of the bathroom without their cover up fully zipped :) I'd like to remind them of this is about 5 years :)<br />
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As we approached the water and they realized that I was going to get IN the pool, they hurriedly dropped their cover ups to the ground and followed. Katia stayed back of course, as she does nothing without letting Katie test the waters first. Literally in this case! Katie is more adventurous and walked straight into the water. ..with her mouth WIDE open....ooops. Mom fail. She sputtered and failed for a minute and when I scooped her up her heart was racing insanely fast. Worst. Mother. Ever. Luckily she didn't let my one mishap deter her...I think she may have to carry that patience with her to America. And as for Katia, after she saw that, she turned right back around, like "forget you, lady! No way in hell."<br />
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Eventually we were all three in the water learning how to hold our breath and tread water. I'm a TERRIBLE swim instructor in case your were wondering....especially in creole. I never realized there were so many steps to teaching that! I mean, I wanted to say, just do "this". :) Doesn't quite work that way. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know I WAS teaching initially. I was just doing what people do in water. When I got too low, I blew the water from my mouth, etc. Then I noticed Katie doing it too. As I began to watch her, I realized that she was mimicking every single thing I was doing! Right down to wiping water out of my eyes. I actually remember thinking, "oh shit! She's learning by watching you!! That could get dangerous at some point..." I loved the way they eventually just followed me wherever I went. They'd grab onto my shoulders or take my hand when the water got too deep. And they both snuggled pretty close as the day turned to evening. They were FREEZING, which I found hilarious because I was still getting sunburned at that point. They kept saying the word for red and pointing to my face at the end of the day. Apparently my face was burnt and theirs wasn't. Hmmm, odd. Perhaps our exteriors are slightly different shades ;) Another learning moment for me today....when choosing a filter for a pic, what works for mom may not work for them :)<br />
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I wrote this down today because I want to remember forever the feeling of our first outing away from the orphanage. I'm not sure who was more scared when the day started, me or the girls. But in the end, it was one of the coolest things I've ever experienced!!!the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4178136742462098741.post-49124493768528715392018-07-07T20:08:00.001-07:002018-07-07T20:08:33.624-07:00Healthy, Safe, and FreeI am healthy. I am safe. I am free.<br />
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I'm constantly amazed at the extent to which the universe will go to teach me perspective...<br />
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For those who know me, I'm not a politically inclined person. I honestly don't follow it. On purpose. It annoys me. So, this is not a political post. This is simply an observation, by a human being. based on life. Her life.<br />
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Recently, I became ill. I had pneumonia. It's not fun. In fact, I don't recommend it. Anyway, I was trying to muddle through some ridiculous insurance crap in order to be seen by a new provider because my employer had changed some policies. I couldn't get in to the person I wanted and I was quite upset about it. In fact, I cried. Cried.<br />
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The same day, a sweet friend of mine checked in just to see how I was doing, as she does most days. I saw her name pop up on my phone, followed by the inevitable, "Hello friend! How are you today?" I responded by telling her that I was ill, and that I had pneumonia, so I wasn't feeling well. I put the phone down and walked away for a moment. When I came back, I noticed that she'd responded to me. I opened that message and my jaw dropped, and this time, the tears were warranted.<br />
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My friend is Haitian. She is a beautiful, vibrant, Haitian woman. She is driven and compassionate, and one of the most loving souls I've ever met. But perhaps the most inspiring thing about my friend, is her optimism, her ability to hope in the face of diversity. Today, some people in her country decided to riot against a proposed increase in gas prices. For reasons she doesn't understand, her streets were on fire. Buildings surrounding her had bricks thrown through the windows. Her sister was unable to come home after a day of work because there was literally ZERO transportation. So, what did she do? She walked. All night. Alone. In Haiti. She arrived home sometime this morning. She is safe. And we are grateful.<br />
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I've thought about my friend all day today. She was in the forefront of my mind as I drove to work, in a car that I own and can afford to fuel appropriately. I drove without fear and without any thought as to whether or not it would be safe to leave my place of work later that night and drive to my home. I thought of her as I climbed the stairs and although it caused me to cough a little, I could breathe for the first time in a few days, thanks to antibiotics I'd gotten the day I was diagnosed. Do you know what my friend's response was to my message about being ill? Let this sink in...<br />
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"Oh my! I pray that you can get to someone to help and that they can find a treatment for you! Please tell me you will be well again!"<br />
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Like I said, this time, my tears were warranted. Get to someone who can help? Pray there is a treatment for me? I hadn't had either of those fears. Not once. Of course there is treatment for pneumonia and of course I could "get there." But these privileges are not a given, for my friend. They are not a right.<br />
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I began to think about what makes us different. Did I work harder than she did? Absolutely not. Am I smarter? Certainly no. The woman speaks three languages fluently, and dabbles in a few more. Am I more compassionate? I challenge anyone to find a more compassionate being than this young woman. So what is different? There is only one thing that separates us. I was born here. She was born there. I didn't earn my birthplace. She didn't earn hers. It's where we landed. So why did I get this life full of abundance and privileges that I'm too ignorant to even recognize that I have, and she is the one with hope. She is the one spreading optimism and love and, for her, the importance of Jesus.<br />
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I don't live under a rock, and so despite my disdain for political rants, I see the memes and the posts related to borders and who "should be allowed in" and who shouldn't. I wonder if anyone who feels that people should "stay out" would feel that way if they met my friend? I don't know any human being in my circle who would be a better neighbor, a more driven student, and more compassionate friend. She encompasses all that I believe this country truly wants to see in its citizens. And I see the plea for people to "just come legally." Oh friends...if only you knew what that meant.<br />
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My friend wants to study music. Her voice is sensational, and she wishes to teach. She could go to school in Haiti, but when she finished paying the tuition that she can't afford, even if she excelled greatly in her studies, she could simply be denied a diploma. Even if she gets a diploma after her years of study and hard work, she cannot get a job in Haiti after being taught IN Haiti. If she were to be taught in a developed country, she could go home and be nearly guaranteed a job. Easy fix, right? Just come to America, and better your life. Oh if only it were that simple. It takes YEARS to even be considered for a visa to get here. She must prove to her country that she has a reason to return home. For example, if she were to leave behind a husband, or better yet, children, she might be granted a visa to leave for study. Even then, even with the proper documentation in hand, the wait list to enter is years long. Years. So, better her life? Tell me how. Tell HER how. She'd listen. She's all ears. I'M all ears. If I could make it happen, she'd live in my home TODAY. I couldn't find a better role model for my children.<br />
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So, I don't know what the answer is. I'm not quoting memes. I'm not looking for a political discussion. I'm simply telling you what I know. What I've SEEN with my own eyes. I'm telling you about my friend. My real, live friend. A person. A beautiful person that I'm blessed to count among one of my closest friends. She is driven, she is smart, she is compassionate...and her streets are on fire.<br />
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My children will come to live in America. They'll enjoy privileges that some will never know. Someday they will be annoyed with insurance squabbles. They'll whine about gas prices, and they'll be exhausted after a long day of work...hopefully doing something they love. And so today I'm grateful for lungs that work, because I had access to adequate healthcare. I'm grateful for the debit card that worked to fill my car with gas. I'm grateful for tired legs, after a day at work, doing the job I was born to do.<br />
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I am healthy. I am safe. I am free.the truth will set you free...motherhood 101http://www.blogger.com/profile/17872942824994022163noreply@blogger.com0