Hey, 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.
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.
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.
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Sunday, November 10, 2019
I'm No Hero
We 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
My Noodle, My Girl
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 :)
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Love and Peace
All 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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!!
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.
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.
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.
"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...
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!!
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.
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.
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.
"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...
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Even the Sun
Sometimes 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.
Grief.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Grief.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, December 8, 2018
This Damn Day
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
Sunday, September 2, 2018
Karibe!!!
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.
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.
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 :)
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."
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 :)
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!!!
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.
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 :)
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."
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 :)
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!!!
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