Samuel

Dear Sam,

I am writing to apologize to you, my sweet baby boy.

You see, I was not prepared for you. Since you were 8 months old, you have been on the go- always moving, always active. You have been an intensely physical child from the very beginning- at all times you challenge yourself to do more, climb higher, reach further. You are determined and stubborn. You are all boy. And it is exhausting just watching you, let alone trying to keep up.

I wasn't prepared for a child who didn't want to talk. For a child that didn't want to sit and cuddle, or read books and play quietly. I looked at you- your boyish spirit, your need for action, your adventurous ways, and I thought "Oh no! How am I going to deal with this?"

And at times, I resented your lack of need for me. I ached for you to want me to hold you, or for you to look to me for comfort.

But you don't.

And I am realizing the beauty in all of that sweet boy. I am looking at you with new eyes- eyes that are opened to the wonder that you are. I am embracing you as a whole- your active ways, your expressive eyes, and your silence. I am waking up to what your world is like- so physical, so driven to move and to play that words get...lost or forgotten. Words lose meaning in the face of a line of monster trucks in the sun, or a swing swaying in the breeze.

I am loving your quiet and sturdy presence. You take everything in. You absorb it all. And your heart is so big. Despite being so focused on what you want, you have an amazing empathy for those who are sad or hurt.

Sometimes I just watch you as you watch your world. I see you sit in your own silence, your eyes and hands always moving, moving. Pushing cars, climbing furniture, stacking legos. I see you turn your eyes to your sister with such love. You wrap your arms around her and squeeze her tight. You call for her when she is at school.

I have a confession: for a long time I wondered if you were okay, if your silence spoke of something broken inside. If it was something I did...Is it me? Am I not nurturing you as you need?

But now I know differently. All of your lights are on buddy- glowing brighter everyday. You are funny, and kind, and remarkable. You are determined and loving and stubborn. You are smart and compassionate.


And you have shown me all of these pieces of yourself, without speaking. And that, in itself, is wondrous.

So here's to you, my sweet quiet one. I can't wait to see what else you have to teach me.

Still

We all encounter silence in our lives. Stillness. Emptiness. Moments of soundless agony.

The second after angry words are hurled.

The quiet of sadness that breaks upon us in waves.

The moment we realize we are utterly alone.

The seconds before the hurt child utters a bone breaking wail.

The time when the child should cry, but is still. So still.

In these moments, He can be found. Close as skin, speaking to us in the silence of our pain. Holding us as we scream for mercy from providence, from circumstance.

From death. Unfair death.

He is there. He is faithful, and close to the brokenhearted. Even in our angry demands of "Why?", He sits with us.

When the moment of birth becomes filled with stillness, when the cry doesn't come, when the pain is a breaking of the soul and heart so terrible the angels cry...He is there. In the midst of it all.

And I believe His tears fall with ours. Our pain is His pain. And I also believe he is the mightiest of comforters, the strongest of pillars to lean on.

Somewhere under a wintry Nebraska sky, a baby was born. In silence.

I pray that He is close to those who this breaks upon. That He holds them like the ocean holds the sand. I pray they feel His closeness and His comfort while the stillness of the birth echoes in their world.

By the light of my IV bag...

Hi.

Remember me?

I kinda deserted you for 3 weeks, eh? Sorry about that! But I promise I have lots to tell and some good stories!


The biggest of all? My baby turned 2. My precious little guy has been here for 2 years! It's amazing. He is bright and active and funny. He cracks us up with his babble and yelling into the phone. His face melts my heart. 2 years! It has gone SOOOOO fast! (and some days SOOOOO slow. Just being honest. Ahem)

And now we are looking down the pike at Lily's birthday, where she will turn 5. I seriously cannot think about it without tearing up. My sweet angel girl will be 5. Next year, she will go to kindergarten. It seems like yesterday I was holding her little apple sized head in my hand, tracing her ears, turned so pink and perfectly against her skin. And now, she is turning 5. Every single day with her has been a joy.

In other not so important news, I have done all of my appointments and doctor visits for my surgery, and I have a date- Valentine's Day!

Isn't it romantic?

I can just see Mark and I gazing into each others eyes by the light of the hospital fluorescent, or watching the sunset through grainy hospital glass windows. Maybe, if he is really lucky, he can hold my catheter bag while I walk the halls. I may even let him punch the button to give me more pain meds. Ain't he a lucky guy? I know, I spoil him.

I'm a little freaked out. I struggle with this daily- I LIKE myself. I would want to hang out with myself. Why am I doing something to change myself? I also struggle with the whole- "Big is beautiful" thing. It is beautiful, yes, but is it healthy? No.

I have started to think of it like this- I am already running a race. I am actively CHASING health. I have taken alot of steps already- being active, exercising, changing my diet, controlling portions, GIVING UP COFFEE FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!!!!!!!! GIVING UP CAKE AND COOKIES AND CARBS!!!!!!!

The surgery is the biggest step, the most important step. I can be afraid of it, but I am doing it anyway- fear or no fear.

Because you know what's scarier?

Hating myself. Pulling myself down. Wrecking my own psyche. Damaging myself.

I am going to be in pain. I am going to have to struggle to figure out what I can and cannot eat, and I am never going to be able to sit at a meal mindlessly.

And maybe that's good. It's GOOD to focus on what you are fueling your body with. To truly see it for what it is, examine it, decide if its nutritionally sound. All of that is good, and I am up for it.

My biggest problem right now is feeling as if I am burdening anybody with this. I do not want anyone to have to go out of their ways to help me, to take care of my kids, or to do anything for me. But that's just not possible. I have to allow people to help- because they want to and they love me. I need to realize that nobody will feel obligated or resentful. But damn it's hard to ask for help. Very hard. But I need it, so...

Please pray for my kiddos. For my family. That this will be an easy recovery and the results will be worth the work and tears that went into the decision.

Thanks friends. Love to all.

Off the rails

So last night was my first nutritional class for post op.

It scared me to death.

And not because I was worried about never drinking 30 mins before, during, or 30 mins afer neals ever again.

And not because getting enough protein into your small stomach pouch is WORK after surgery.

Not because I have to take chewable supplements 3-4 times as day for the rest of my life.

Not because it will be a struggle not to get dehydrated or anemic.

But because for the first 6 months, I will have to focus ALOT of time and energy on ME.

And I don't do that.

I am a caregiver. I take care of people. And it's not that I don't take care of myself- because I do. But this will require ALOT of time and focus. And it makes me very uncomfortable.

I don't want this to burden anyone.

I don't want to burden anyone with MY care. That's not my role right now. My role is to TAKE CARE of everyone.

I am overwhelmed with the details. I am overwhelmed with figuring out how I am going to balance feeding my children, caring for them, and all of my other responsibilities, along with finding the time to eat when I am not hungry. To cut my food into pencil eraser sized bites, chew it to applesauce consistency, and get in my 1200 calories, 60-80 grams of protein every single day.

Can you imagine?

I can't.

But I CAN imagine a cold white winter day. A cold granite stone with my name on it. And my children crying.

And that is why despite my worries, and despite my concerns, I am going to keep going.

I am going to need help, and prayers, and good friends. My kids will need playdates and other mamas to pick them up and hold them when I won't be able to. My husband will need a break and time to work. We will have to financially sacrifice to hire help if need be, to buy supplements, to pay for the nutrition classes and therapy afterwards.

It seems so so selfish. And so wrong. And entirely the wrong time to focus on myself.

But if I don't do this NOW, I will have to do it LATER. When I am older and less able to recover. When I weigh more and have less mobility. When I have diabetes or my blood pressure isn't controllable anymore.

And so NOW, in this moment, I am choosing my health. And I am choosing to take the time to make this work, to keep myself healthy, and to be HERE for my children.

I am choosing to burden my husband with my care. I am choosing to worry my in-laws and friends. I am choosing to remove myself in some capacity from my children's lives. Even if it is for just a few days.I have never spent a night away from them. I have never been away from either of them for more than 5 hours.

And it breaks my heart. I know that that sounds dramatic, but it is not. My children are my world. I am involved in every aspect of their day. I make all decisions for them. I feed them every meal. I tuck them in every night. I wake them every morning.

And I know that with this decision comes risks. Death. Complications.

That scares me more than I have words for.

And I have no words for that. I have nothing that I can comfort myself with. I can only pray.

And I hope you will keep praying with me.

2.17.07

My mom died in a stranger's bed. She slipped away peacefully on a painless wave of morphine as I sped toward her over the icy January roads between Texas and Oklahoma.

I was too late by hours, the letter I had written her forgiving her for everything arriving soon after her last breath.

I looked down at her in her coffin. Her hands so still, her mouth pulled down tight. The room smelled of roses, yellow as a sunrise and open to the sky. Roses my father had sent. Her favorite.

She died at the age of 46. Of cancer that ate at her lungs and body.

But she was gone long before that.

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. It's a story God has compelled me to share, stopping me in the midst of vacuuming to sit down and tell it.

She was beautiful. She could make any plant grow. She was mercurial, violent, and generous. She was a study in opposites, a study in what we now know is bi-polar.

She drank all of the time. She drank to tamp down her demon's voices, and to make her moods lie still for a time. But they came back with the sun and sobriety. So many years of mental anguish- and never a diagnosis of mental illness until she was nearly dead of cancer.

It's something I will never understand. Was God giving her a glimpse of what life should have been like- medicated and well? Was he giving me an idea of what she would have been like- or what she could have been? I've had to make peace with not knowing.

I have struggled with guilt all of my life. When I was 6, I was taken away from her- carried by a policeman into a waiting car while I watched the paramedice try to resusitate her. I kept screaming that she needed me. Now I think of the fact that she had taken enough pills to die. How much could she have possibly needed me?

I went back to her. And at 11, was taken away again. I don't remember much of these years, just holding a pillowcase filled with my dolls as I watched her in the doorway, pulling great clouts of hair from her head and crying.

I felt guilt, and anger, and fear until I went back to her at 15. That time when I left, I barely got out alive. She was hell bent on killing me in her drunken mental breakdown.

I tried. So many times. I went between anger and hope. I contacted her, and then withdrew.

And then she was dying. And she was well, all at the same time. A walking corpse with the ability to love me like I had never been.

Then she died.

I have spent hours wrestling with my guilt over what I COULD have done. I went to therapy, worked countless hours on getting in touch with the anger that blazed in me. Anger that was covering the guilt of a daughter who LOVED her mother, but didn't save her.

And it all came down to one moment. Holding my newborn daughter. Looking at the face of innocence and asking God if my mother ever felt this much love for me.

And hearing in the dark stillness- Yes.

Tears flowed, mixing with the milk from my breasts. Nourishing my daughter with both love and remembered grace as I continued to speak to God.

Father, I wanted to save her. I wanted to be ENOUGH. I wanted to be the reason she would save herself.

Nothing on this earth could have saved her. She was ruined for this world. Only the touch of my hand, here, in this place free from pain could save her.

Maybe if I was kinder...

No.

Less selfish- I was always so selfish.

No.

Maybe if I had stayed, all of those times.

No.

Maybe if I had beleived in her more.

No.

If I had only-

No. I am telling you no. Her life was as it should be. She died when I determined. She is healed now. Healed. Free. As you need to be. Nothing you did or could have done would have turned her face away from her own destruction. Her soul was ravaged by illness and sickness. Her healing was made whole the moment after she drew her last breath.

I could have held on.

To what?

For that I didn't have an answer. Because there had never been anything to hold on to.

The dog of guilt lies chained. I remind myself, have to remind myself, that I put these things away on that night. That no matter who I was, how much love I had to give, how much of my innocence was taken, she never could have changed her path. She was meant to live and die as she did. And although I don't know the reasons- I do know the outcome.

She is healed. She is free. And one day I will see her again.

Trashed

I have been thrown away many times.

I have been pushed aside for the better thing, the feel good thing, and the less needy thing.

I have spent alot of my adult life battling the excessive need to cling, to claw, and to beg for love.

I still walk the line everyday between what is normal love, and what is excessive love.

Alot of days I get it right. Some days I don't.

I firmly believe God allowed my early days to be tainted by grief and horror. He watched as others abused me for their own sake. He could have stopped it. He didn't. And that used to make me angry, but now I can see it more clearly.

God was teaching me to treasure love.

Here I am. I am married, after swearing I would never marry again. I have 2 children, after acknowledging that I probably never should. That it would be an uphill climb every single day to not repeat the past.

But I have done it. And I would do all of it- all of the hurt of the past, relive it all, to be in this skin now.

Love is not easy to find. And it is not easy to keep. It is work, a constant state of compromise and revision of self. It is putting others before you. It is sacrificing for the good of the whole.

Yes, I have been trashed. I have been forgotten and tossed away. I have seen the turned back, the empty eyes, the raised hand. I have been bloodied. I have run away on legs that hurt, with a heart screaming "Please just love me! I am all ALONE!"

I have now, in my arms and heart, the things my own parents never had. A strong marriage, children whose needs are put first, a safe haven from the world. I have a family and loneliness is not something I carry today.

But because I remember, and because I carry just enough of the girl I was, I don't forget.

I have been trashed. But I have also always been treasured- rescued by the One who knows all and sees all- the One who reaches past and reaches higher than I ever could.

And that is enough.

Head shrinker

Yesterday I had my first psyc evaluation for the surgery.

I was nervous, but my aunt and Mark sent me off with a cheerful- "If you aren't back in 2 hours we will assume they threw you into the looney bin!"

Loving support. It's essential.

*huge eye roll*

So I walked into the office with paperwork in hand- 17 pages of paperwork.

I was shown back into my therapists office.

She was beautiful and skinny. I wanted to hate her.

But she was also funny and kind and sweet. So I had to like her.I hate it when that happens.

We talked alot about my history with weight, how long I have struggled with it- 23 years- and what my goal weight will be after surgery.

I said 160-170.

She nodded, but looked me dead in the eye and said- "You know you may lose more than that."

Well, no. I hadn't considered that. I don't know what losing that much weight would actually feel like.

How will I fit in my skin? What will I wear? How will I look? It will still be me, but will I look like me?

She also pointed out that I may get some very unwelcome attention from men.

I hadn't considered that either.

Being fat is isolating. It keeps people, especially men, from paying much attention to me.

And if I begin to get comments it's really gonna piss me off. If just the fact that I am slimmer makes men think they can then comment on my looks, I am gonna end up punching somebody in the mouth.

Well not really. I won't punch them. But I will definitely think about it.

I also had to take the most random psych test ever on the computer. True/false. 165 strange questions. So far that has been the most painful part of this experience.

So. We are down to one more psych appointment, and 2 dietician classes before I have my final appt with the doc.

One down, 4 to go.