Chesed

To write or not to write.

To blog or not to blog.

There are parts of me that are alive and thriving and parts of me that want to shut down. I didn’t realize my own poorly disguised and fairly helpful coping mechanism until I read Audrey’s post and recognized myself in Ann Voscamp’s words. “And maybe it is the hurt that drives us on … Hurry always empties the soul.”

Part of the hurry and busy has come by default, not by my choice. But in the rest I see a restless need for the high and happiness of accomplishment and purpose. The lack of courage to sit down and simply be quiet because of what lurks in its shadows.

Aside from the 5,097 things going on, I find myself clamming up and just not wanting to be vulnerable. 98 and 3/4 % of the time (as Dr. Seuss would say), I love this place. I love the interaction, the new friends I meet here and in real life, the inspiration because of bloggers who inspire me to live intentionally. And then a random thing leaves me feeling like a fly swimming in milk. Do you ever do that? Fight the urge to shut down or go undercover with an identity known only to a few?

As though that weren’t enough to put me on break, a half dozen discussions war in my head because there is no chance to discuss them.

How can I, the oldest of three girls, parent boys well?

What does graciousness and femininity look like in a woman not born with that personality? Are women who are naturally quiet, also inherently meek?

Are all married with children thirty year olds chronically exhausted?

Is being balanced over-rated?

I attended a women’s seminar about meeting people’s needs in April that left me with more questions than answers. Why is it that everyone seems to feel so needy? Are we so sheltered that we have lost our perspective about what real hurt is? Why is it that moms with small children say, “I can’t do anything / reach out to anyone because I have my children. I don’t want to miss them.” Yet we send women with small children to foreign countries with few conveniences and no close family support system and expect them to be missionaries. Is it a sign that something is wrong with our lifestyle when missionaries come home and have a terrible time re-entering because they feel their life has no real purpose? Are we over-glorifying being a homemaker in order to cover up our own longing and lack of purpose?

What is ethically and scripturally correct in USA vs Timothy Miller? I am pretty sure I don’t come out on the same side as the majority.

How can there be so much beauty and so much devastation in life all at the same time? How is it that I can feel so jealous and deprived one minute and so blessed and grateful the next? How is it that I experience warm sunshine and an hour in a fragrant greenhouse slowly inhaling the scent of living things, choosing textures and colors of beauty to plant when half a nation away another woman slowly walks through the devastation and death and destruction of a tornado, looking for memories? How is it that I look out the window to smile at our boys laughing and running through acres of green grass and the same day my sister tells me about the two year old who grew silently frantic at the sight of her camera because in her mind big, pointed black objects equal guns?

What is this growing stirring within David and I and what does it represent? In David’s words, “I feel like God is preparing us for something ….. I just don’t know what it is.” My thoughts exactly.

If I’d see a falling star, I’d wish for a few friends to come over to join me for a stretching discussion. Somehow it feels as though it would clear my brain. And probably unleash a dozen blog posts.

Repurposing is all the rage these days. It’s not one of my talents. Maybe that’s because I’ve never been able to visualize a project before I’m actually in it. I walk into Joanns and see bolt after bolt of gorgeous fabric. But nothing leaps out at me saying, “Hey, you could make a ________ with this one and a ______ with this one. I admire and walk on, because I have no idea what I would make or how many yards it would take or what notions would need to accompany it.

I see links to blogs with beautiful creations. Some new. Some old made new with junk (cough, cough) that suddenly turns vintage in the hands of a creator.

So I’m not a creator. Or a visionary. But I really wanted to see if I could. My mom used to create all the time when I was little. I would watch her paint (artsy things, not just walls like I do). And sew. And decorate cakes. And arrange flowers. She didn’t need a pattern; she just made things. I thought when I grew up I’d be able to do those things, too. Turns out, you actually have to have the gift. Christy inherited it. Beth and I … well, we have other gifts.

But I am a pretty good copycat. So one day as I browsed Goodwill I spotted two extra large king size pillowcases. At fifty cents a piece I didn’t think I could go too awfully wrong if nothing ever happened. A 40% off Joanns coupon and one big bag of polyester fill later, I was all set.

Yesterday was the day. I made one pillow with a foldover flap and a button just like the pillows I always drool over in the Pottery Barn magazine. It was so much easier than I thought so I started another …. and then they sort of just took off by themselves as scraps looked just the right size to do this and then that and before I knew it … well, ok, no at 11:00 that night I had four darling little throw pillows for the bench on our front porch.

I am ecstatic! The only problem … I thought that since they were so inexpensive, I would just leave them outside all the time and when they get dusty I’ll throw them in the washer. I mean, at this price, they are next to disposable. But now that I like them so much, I’m feeling protective. What if the neighbors dogs shred them like they do Goldi’s bed every six months? What if I wash them and the old er, vintage fabric falls apart? So maybe you should give me a heads up when you’re coming and I’ll have them out there ready to welcome you. Besides, then I’ll have time to brew fresh iced tea.

The funniest part of the project was David’s look of surprise. Somehow I hadn’t really translated the idea of repurposing so when he saw the humongous originals and heard my words “I’m going to make pillows for the front porch,” he thought I was going to stuff them and sew them shut as is! I’m still snickering at the mental image of dog bed sized pillows …. hey, come to think of it, that just gave me another inspiration.

Happy it’s almost the weekend!

If I were fifteen years younger my mom would tell me to watch my language. And I’m pretty sure I’d have said, “Well, it’s the truth.” The day started out poopy at seven when I woke the boys and discovered Liam’s digestive system had once again run away from him. I hate food intolerances and allergies. And frankly, I’ll be happy to scream that sentence ten times very loudly or however often you’d like to hear it. Liam surprised us all at how well he did with potty training and he continues to do well … except for the odd now and then when something makes his system go berserk for a little and he literally poops in his sleep. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that it happens infrequently. I only wish I knew what causes it so we could eliminate it. Maybe when I figure that out I will also know what causes the inch and a half circle of horrendous eczema beneath his chin that will. not. heal and some days is so raw it oozes blood.

But over all it’s been a good Monday. I love, love life right now. There are a few big things I’d change if I could. But I can’t. So I’m taking up Adam’s philosophy on life, “just deal with it, Mommy.” And we are enjoying the good parts of life so much. It is so much fun to feel well again. To have energy and to be able to enjoy the boys. And it is beyond amazing to experience Spring with all it’s sunshine, thunderstorms, forsythia, and vibrant hues of green!

The boys and I have been having a lot of extra time together while David works at Allegany Boys Camp. I am thrilled that he gets to be involved in a work that is so close to his heart, but I am equally delighted that move in date is only two weeks away and there will actually be an end to the crazy way he burns himself out.

Last Saturday the boys joined me in bed. When I told Adam we were going to run to Kohls for a bridal shower gift he said, “Let’s go to IHOP!” He has been so intrigued with the place ever since I pointed out the sign to him and told him they are open 24/7. I said, “Why not?” So we grabbed some money from the vacation envelope and headed out on the town. The boys were both super good shoppers at Kohls and we landed in a very full restaurant around 10. Just like usual, nothing on the kids menu appealed to Adam. He had his heart set on waffles and I did not have the heart to disappoint him. Especially after he chose to sit next to me at the table instead of across from me. Seriously, I know this isn’t going to happen anymore. He already jerks his hand away most times if I dare to take it when we walk into a store. It’s ok. He’s almost seven. It’s just that he never let me hold his hand ever until he was five.

 

Liam was a champ about eating the food I brought for him, but the longer the meal went on, the more he talked about his pancakes and about wanting syrup. I finally caved and poured a little of their syrup over his honey cake. I thought he was fine until that afternoon. Definitely not trying that again. I feel sad for him feeling so left out. He’s realizing it more and more and trying to process why. But his vocabulary and comprehension are still too limited to really explain. So he keeps saying, “Me dan eat dat?” (No). “When I am dix (six), den me may eat dat?” Sometimes before he hops into his chair at the table, I hear him turn around and tell his imaginary friend, “you may not eat this. This will make you ‘ery, ‘ery dick.” And then he hops up and happily eats his food. But most times, he is the most grateful little guy in town.

That afternoon the boys and I worked outside …. just what they love most. Liam hauled my liriope clippings to the woods and Adam dumped other things and begged to prune the holly. I pruned the roses within a few inches of their lives. I’m not actually sure you can prune these that much, but I was so tired of straggly bushes. I’m hoping for one of those, “and this was their best summer yet … you just wouldn’t believe it” kind of results, but I’ve kind of given up on that sort of thing ever happening in my flower beds.

But the funniest part of the day happened that evening when we were getting ready to go to the bridal shower. Terrible, I know, but the last while I have not carried Liam’s epi pen with me everywhere I go. It’s been awhile since he’s actually broken out in hives over something and I don’t worry as much because he is always with me where I can monitor what he touches. But because of his issues in the afternoon I thought it would be safer to have it with me. I grabbed the trainer and jabbed it into my leg to practice. It really hurt. I knew I was in a hurry, but I didn’t think I’d jabbed that hard. I yanked it out to check and sure enough, it was the REAL epi pen. Not the needleless trainer. Epi dripped off the tip of the needle onto the floor as my mouth dropped open. I mean at $50 a pop I wasn’t into wasting them. Talk about the laugh of the day!

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This past weekend we all went to Maryland so Liam and I could hang out with some of my cousins (about an hour from camp) while David worked at camp again. Adam’s dream finally came true. He got to go along! We had a fantabulous time and lost too much sleep trying not to miss anything. As we were driving home David said, “You did remember I have a board meeting at camp tomorrow night?” ARGH. I did not. So he’s up there again today. And I should be in bed but instead I’m typing aimlessly so that I don’t worry about him driving three hours when he is so short on sleep. His week started with a meeting at 6:30 this morning and I expect him home tonight sometime between one and two am. Let’s just say, I don’t see how he does it.

 

   
 

  
  


Adam actually got excited about playing games tonight and I thought we might be getting back into the I-don’t-hang-out-with-my-dad-very-often-so-now-I-just-want-my-mom stage like he did when we were building the house. The three of us had a blast playing Connect Four, Go Fish, and Candy Land. But then it was bedtime and his eyes blinked hard and fast and his lip quivered and he said, “Is camp finally going to get done so Daddy can tuck us into bed?”

You bet, buddy. You bet. And in the meantime, we’ll keep doing fun things and sending him texts to stay connected. And sometime when you’re not feeling sad, we’ll talk about the boys who never have a daddy with them and about how your daddy is needing you to share a little bit of him so they can find a safe place to go work out their problems. Because you already know that’s what camp is about, but the dots between your daddy being gone and that happening haven’t been connected. And knowing you, you’re going to say, “I can deal with that.” 

I saw this note on the bulletin board at the hospital billing office:

Happy moments, praise God
Difficult moments, seek God
Quiet moments, worship God
Painful moments, trust God
Every moment, thank God

Stumbled across these posts today thanks to Christy linking one of her other posts.  Different situation and yet strangely similar.  I wasn’t even looking for this, but there’s a raw nerve aching inside of me today and yesterday and I think God knew I needed to read this today.  And then I thought of some of you who have gone through the same thing and wanted to share.

Part One on Miscarriage

Part Two on Miscarriage

Love to all of you moms now without a due date, and especially to my friend with the due date three days after mine (you know who you are).

So if our family decided to put out a monthly comic strip, this is what it would look like. In words, since I haven’t yet figured out how to draw on xanga. Most of these are from Liam. He has finally found his funny bone. Although I’m realizing that half his funniness comes from his tone of voice and incredibly dramatic eyes. So if you’re not an aunt or a grandma, you might get bored. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Me: Did you go to a meeting with Daddy last night?

Liam: Ah (yes). Daddy back in dat duck. Dur’in day, “OUCH.” (Daddy backed into a truck and Durlin said, “ouch.”) You have to know Durlin to make this funny. That is exactly what he would have said, and Liam said it in the exact tone of voice he uses!
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After a late night, he grouchily appeared at the top of the steps.

“Mommy, darry me.”

Me: “No, you can come down by yourself.”

Liam: “No, me daid (afraid) me dall (fall) off.”

I promise we do have handrail. This child is a master of manipulation.
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Before Christmas he was carrying his Christmas gift around.

Liam: “Dis my ‘appy birfday? … Dis one Adam’s?”

So I would go through and explain, “These are daddy’s, these are yours, these are Adams ….” There were none for me because David was picking up my gift a few days after Christmas. Liam processed this a minute and then said,

” ‘ou need af ‘appy bir’day. ‘ou need doe ‘al-mart.” (You need to have a happy birthday. You need to go to Wal-mart).
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Two year olds throw fits. The good news is, they give them up easily, too.
One day when he threw one I told him he needed to be sweet because we were going to Grammie’s house. He had an instant mood change and said, “I deel ‘ittle bit ‘appy now.”

Another day I tried a new pair of pants on him. He was beyond pleased. “Dese fit me ‘ittle bit!” he kept saying. As soon as I took them off, he threw a royal fit and insisted on putting them back on. With eyes so big they nearly went vertical and a face full of indignation he said, “Dese fit me ‘ery (very) much.”
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In January, I would rumble and grumble around with nausea. I didn’t realize how much Liam picked up on things til he opened the frig door and whined, “dere’s nothing to eat….”
As things got worse I found myself praying and groaning aloud. It was all I could do to function at all and walking into a grocery store was an absolute nightmare. One day I arrived and simply laid my head on the steering wheel, groaning wordlessly, trying to muster up the strength and courage to go in. And from the back seat I hear this little voice, “Dedu need ‘elp ‘ou?” (Jesus need help you?) I snickered a little, remembering how often I would groan (I thought under my breath), “Jesus, PLEASE help me.”
Me: Yes, Liam
Liam: “Ou day, Please, Dedu ‘elp me.”
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Liam is an over the top all around daddy’s kid. Seriously, I thought Adam was bad. Liam makes Adam’s daddy idolatry pale. One Sunday morning we were running late for church and David was getting ready to run for the shower and I was going to get Liam dressed. Liam got wind of this and could not believe we were stooping this low. I explained that Daddy didn’t have time. No good.
Liam: “Daddy dan dower den ‘e dan dange me. ‘Ow ‘ill dat ‘ork?” (Daddy can shower, then he can change me. How will that work?)

David jumped in to help me out. “No, Liam, daddy doesn’t have time.”

Liam — in absolute disgust: “Daddy is a MESS.”
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His lack of consonants makes everything he says that much more endearing. Like when he says, “Oopsy Naisy” instead of oopsy daisy. Or his expression when he says, “OH. MY. DOO NESS.”

But the bossiness takes the cake. We’ve been working on him with table manners. He had this bad habit of using his left hand to shove food into his mouth if his spoon didn’t quite get it. David was teaching him to keep his left hand in his lap so he wouldn’t be tempted to start shoving it into his mouth. One night he got his bossy lips look and let Adam have it.
Liam: A’am. ‘ou dould put ‘ou o’er ‘and in ‘ou ‘ap. Dee my ‘and? (waves left hand for Adam to see then places it back in his lap.) Dee ‘ow I do it? Dye it. Dat is NOT dood manners.
(Adam, you should put your hand in your lap. See my hand? See how I do it? Try it. That is not good manners.)

Or the time David told Adam to go feed the chickens and Liam immediately turns to Adam and says, ” ‘ou do ‘at daddy dold ‘ou. Doe deed du dickens. ‘urry up. Doe dickly.”
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And then there was the night I made red wine steak and mashed potatoes. This didn’t go over too well. He does not like potatoes. But he doesn’t react to them, so we make him eat them anyway. In all seriousness he looked at us and said, “Me dan’t eat my mashed toes betuz me have diaweah.”
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One day we followed a school bus and at every stop I pointed out how the lights flash yellow and we slow down then they flash red and we stop and then we can watch the children get off. (Nothing like education on the run, you know.) The next day we were following a bus that was not dropping anyone off. Liam watched for awhile and finally he said, “Dat bus need new batties.” (batteries)
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I miss Adam’s quips. He is at school so much of the time, it feels as though I hardly hear him talk. The other morning he was looking out the window before school.
Adam: “Mommy, this winter is just not very successful. There just are no big snows.”
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But the funniest story of all was not Adam or Liam and it was wordless. It was one of those nights during the three week darkness as I’ve come to call it. I was often awake with cramping for several hours at a time. David would wake up intermittently, ask if I’m okay or he could do anything, and then go back to sleep. I sat there, hunched over in the darkness about 3:30 in the morning. He woke again, rubbed my back for awhile, then rolled over to go to sleep. Just as he rolled over, the rooster in the back yard crowed. David leaned over, smacked the snooze button on his alarm clock, and sank back into dreamland.

I was in too much pain to laugh at the time, but the next afternoon when I told him, we both went into gales of laughter. You’ve just got to love subconscious actions.
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What’s funny at your house?

I’m bouncing off the walls with joy! My doctor just called this morning to go over things and knocked my wait time down from one year to only six months.

I almost can’t believe this. After hearing his firm words to David while I was in recovery, “It is very important that she not get pregnant for one year. If her hcg goes up in that time we’ll have to do chemo and it will kill the baby,” I wasn’t expecting anything else. And if you know anything about how passionate I am about the sanctity of human life, you can imagine how much those words made me want to vomit. Apparently my levels were higher than they expected. And apparently the pathology report showing molar but no malignant cells changed their tune.

Sunday night my friend (who also had a molar several years ago) said because hers was a partial and her levels dropped quickly, they let her get pregnant after four months. “But don’t get your hopes up,” she said. How could I not?

I’d called in and gotten all my reports from the nurse already so seeing my doctor’s name come up on the caller ID kind of made my stomach drop. Like, how could there be more bad news? Instead, it was nothing but happiness.

I’ve got a few more weeks til I get to zero at the rate we’re going. And then monthly checks to make sure it doesn’t return. And if it doesn’t ….

Six months feels like minutes compared to a year.

I am dreaming baby already.

I don’t know what it is with Wednesdays (and no, I’m not superstitious). But late this afternoon I felt another layer of darkness lift! No reason to explain it … no amazing miraculous here is the right button … I just suddenly felt different. My brain feels clearer. My slow and slower modes have actually switched up to near normal movement. And for the first time I actually felt like eating when we sat down at the table.

I am beginning to hope for real.

Yesterday’s pathology report:

Partial molar.

Never liked the word partial before. Partial piece of pie. Partial taste of Spring. Partial to certain people. Yesterday it became one of my favorite words. Not that it changes anything except for the statistics stating chances of tumor cells returning. We’re down to 5%.

And just because I was curious I asked for hcg levels. When I kept asking questions the Friday before surgery Dr. * just kept patting my shoulder and saying, “let’s wait on the pathology report to make sure but as long as your hcg is below 100,000 you’re fine.” That day it was 156,000. Three days later (the Monday of surgery) it was 196,000.

One week later it was 3,397. Considering how sick it makes me as my hcg level slowly rises, maybe there is a reason I felt like death that week.

Got to go to bed. I am exhausted. I just wanted to shout out a huge thank you to all of you who have been praying and sending love.

Do I ever like feeling better.

You know that feeling when you hold your body like a pencil and jump off the diving board into a swimming pool and go down, down, down, down and just when you think you cannot go down anymore your feet touch the bottom and you bob toward the top?

I think I’ve gotten there. It doesn’t feel quite the same because unlike in the swimming pool when I climb madly back and break through the surface into sunlight and air, I have no energy to fight my way to the top. So I’ll float slowly. And learn how to breathe water for now. At least it finally feels as though I’m heading up.

I’m beginning to think that when they send you home with discharge papers that include parameters like, if you bleed more than this or your temperature goes above this, they should also include parameters for your spouse that say, “If your wife becomes emotionally dysfunctional beyond this point, do this.”

In all honesty, I thought that I had grieved the loss of our baby long before we ever got to the D&E. By the time we scheduled it, I was feeling such incredible feelings of relief at the thought of this long, horrible journey coming to an end and the prospect of actually feeling better physically that I actually did feel stronger physically and emotionally. The news I got on Friday was a huge shock. By that point I was so stretched emotionally I was at the “just tell me what to do and where to go next” point. The weekend went by in a blur.

Monday, the day I absolutely dreaded because surgery wasn’t til 4 and I had to be NPO from midnight on turned into a lightning flash when I got the call to come in early on my way home from taking the school children. I didn’t even have time to take Liam to his sitter and barely had time to shower. The next day my mom was here and I thought the worst was over. Physically I was weak and lightheaded. Emotionally, I was just so, so, so, so glad to have it all over.

And then came Wednesday afternoon about 3:00. I have no idea what happened. I just know that something inside of me snapped. And from then on, things went from bad to worse and then much, much worse. I was completely blindsided by a depression I never saw coming.

Before we found out about the molar, I was talking to a friend and I told her I’m going to be ok with this …. unless I get to my due date and for some reason we’ve been unable to get pregnant. I did not want to go back to the horrible darkness pre-Liam and I knew that while I’d learned some things, I would not cope well with that. And then when I first heard about the molar, I reasoned that I would still be ok. Yes, we’d have to wait forever; but at least I’d know that. It wouldn’t be about feelings of failure and why and the endless monthly roller coasters of hope and dashed dreams. And I would be ok.

But suddenly I wasn’t ok. Because all of a sudden I was face to face with memories and the knowledge of what moments in the next year were going to feel like all at one time. I knew what it was going to feel like the week I would likely have been pulling out maternity clothes. I knew what it was going to feel like when it got warm to stay … my mental marker of when I would be over the worst of my morning sickness. I knew what it was going to feel like when the fall baby clothes came out in stores. I knew what it was going to feel like when I pulled into the parking lot at Kroger and a dad walked out whistling with a bag of diapers in each hand. I knew what it was going to feel like when I got to my due date and looked at another newborn baby. I knew what it would feel like to hear another woman tell me she was pregnant and then watch her belly grow and she would have her baby and I would still not be pregnant. And all of a sudden I was consumed with grief so large I could not cope.

I could not tell myself to take it five minutes at a time. I could not tell myself anything. And every day grew horrendously worse. I went from being able to tell myself to walk. To fix the boys breakfast. To get the school children. To stop at the stop sign. To completely falling apart. Saturday morning I sat on the couch, unable to move. I could not lie down. I could not answer David’s questions except to shake my head. I could not even see clearly. I stared out the window at the lone house far in the distance and felt as though my brain and body were detached. And for several hours I stared and sobbed horrible, gut wrenching, body spasming cries by turns. I felt nothing. No sadness. No anger. No grief. Nothing. I did not know when I would start crying again or when it would stop. It just happened completely out of my control and I sat there and let it happen because there was nothing else to do. David would fly upstairs every time he heard it start and pull me over against him to hold me until it was done. And in between outbursts he would keep the boys occupied in the basement. Both of us helpless and clueless and me not even caring. I’d gone from wishing I would have died to thinking maybe I was dying.

Finally after about three hours it started to lift enough that I could move and go to bed. By mid-afternoon it broke. I realized my vision was clear and I could walk around and talk and think. Liam stabbed me through my heart when he walked over to where I was lying on the couch and said, “Me dee ‘ou in ‘ou eyes” and I realized it had probably been two days since I’d made eye contact with him. I was physically ill all day with what I thought was a GI bug and in retrospect think not. No one else got sick. I was home all week …where would I have picked up a virus? Liam had three spread out isolated incidents that we later realized were related to something he ate. When I started cramping in pain equivalent to labor Saturday night on top of all the diarrhea and vomiting we called the on call OB who said I may be reacting to the antibiotics. Seems a little severe and delayed for a drug reaction, but maybe. I think it was the hormonal cascade coupled with grief.

That night after I threw up for the last time, my head cleared enough for me to talk with David about all the things that were going through my head. I cried again … but this time they were reasonable, sad, trickly tears.

I haven’t cried since then. I know I will. But I hope and pray my feet really did touch bottom and we won’t have to go there again. David told me later he was completely freaked out. Can’t say that I blame him but at the time I was too clueless to realize it. Yesterday I talked with a friend and when I described what happened she said a friend of hers was warned after a hysterectomy that if that happens to call immediately because it means her hormone levels are dropping too fast. I didn’t have a hysterectomy. My hormone levels are supposed to drop. So I don’t know that they would have done anything anyway. How are you supposed to know the awful things that can happen? And if they will go away or if they won’t?

The friend I talked to yesterday is the same friend who told me her mom said, “treat your body as though you had a baby.” I was so glad she’d warned me. And when I hit the thick of it and felt a million times worse than I expected, I was even more thankful for all the friends who came alongside and said, “My miscarriage was much more traumatic to my body than any of my experiences in childbirth. It took me much longer to recover.” I doubt that it’s true across the board (I’ve heard some pretty awful childbirth stories), but it definitely is true for me and hearing from them has given me courage to believe that someday I will be well again. I’ve never had baby blues (I just have those all nine months of pregnancy); postpartum hormones were happy ones at my house. This feels like one crazy hormonal soup concoction that I hardly know how to deal with.

I’m still learning the hard way many times, but one thing I have learned. When my mom says, “you need to take care of yourself” it is the truth. That used to be my cue to grin and go past whatever limits she suggested to prove how strong I was. But just after I had Adam and did not listen to her suggestions, I got burned. And I realized that when you are the mom, there is no mom figure to pick up the pieces and take care of you if it falls apart. If we as moms do not take care of ourselves, we hurt ourselves and our families. So I’m resting instead of pushing. Cutting myself breaks instead of blaming myself for not being capable. Not feeling self-guilt or feeling stupid about what I’m not doing. And I know that sometime I’ll have to pick up the pieces of undoneness, but hopefully I will be strong and able to do it when it’s time.

For now, I am overwhelmed with gratefulness that I can actually see my boys and feel their sweetness again, that I can look at David’s eyes and feel his strength, that I can smile when Liam giggles, and that when the sun shines I can feel it instead of wearing a jacket when it’s 74 degrees.

This is the road to recovery. I can feel it. And when I recuperate from the five pounds I lost on Friday and Saturday I think I will truly feel it. Maybe today I will be strong enough to call for the pathology report.