I can safely say that I have made a choice that will forever alter the lives of my children. One that will cause both big and small ripples for the rest of their lives. It was the hardest decision I ever made for me. But one that irreparably changes the course of their lives... and they had no input. They are not very used to that being the case.
We are not a democratic family by most standards. But we do have an egalitarian societal view. Our family utilizes the thought process of everyone having a voice and being heard. Ultimately the children don't necessarily have a vote. But they have the opportunity to speak, raise questions and assess their stand in decisions which effect the family as a whole.
Many times this is a free for all of sorts. As each member has their own talking points and of course, point of view. Amazingly, there are also those humanitarian and generous views to protect and preserve the other members. This has worked throughout the course of the development of our brood. Until now.
I have circumvented the tradition and destroyed the opportunity. I became and am very selfish at this point. Ultimately my decision was for the best of the family and its preservation. But no child would have made my decision nor would they have swayed it at this point in time.
You see, I single-handedly am destroying our family as they know it. I have asked and filed for a divorce. It was not without agonizing choice deliberation. It was not done in haste. But the decision that loomed and hung over my head for the last several years like King Kong about to scale the Empire State building has finally climbed off my back. It has been made.
For many of my children this has ended their youth. It has forced them to acknowledge the truth about our lives that I worked so very diligently to hide, or spin or make better by working long hours, fighting to keep things looking normal, or pretended that being "just us chickens" was enough to be the representation of the family of which they so wanted to be a part. I had done it for so many years, in such an effortless fashion that they no longer saw the anguish it caused to make believe our family was whole. They could see the struggle. They could see the fatigue. Many nights they heard my sobs as I fell exhausted into bed. But that was seen as how we do things, rather than something wrong with the way things went in our house.
The kids are not to blame for calling this normal. I made it so. I made it seem that exhaustion, sleepless weeks and months, hollowed eyes, migraine headaches that went on for weeks, and endless back pain that caused me to snatch breaths between cries were normal modes of operation. They forget those times most days. They look beyond them into the seasons of relief. The times the struggle appears more like the lives of their friends. They see their lives in terms of seasons just like this. Because the workload shifts and the temporary relief slides in for the moment and erases the pain.
There have been accusations of living manufactured lies. There have been stories of plotting to hurt everyone for the benefit of one. All these things may be resultant of the decision. But none were the motivation. The reasons are private but not very invisible to onlookers. Surprisingly I have been told that there were no surprises about the ultimate demise of my marriage. For some, they even said it far out lasted most expectations for its life expectancy. It not only hurts to know I could not hide its dysfunction, but angers that everyone was willing to sit back and speculate and watch the suffering without comment or question. Understandably their silence can be explained away as knowing I would not have heard them because it wasn't time. But I know I doubted my life and marriage for much longer than anyone was made aware. I thought that was the mark of a dedicated wife and mother to keep silent. To place everyone above herself. To make constant the promises made during the wedding ceremony. To preserve every aspect of the life I had worked to create that seemed normal. I held on to the promise of things getting better and being normal like a bull dog with his favorite bone because it looked and felt like that was what everyone told me to do to be a good christian wife.
I cannot help but wince when I hear those comments. I thought I hid things better. I thought I manipulated the truth enough to hide from it myself and to keep it from the public eyes. I prayed that the children did not have an awareness of the unhappiness. But like my marriage, I failed to keep private what was killing me inside. I allowed what was killing the marriage to show through all the shiny paper I used to wrap our marriage into the perfect package, so no one would know that neither of us was happy.
I listened intently to counselor and pastor alike, who told me to wear out my knees. Pray harder. Put my children and marriage first and God would bless my efforts and give me the desires of ny heart. That there would be a day I would look back on the tough times and see the shift in our lives due to my devotion. I wish I could say that I saw that time. God did indeed answer many of my prayers and blessed us with beautiful and bright children. But the marriage never felt the blessings of God in the same way. I was and am alone.
I prayed to God to make it better for me, for him, for the children, for the sake of our parents and for God. I changed my dress, my job, my likes, my dislikes, my music interests, and my everyday to do list. I prayed harder, I didn't pray for myself or my marriage, but only for others. I worked more, I worked less. I became the contortionist of renowned abilities trying to fit into the hole that our marriage had become.
Exhausted, angry and betrayed, I have finally given up. I am to blame for the unhappiness and anger of my children. I am to blame for their confusion. I have taken away their idea of what our family is and have now replaced it with what it will and has become.
I am sorry I cannot possibly go another day working to make the fit into the way of life I wanted for my children. I wanted them to come from a happy, long marriage and family life. I wanted them to look with pride at their parents' marriage and say how much they wanted their lives and marriages to be like ours. If I had stayed, I would be making them into liars. Despite the anguish and hurt, they know it as well as I do.
I want for them genuine, happy and fulfilled marriages. The kind of marriage that trust and love are inseparable and inherent. I only hope that the pain I have caused them will force them to look harder at what they want in marriage and from their partners. Because they deserve as children to know happy, loving parents who love each other unconditionally. They didn't have them.
I can only ask that when the dust settles that they see the human parents they had and allow for the forgiveness of their mistakes. I also ask that they forgive us for not being adults to end a hurtful, angry marriage before it hurt them. We were children in adult clothes for the longest time. We lashed out. We called names and hurled insults. We made our children into the observing adults at times they needed us to be grown. We couldn't begin to muster what they needed. We were pitiful. I also desire that they allow time to heal the hurts and anger we caused them to feel over all of this.
I cannot change the course of the current steps I am taking. They are painful. They are arduous. They are miserable. Each day seems to rip the scab off another once healed wound to cause additional pain. The quiet anger, and unsaid hurts each of us carries seems to beat away at the calm I so desired by staying in my home. The place that once seemed the most peaceful and comforting. Each day as I waken on the bed tossed onto the floor, I cautiously climb off of it and realize the chaos hasn't ended. It seems to have grown again. The calm has disappeared and the turmoil grows with the silent anger of picking up undone projects and endless bills. That untangling the last few financial knots is like unwrapping the last presents at Christmas and discovering only underwear you don't like.You cannot send it back and you cannot hide it once it is opened. It all takes up space you don't have and energy you didn't want to share. But it is what it is.
Each morning I get up knowing I have another set of anguishing steps to take. I face the reality of wanting a change for the better and realizing that better may not be here. Copable may not be here. But the steps of the next part of my life face me and they must be taken to get to the other side.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
She Gets Everything She Wants and Has Her Nails Done Too.
I have been inundated with questions about what I think about Jon and Kate Plus 8 over the last year or two since they came into existence on TLC. Like many mothers of many children, we are asked how they manage or what we believe is the trick to raising that many children. Some people want a direct comparison to their household and to ours.
Well frankly, there cannot be one and there isn't one. First of all, they agreed to have their lives documented by camera persons nearly 24-7. But oddly, they are not just filming, they seem to be developing a place in the Goslen family. Secondly, Kate has more help with 8 children than I had with nearly all of my brood regardless of their age and numbers. Plus I also worked a full-time job when we had the most help and was building a business. Half of that time I was raising 5 children and pregnant with the 6th child and Barry lived 4 states away. We thought we were moving, so the house cleaning was done nearly daily and there were so few toys the kids thought that Santa Claus had confiscated them.
The other thing about Jon and Kate- despite their different parenting styles, their struggles suddenly no longer include money, or house size or help to do things they want to do. Their level of celebrity has afforded them several solutions to everyday issues that most mothers and fathers of many face every minute of the day. It can be quite a struggle to give to each child according to their need and yet manage to juggle the completion of the laundry. (But I hear that little chore no longer is one that Kate or Jon deal with now.) None of the people I know can afford to have their nails done professionally every week. None of them have their hair done professionally more than 3-4 times a year. Most of us trade a friend with the skill of hair cutting for something else we do well. We adapt our lifestyles to our budgets and our goals for our family.
I had a good laugh as during the season premiere, our heroine, Kate, wanted some extraordinary recognition for planning the birthday party of the sextuplets essentially by herself. She began with talking about the theme, then stated the kids mutinied and wanted a jumpy theme. As she took all the children with her to purchase decorations and the grab bags for the party , she was more concerned that the "P-People" would take their pictures than the task at hand. I understand the press has infringed on their lives, but she asked for the celebrity. With the money and filming comes the responsibility of protecting your children. Another of those pesky every day occurrences for responsible parents-- we are here first to raise and protect our children.
As she wandered the store to find her party items, she ran a commentary on the behavior of the kids. They were indeed well behaved, but that is as it should be. They no longer are 2 or 3 and they have been to school. They should be expected to represent themselves, their family and other large families well.
She seemed to believe that no one had ever done that before, or had the distinct privilege of doing so without an entire entourage of several adults. Sorry Kate, I have grocery shopped with 11 kids and not enough money to buy the desires of their hearts. There were no other adults present other than the scores of people remarking about our large family and the overflowing shopping cart. She was too busy buying everything they wanted to notice that the other families there were counting the number of plates, the total invitations,the kids desires, and the ideas were scaled to a budget they could afford on a salary. Kate was focused on a budget that was scaled for the show. Do you really need four jumpies? and four pinatas? With all of that why did she include a magician? How much is enough? She wasn't spending much time showing the little ones which ones they could afford vs what they wanted. She was just placing everything they touched in the cart.
It was almost surreal to hear her attempt to identify the great behavior of her older daughters as they tried to help mom put together the numerous folded boxes. As the 20 year friend of my daughter commented, "I feel so sorry for the older girls, they are almost always invisible. She never sees what they do right." That much I can tell you is a challenge of mothering many. We get focused on the bad behavior because it can take away from all the other good behavior. It is a reality and a curse.
The saddest portions of the show, were the points in which Kate sought more sympathy for the stresses on their marriage and relationship. Jon mentioned his "side" but the most verbal was Kate. Although she was among the millions of mothers who have heard the babysitter's name come out of her child's mouth first, she was shocked to find out that person had created a strong impact on their children. Reality, again, has been her worst enemy. There was never a question whether the children would acknowledge a caregiver, there was just the question of when. If you have a real job and place emphasis on it, your children eventually suffer. Fact or fiction does not change the reality. One of the hardest choices of a mother that feels the need to supply for her family.
I am not an anti-Goslen fan. I am truly in the corner of the extraordinary children of the relationship. I would love the opportunity to meet Kate and maybe make a few suggestions. I realize I have no celebrity. I am not an expert on raising children. I have and continue to make mistakes that hurt my children and myself. But I believe I can show her ways to be a better working mom. Give her pointers on organizing the fun with the work, and raising kids with a sense of responsibility to each other and the family. I do know I have experience with that.
I would love the show to have Kate meet other moms of many who homeschool, have 8 or more children, have no help other than their children and husbands, live within a budget and manage to raise brilliant children without a tv crew or producers. What an interesting conversation that might be!!
Good Luck Kate and Jon-- I hope you don't become so much of a celebrity that you miss the magical moments. I also hope that you can look beyond your own selves and see what your children need from both of you - whether you are together or apart and that you both rise above your own limitations.
Well frankly, there cannot be one and there isn't one. First of all, they agreed to have their lives documented by camera persons nearly 24-7. But oddly, they are not just filming, they seem to be developing a place in the Goslen family. Secondly, Kate has more help with 8 children than I had with nearly all of my brood regardless of their age and numbers. Plus I also worked a full-time job when we had the most help and was building a business. Half of that time I was raising 5 children and pregnant with the 6th child and Barry lived 4 states away. We thought we were moving, so the house cleaning was done nearly daily and there were so few toys the kids thought that Santa Claus had confiscated them.
The other thing about Jon and Kate- despite their different parenting styles, their struggles suddenly no longer include money, or house size or help to do things they want to do. Their level of celebrity has afforded them several solutions to everyday issues that most mothers and fathers of many face every minute of the day. It can be quite a struggle to give to each child according to their need and yet manage to juggle the completion of the laundry. (But I hear that little chore no longer is one that Kate or Jon deal with now.) None of the people I know can afford to have their nails done professionally every week. None of them have their hair done professionally more than 3-4 times a year. Most of us trade a friend with the skill of hair cutting for something else we do well. We adapt our lifestyles to our budgets and our goals for our family.
I had a good laugh as during the season premiere, our heroine, Kate, wanted some extraordinary recognition for planning the birthday party of the sextuplets essentially by herself. She began with talking about the theme, then stated the kids mutinied and wanted a jumpy theme. As she took all the children with her to purchase decorations and the grab bags for the party , she was more concerned that the "P-People" would take their pictures than the task at hand. I understand the press has infringed on their lives, but she asked for the celebrity. With the money and filming comes the responsibility of protecting your children. Another of those pesky every day occurrences for responsible parents-- we are here first to raise and protect our children.
As she wandered the store to find her party items, she ran a commentary on the behavior of the kids. They were indeed well behaved, but that is as it should be. They no longer are 2 or 3 and they have been to school. They should be expected to represent themselves, their family and other large families well.
She seemed to believe that no one had ever done that before, or had the distinct privilege of doing so without an entire entourage of several adults. Sorry Kate, I have grocery shopped with 11 kids and not enough money to buy the desires of their hearts. There were no other adults present other than the scores of people remarking about our large family and the overflowing shopping cart. She was too busy buying everything they wanted to notice that the other families there were counting the number of plates, the total invitations,the kids desires, and the ideas were scaled to a budget they could afford on a salary. Kate was focused on a budget that was scaled for the show. Do you really need four jumpies? and four pinatas? With all of that why did she include a magician? How much is enough? She wasn't spending much time showing the little ones which ones they could afford vs what they wanted. She was just placing everything they touched in the cart.
It was almost surreal to hear her attempt to identify the great behavior of her older daughters as they tried to help mom put together the numerous folded boxes. As the 20 year friend of my daughter commented, "I feel so sorry for the older girls, they are almost always invisible. She never sees what they do right." That much I can tell you is a challenge of mothering many. We get focused on the bad behavior because it can take away from all the other good behavior. It is a reality and a curse.
The saddest portions of the show, were the points in which Kate sought more sympathy for the stresses on their marriage and relationship. Jon mentioned his "side" but the most verbal was Kate. Although she was among the millions of mothers who have heard the babysitter's name come out of her child's mouth first, she was shocked to find out that person had created a strong impact on their children. Reality, again, has been her worst enemy. There was never a question whether the children would acknowledge a caregiver, there was just the question of when. If you have a real job and place emphasis on it, your children eventually suffer. Fact or fiction does not change the reality. One of the hardest choices of a mother that feels the need to supply for her family.
I am not an anti-Goslen fan. I am truly in the corner of the extraordinary children of the relationship. I would love the opportunity to meet Kate and maybe make a few suggestions. I realize I have no celebrity. I am not an expert on raising children. I have and continue to make mistakes that hurt my children and myself. But I believe I can show her ways to be a better working mom. Give her pointers on organizing the fun with the work, and raising kids with a sense of responsibility to each other and the family. I do know I have experience with that.
I would love the show to have Kate meet other moms of many who homeschool, have 8 or more children, have no help other than their children and husbands, live within a budget and manage to raise brilliant children without a tv crew or producers. What an interesting conversation that might be!!
Good Luck Kate and Jon-- I hope you don't become so much of a celebrity that you miss the magical moments. I also hope that you can look beyond your own selves and see what your children need from both of you - whether you are together or apart and that you both rise above your own limitations.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
May Crowning
Today was Kirsten's triumph and Anya's torture. Kirsten was chosen to crown Mary during the May crowning ceremony. Our merry band of children separated and sat with Catholic instruction teachers and younger ones with me. Each younger child spent the first few minutes looking for their friends sitting with their own families.
Father John entered into the church with his biggest smile, as he once again could lead the new communicants in another step of their newly found demonstrations of faith. Anya's second grade class sat in the front once again in their first communion best and with their families. She was left behind with us. Again on the outside watching her friends.
Kirsten sat quietly behind us during the Rosary and waited with her classmate to go and place the crown of flowers on the head of Mary. They headed to Our Lady's place of honor to place the crown of flowers upon her head. Each one of them walking slowly and with their heads bowed as they reached Mary. They turned and looked at the congregation and groups of moving children carrying more flowers in honor of the Holy Mother. The two girls smiled so sweetly as they came down from the front of the church.
While we had waited, Aidan had fidgeted. He swung his legs and quietly mumbled and sang throughout the entire last four decades of the Rosary. I scolded. I touched his shoulder. I held him in my arms as we stood. I waited for him to stop the noise. I practically hung him by his toes to make it through the mass. All the while Anya sat and watched her class.
Sadly, Anya who so much wanted to be a participant this night and Sunday had to sit with her family. Not because she had done something wrong, but because we had. We as adults had not made plans in advance and she could not participate with her class during first communion. Despite the benefits of being able to join with her family once we become confirmed members, she felt left out. She was disappointed on Sunday to the point of tears. She so wanted to have the beautiful dress and the veil and stand before Father John to take the communion bread and wine. She had studied and knew all about the host and the way they did it. She was proud of her ability to recite the Our Father and the Hail Mary. She knew what they were to do. She was ready. It was the adults that were not. Even as they took pictures of the First Communion Class, she stood off to the side to be able to talk to her friends. All of Sunday, she walked around quietly looking off away from the family -- you could tell she was pondering what she had done wrong. The answer again was the adults did not plan.
So today, I write about one child's joy and another child's sadness over the same evening. How Anya watched as her class once again was in front of the parish to receive their scapulars and she sat with her family. How she marveled at the object and listened to its meaning. All the while as Kirsten glowed with the honor of crowning Mary. We sat as a family and said the rosary to Our Mother. We spoke in unison and individually, so that our prayers could be heard. Even the smallest children began to recite with us the decades. They quickly learned the prayer and began to understand the ritual.
Anya had been given her first rosary for this night. She stood still and held each bead with each recitation of the Hail Mary. When our eyes would meet she would be smiling from ear to ear. She was proud to be trusted to hold the rosary and to be old enough to stand with us as we said it. You could see her determination to fully understand what God intended this time to be.
This must be the greatest challenge of being a parent. The torture of watching one child shine at the moment another fades with disappointment. So I am writing about it, in hopes that someday the memory will be soothed by the writing and acknowledgment of the disappointment. All the while, writing about Kirsten's honor will keep the memory fresh for her as she gets older.
I also hope, that Anya will never lose the longing desire to be able to commune with our Lord. That she will always thirst for him as the doe pants beside the waters. I pray for both of them that this night and all its firsts, will signify the start of something greater for both my daughters despite one's triumphs and the others disappointments.
Father John entered into the church with his biggest smile, as he once again could lead the new communicants in another step of their newly found demonstrations of faith. Anya's second grade class sat in the front once again in their first communion best and with their families. She was left behind with us. Again on the outside watching her friends.
Kirsten sat quietly behind us during the Rosary and waited with her classmate to go and place the crown of flowers on the head of Mary. They headed to Our Lady's place of honor to place the crown of flowers upon her head. Each one of them walking slowly and with their heads bowed as they reached Mary. They turned and looked at the congregation and groups of moving children carrying more flowers in honor of the Holy Mother. The two girls smiled so sweetly as they came down from the front of the church.
While we had waited, Aidan had fidgeted. He swung his legs and quietly mumbled and sang throughout the entire last four decades of the Rosary. I scolded. I touched his shoulder. I held him in my arms as we stood. I waited for him to stop the noise. I practically hung him by his toes to make it through the mass. All the while Anya sat and watched her class.
Sadly, Anya who so much wanted to be a participant this night and Sunday had to sit with her family. Not because she had done something wrong, but because we had. We as adults had not made plans in advance and she could not participate with her class during first communion. Despite the benefits of being able to join with her family once we become confirmed members, she felt left out. She was disappointed on Sunday to the point of tears. She so wanted to have the beautiful dress and the veil and stand before Father John to take the communion bread and wine. She had studied and knew all about the host and the way they did it. She was proud of her ability to recite the Our Father and the Hail Mary. She knew what they were to do. She was ready. It was the adults that were not. Even as they took pictures of the First Communion Class, she stood off to the side to be able to talk to her friends. All of Sunday, she walked around quietly looking off away from the family -- you could tell she was pondering what she had done wrong. The answer again was the adults did not plan.
So today, I write about one child's joy and another child's sadness over the same evening. How Anya watched as her class once again was in front of the parish to receive their scapulars and she sat with her family. How she marveled at the object and listened to its meaning. All the while as Kirsten glowed with the honor of crowning Mary. We sat as a family and said the rosary to Our Mother. We spoke in unison and individually, so that our prayers could be heard. Even the smallest children began to recite with us the decades. They quickly learned the prayer and began to understand the ritual.
Anya had been given her first rosary for this night. She stood still and held each bead with each recitation of the Hail Mary. When our eyes would meet she would be smiling from ear to ear. She was proud to be trusted to hold the rosary and to be old enough to stand with us as we said it. You could see her determination to fully understand what God intended this time to be.
This must be the greatest challenge of being a parent. The torture of watching one child shine at the moment another fades with disappointment. So I am writing about it, in hopes that someday the memory will be soothed by the writing and acknowledgment of the disappointment. All the while, writing about Kirsten's honor will keep the memory fresh for her as she gets older.
I also hope, that Anya will never lose the longing desire to be able to commune with our Lord. That she will always thirst for him as the doe pants beside the waters. I pray for both of them that this night and all its firsts, will signify the start of something greater for both my daughters despite one's triumphs and the others disappointments.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Surviving and More
We had lost contact with Kirsten's godmothers and godfather. They are all a part of the same family and we had grown quite attached to them in Edmond, OK. The story of our friendship was odd at best. We met during the time we attended a mission church for the Lutheran church. A small congregation of about 120 people. Everyone knew everyone else and we kept our lives intertwined throughout our stay there.
Perry and Anita were special people. Initially we were drawn to them because their daughter, Lisa and Anita seemed captivated by our band of merry little ones. Even more so as Anita realized that she and Ariel shared the same birthday. Lisa could be found every Sunday surrounded by the small ones shouting her name, "Lisa, look at this. Lisa, did you see me?" Soon she became the favorite babysitter, despite her entrance into teenage years and activities. Anita was one or another of the childrens' Sunday school class teacher or vacation bible school teacher. There was always a Coleman in her class.
At the time, Perry had been diagnosed with Hodgekin's lymphoma. He was battling fairly well, but as expected, had good days and bad. They often were in each of the focus groups we were in. We began to add them to our newly found family, sharing holidays, Sunday afternoons and nights and general days of fun and talking. There was always a celebration of something- but mostly it was life!
We found out we were pregnant with Kirsten in August of 1994. Our surprise was marked by disbelief and down right fear. Barry had been laid off and we were far from our home state of Ohio. We had moved to Oklahoma only 2 short years before and were just then finding our way to breaking even from the move. Overwhelmed, scared and unable to look beyond the immediate sense of being swept away, we numbly followed each other through the next months of the pregnancy.
We found out not long before Kirsten's birth in April, 1995; Anita had bone cancer. Not one with a protocol of treatment, but one that the only protocol of treatment was for 65 yo black men. They were at a loss. Besides being the second parent for Lisa to have cancer, they were overwhelmed there was no established treatment. It is one thing to battle something you know, another entirely to battle more of the unknown. The search began for doctors, hospitals and the cure. Friends and family began the battle of prayer for the best results and answers to the dilemmas they faced.
Much time was spent going to doctors and seeking opinions. The best chance treatment was determined to be bone marrow transplants. One question answered, another search to begin for the best donors. We were all hopeful and prayed for the search to be short and fruitful. After many testings, and prayers there were none to be found. The small group of close friends tried to close in around them to shelter them from questions, from fears and from being overwhelmed with everyday tasks.
The next alternative was using her own bone marrow and killing off all the bad cells. Once it was removed and healthy, they could destroy the cancer within the marrow and then use the healthy, good cells to replace it. Sounded like a plan. But would it work? With much prayer she began the process. I cannot tell you how long she was in the hospital. I only know it seemed like forever.
She was there through most of November. Perry and she had been hopeful she would be home for Thanksgiving. The news was not so good. She seemed to be getting worse despite the prayers and successes. She lost her hair. She began to lose more and more weight. We would take turns going to see her. Groups of people, friends from church, the neighborhood all went to see her. Rarely was she the one in poor spirits. More often than not, she was the one cheering us. She always had something to tell us about her God, her faith and her belief she would be healed.
The worst of it came near her birthday. I managed to run away from home that day to see her. When I got there, everyone had left for the day. There had been a few visitors earlier in the day, but reports from church had been very limited, and very dismal. Even the pastor had begun to lose faith in her ability to fight the disease. I remember as I walked into the room, I could barely breath. I was struck by the silence of the hospital floor, and the overwhelming machines that stood around her bed.
She lay there with a damp wash cloth covering her bare head. Her skin was drawn and yellow, almost translucent. She was barely 80 pounds at that time. She had been on a ventilator, but now only had oxygen. Her chest seemed to heave up and down under the demands of just trying to breath. There appeared to be so little life left in her. She woke up and looked at me, but seemed to look straight through me. I was so taken back, I fought back tears. I could hardly face my friend who had been so full of life not two months before. I was failing her, by my own limitations and by my own fears.
I finally found my voice and began to talk to her. It was then my eyes came to rest on the pictures taped to the arm of her tv. As I could stop my racing mind, I could see where she had them hang the picture of our children, next to Lisa's smiling face. I slowly started to chatter about the kids. She would smile and attempt to talk and ask questions, but she was truly to weak to do so. So I would sit and talk about the room, the gifts of flowers, and stuffed animals, the pictures and the cards all placed on on top of another in attempt to fill the room with cheer. I tried to fill the room with noise. My endless and meaningless chatter rang empty in the small room. It was overwhelmed by the silence of the hospital floor late at night.
I rinsed out her washcloth, but the cool water seemed to evaporate the moment it was placed on her head. Her skin dry and thirsty for the moisture, quickly removed any hint of water that had been in the cloth. Her lips were dry and seemed somewhat cracked at the corners, the lip gloss or chapstick left on the bedside table useless to stop them from drying out.
I looked at myself in the mirror and then through the reflection to my friend. Surely she was too tired to go on. Surely God would soon stop her suffering as some of out friends thought he would. How could she possibly survive this torture? I also asked myself how could we ask her to keep fighting? Even with the knowledge that she would leave a husband and a beautiful teenage daughter, how could anyone expect her to have the courage to continue to suffer more in order not to leave them? Did we have the right to ask her again and again to have more faith in the healing powers of God, than we who were not sick could manage to believe in?
I quietly walked out of the room and approached the nursing desk. I asked the medical questions you ask about every dying person. What were the labs? How old were they? How much weight had she lost? Was she able to eat? Was her input and output consistent or was she losing the battle? Finally I saw a familiar face from my previous years of working at the hospital. There stood one of the nurses that had befriended me during my time there. I knew she would answer me honestly, frankly.
As I waved to my friend at the end of the hall, she began to walk toward me. She smiled and asked what I was doing back at the hospital. Then the look on her face showed shock and then disbelief. She realized then, that the pictures of the blonde children throughout Anita's room were pictures of MY children. That the little cherub faces she had seen and discussed with Anita were the faces I kissed good night each day. She started to cry as the realization came to her, that there was less distance again between her work and her everyday reality.
Lisa, the assistant director of nursing for the oncology floor had found herself attached to my friend, Anita. She had become more than a patient to her. Anita, as always was her custom, had become a friend and confidant. Anita, when she was well had shared her life, her family and her faith with Lisa. They had joked about her sharing her name with Anita's daughter. They had laughed at Perry's bad jokes and endless puns. She had shared in the oohs and ahhs of dance dresses for Lisa, Anita's daughter. She had been introduced to the family of friends that trouped in to see Anita each week. She was learning about the lives and concerns of each of these people as Anita prayed and worried for each and every one. But Anita rarely worried for herself.
As we stood and put together stories and pieces of Anita's struggle against the beast of cancer, Lisa shared details of how the beast had come and fought Anita's every step. She told of her weakening body and immune system. How certain drugs fought her system to the point of causing her to go into respiratory failure. How Anita had times of lucid conversations and then times where she created an entire world through the mirror in her room. Her mirror had become her window into our house and our family routine. She knew every detail of the day as she told the staff of the children in the mirror. The nurses would be able to judge how sick she was by the stories she told of dancing with the children in the mirror. Or how she would ask for one or more of the children to come and sit on her lap to tell her a story. Both of us wept as we realized that the mirror was her escape from the relentless power of the beast that sought her life.
This was when my heart broke for my friend. Again I began to question God, his wisdom and his power. The nurses informed me that no one had asked Anita if she was tired. No one had dared allow her to choose between the torture of fighting the beast or closing her eyes and not choosing to wake up. The labs, the breathing, the fight had begun to be more that she appeared able to bear. But no one would ask her what she wanted.
I made my way back into her room. Without asking permission. Without calling anyone else or talking even with Perry, I asked the question of Anita. "Are you too tired to go on fighting?" Tears ran down my face. I was the coward. I was the faithless. I was the one arguing with God about the fate of my friend and her life.
She smiled at me, despite my tears. She shook her head "NO" definitively. I tried to ask more questions. She slowly shook her head "No" again. I smiled and took her hand. I then apologized for my lack of faith. She smiled back and closed her eyes drifting off to sleep.
I watched her sleep a bit longer and then made my way home. Not two weeks later, I came back with friends to sing Christmas carols at her bedside. By this point she could sit up and enjoy the company. But sadly, the voice of the angels that had once been hers was silent. She would smile as she attempted to sing the high notes she had previously met with ease. They just weren't there. But she shook her head and answered that no matter, they would be back as soon as she left the hospital.
There had been some damage to her feet during the really sick times. The circulation and oxygen levels had been so low, they found a need to remove a portion of both of her feet. They did so, but she was not as aware as they had decided to do the surgery. As she became stronger, Perry began to realize that she feared never walking again. He tells the story of sitting beside her as she was in the whirlpool to rehab her feet. She was saying how she worried about needing so much help and care now that her toes and portions of her feet had been removed. She was very serious about the impact she felt it would have on their lives if she were unable to walk. Perry with his usual wry wit, quipped back, "I don't intend on taking home the sloth woman. It won't be long until you are walking." Anita's response was to throw a wet washcloth at him. That was when we realized just how strong she was.
We waited for her to come home. It took week upon week for her to be able to make her way back to their house. There were good days and bad. One doctor's appointment rolled into another. A trip for blood work or a therapy appointment. Despite her weakness, the appointments were again stacking up. But Anita would conserve her energy for church on Sunday.
As soon as she could beg, borrow or steal the opportunity, she was at church. Arriving with her 2 quart thermal cup and small bags, she would work her way into the church. She would come in and be surrounded by people from every direction asking how she was, or sharing prayers. She glowed despite the sense of endless tired.
As the spring came, Anita's strength improved. She was stronger and more vibrant each week. She was out among the people she loved. She went to the church she valued and continued to want to give back to the people that loved her.
All of us should have Anita's spirit and faith. Today she continues to work with others that are facing similar crisis of health. She has taught reading as an adult tutor to countless numbers of people. She volunteers and gives of herself over and over again without thought of getting anything back. That just isn't her style.
One of my saddest days was leaving her and her family. Although we are states apart, I recognize that she will always have my heart and best interests. I hear she is a grandma for the first time this year!!! I can only hope the baby girl can keep up with her Grandma!
Perry and Anita were special people. Initially we were drawn to them because their daughter, Lisa and Anita seemed captivated by our band of merry little ones. Even more so as Anita realized that she and Ariel shared the same birthday. Lisa could be found every Sunday surrounded by the small ones shouting her name, "Lisa, look at this. Lisa, did you see me?" Soon she became the favorite babysitter, despite her entrance into teenage years and activities. Anita was one or another of the childrens' Sunday school class teacher or vacation bible school teacher. There was always a Coleman in her class.
At the time, Perry had been diagnosed with Hodgekin's lymphoma. He was battling fairly well, but as expected, had good days and bad. They often were in each of the focus groups we were in. We began to add them to our newly found family, sharing holidays, Sunday afternoons and nights and general days of fun and talking. There was always a celebration of something- but mostly it was life!
We found out we were pregnant with Kirsten in August of 1994. Our surprise was marked by disbelief and down right fear. Barry had been laid off and we were far from our home state of Ohio. We had moved to Oklahoma only 2 short years before and were just then finding our way to breaking even from the move. Overwhelmed, scared and unable to look beyond the immediate sense of being swept away, we numbly followed each other through the next months of the pregnancy.
We found out not long before Kirsten's birth in April, 1995; Anita had bone cancer. Not one with a protocol of treatment, but one that the only protocol of treatment was for 65 yo black men. They were at a loss. Besides being the second parent for Lisa to have cancer, they were overwhelmed there was no established treatment. It is one thing to battle something you know, another entirely to battle more of the unknown. The search began for doctors, hospitals and the cure. Friends and family began the battle of prayer for the best results and answers to the dilemmas they faced.
Much time was spent going to doctors and seeking opinions. The best chance treatment was determined to be bone marrow transplants. One question answered, another search to begin for the best donors. We were all hopeful and prayed for the search to be short and fruitful. After many testings, and prayers there were none to be found. The small group of close friends tried to close in around them to shelter them from questions, from fears and from being overwhelmed with everyday tasks.
The next alternative was using her own bone marrow and killing off all the bad cells. Once it was removed and healthy, they could destroy the cancer within the marrow and then use the healthy, good cells to replace it. Sounded like a plan. But would it work? With much prayer she began the process. I cannot tell you how long she was in the hospital. I only know it seemed like forever.
She was there through most of November. Perry and she had been hopeful she would be home for Thanksgiving. The news was not so good. She seemed to be getting worse despite the prayers and successes. She lost her hair. She began to lose more and more weight. We would take turns going to see her. Groups of people, friends from church, the neighborhood all went to see her. Rarely was she the one in poor spirits. More often than not, she was the one cheering us. She always had something to tell us about her God, her faith and her belief she would be healed.
The worst of it came near her birthday. I managed to run away from home that day to see her. When I got there, everyone had left for the day. There had been a few visitors earlier in the day, but reports from church had been very limited, and very dismal. Even the pastor had begun to lose faith in her ability to fight the disease. I remember as I walked into the room, I could barely breath. I was struck by the silence of the hospital floor, and the overwhelming machines that stood around her bed.
She lay there with a damp wash cloth covering her bare head. Her skin was drawn and yellow, almost translucent. She was barely 80 pounds at that time. She had been on a ventilator, but now only had oxygen. Her chest seemed to heave up and down under the demands of just trying to breath. There appeared to be so little life left in her. She woke up and looked at me, but seemed to look straight through me. I was so taken back, I fought back tears. I could hardly face my friend who had been so full of life not two months before. I was failing her, by my own limitations and by my own fears.
I finally found my voice and began to talk to her. It was then my eyes came to rest on the pictures taped to the arm of her tv. As I could stop my racing mind, I could see where she had them hang the picture of our children, next to Lisa's smiling face. I slowly started to chatter about the kids. She would smile and attempt to talk and ask questions, but she was truly to weak to do so. So I would sit and talk about the room, the gifts of flowers, and stuffed animals, the pictures and the cards all placed on on top of another in attempt to fill the room with cheer. I tried to fill the room with noise. My endless and meaningless chatter rang empty in the small room. It was overwhelmed by the silence of the hospital floor late at night.
I rinsed out her washcloth, but the cool water seemed to evaporate the moment it was placed on her head. Her skin dry and thirsty for the moisture, quickly removed any hint of water that had been in the cloth. Her lips were dry and seemed somewhat cracked at the corners, the lip gloss or chapstick left on the bedside table useless to stop them from drying out.
I looked at myself in the mirror and then through the reflection to my friend. Surely she was too tired to go on. Surely God would soon stop her suffering as some of out friends thought he would. How could she possibly survive this torture? I also asked myself how could we ask her to keep fighting? Even with the knowledge that she would leave a husband and a beautiful teenage daughter, how could anyone expect her to have the courage to continue to suffer more in order not to leave them? Did we have the right to ask her again and again to have more faith in the healing powers of God, than we who were not sick could manage to believe in?
I quietly walked out of the room and approached the nursing desk. I asked the medical questions you ask about every dying person. What were the labs? How old were they? How much weight had she lost? Was she able to eat? Was her input and output consistent or was she losing the battle? Finally I saw a familiar face from my previous years of working at the hospital. There stood one of the nurses that had befriended me during my time there. I knew she would answer me honestly, frankly.
As I waved to my friend at the end of the hall, she began to walk toward me. She smiled and asked what I was doing back at the hospital. Then the look on her face showed shock and then disbelief. She realized then, that the pictures of the blonde children throughout Anita's room were pictures of MY children. That the little cherub faces she had seen and discussed with Anita were the faces I kissed good night each day. She started to cry as the realization came to her, that there was less distance again between her work and her everyday reality.
Lisa, the assistant director of nursing for the oncology floor had found herself attached to my friend, Anita. She had become more than a patient to her. Anita, as always was her custom, had become a friend and confidant. Anita, when she was well had shared her life, her family and her faith with Lisa. They had joked about her sharing her name with Anita's daughter. They had laughed at Perry's bad jokes and endless puns. She had shared in the oohs and ahhs of dance dresses for Lisa, Anita's daughter. She had been introduced to the family of friends that trouped in to see Anita each week. She was learning about the lives and concerns of each of these people as Anita prayed and worried for each and every one. But Anita rarely worried for herself.
As we stood and put together stories and pieces of Anita's struggle against the beast of cancer, Lisa shared details of how the beast had come and fought Anita's every step. She told of her weakening body and immune system. How certain drugs fought her system to the point of causing her to go into respiratory failure. How Anita had times of lucid conversations and then times where she created an entire world through the mirror in her room. Her mirror had become her window into our house and our family routine. She knew every detail of the day as she told the staff of the children in the mirror. The nurses would be able to judge how sick she was by the stories she told of dancing with the children in the mirror. Or how she would ask for one or more of the children to come and sit on her lap to tell her a story. Both of us wept as we realized that the mirror was her escape from the relentless power of the beast that sought her life.
This was when my heart broke for my friend. Again I began to question God, his wisdom and his power. The nurses informed me that no one had asked Anita if she was tired. No one had dared allow her to choose between the torture of fighting the beast or closing her eyes and not choosing to wake up. The labs, the breathing, the fight had begun to be more that she appeared able to bear. But no one would ask her what she wanted.
I made my way back into her room. Without asking permission. Without calling anyone else or talking even with Perry, I asked the question of Anita. "Are you too tired to go on fighting?" Tears ran down my face. I was the coward. I was the faithless. I was the one arguing with God about the fate of my friend and her life.
She smiled at me, despite my tears. She shook her head "NO" definitively. I tried to ask more questions. She slowly shook her head "No" again. I smiled and took her hand. I then apologized for my lack of faith. She smiled back and closed her eyes drifting off to sleep.
I watched her sleep a bit longer and then made my way home. Not two weeks later, I came back with friends to sing Christmas carols at her bedside. By this point she could sit up and enjoy the company. But sadly, the voice of the angels that had once been hers was silent. She would smile as she attempted to sing the high notes she had previously met with ease. They just weren't there. But she shook her head and answered that no matter, they would be back as soon as she left the hospital.
There had been some damage to her feet during the really sick times. The circulation and oxygen levels had been so low, they found a need to remove a portion of both of her feet. They did so, but she was not as aware as they had decided to do the surgery. As she became stronger, Perry began to realize that she feared never walking again. He tells the story of sitting beside her as she was in the whirlpool to rehab her feet. She was saying how she worried about needing so much help and care now that her toes and portions of her feet had been removed. She was very serious about the impact she felt it would have on their lives if she were unable to walk. Perry with his usual wry wit, quipped back, "I don't intend on taking home the sloth woman. It won't be long until you are walking." Anita's response was to throw a wet washcloth at him. That was when we realized just how strong she was.
We waited for her to come home. It took week upon week for her to be able to make her way back to their house. There were good days and bad. One doctor's appointment rolled into another. A trip for blood work or a therapy appointment. Despite her weakness, the appointments were again stacking up. But Anita would conserve her energy for church on Sunday.
As soon as she could beg, borrow or steal the opportunity, she was at church. Arriving with her 2 quart thermal cup and small bags, she would work her way into the church. She would come in and be surrounded by people from every direction asking how she was, or sharing prayers. She glowed despite the sense of endless tired.
As the spring came, Anita's strength improved. She was stronger and more vibrant each week. She was out among the people she loved. She went to the church she valued and continued to want to give back to the people that loved her.
All of us should have Anita's spirit and faith. Today she continues to work with others that are facing similar crisis of health. She has taught reading as an adult tutor to countless numbers of people. She volunteers and gives of herself over and over again without thought of getting anything back. That just isn't her style.
One of my saddest days was leaving her and her family. Although we are states apart, I recognize that she will always have my heart and best interests. I hear she is a grandma for the first time this year!!! I can only hope the baby girl can keep up with her Grandma!
Friday, May 1, 2009
Bad Mom Day
Today was another very stressful day in a string of several hundreds -- okay so maybe only 7 or 8....alright somewhere about 3-4. It began with the "state" arriving at work on Sunday. You know, the day of rest, the dedicated sabbath, family day for heaven's sake!!! We work to keep as many of the kids at home as possible. We make a decent family meal. We try to sit down and discuss what is going on in our lives. See a few good tv shows (alright another obvious exaggeration). But we cherish the time to be together for the most part.
It also is a day to play catch up with laundry, find missing clothing, track lost dance tights, work on coordinating the calendar, bake the occasional cookie and pretend that I am not a working mother, but an everyday stay at home mom with time on my hands to enjoy my children and working to make a better home.
Ultimately I hate Sunday nights. They arrive way too quickly, and I rarely have all the things I want completed done. That makes me pretty cranky. Alright-- it makes me a raving demon. I feel what my grandmother would refer to as "really out of sorts". I begin to transform into this mythical person as soon as the afternoon begins. Reality sets in that there are not enough hours in the weekend to meet my need to complete things. It is like I have lost a part of me when things are not getting to-done from my to-do list.
This is not a recent problem, it has been that way since high school. I would begin to become nervous as Sunday would come to a close. Worse yet, was that I would have the panic attacks in Sunday evening service. No amount of prayer could take away the sense of impending loss.I have hoped as I got older the feeling would ultimately disappear. No such luck. Not only is it here to stay, it now seems to follow me into the beginning of the week and is closing in on Fridays.
So when the ladies came from the state to audit our little corner of healthcare, I was summoned to attend the gala event. In fairness, their job is a necessary evil in our business. After working several years (no I am not admitting exactly how long), I can recognize why their job is necessary and what places won't make the grade. Their arrival however, is actually quite stressful for most administrations, and does indeed cause fear among staff. They are on their toes and working very diligently to provide the best care they can. I am blessed that that is the case everyday where I work. There are no bad nurses, assistants, or therapists. We are honest, hard working people who love the patients and work their job with dedication.
That does not necessarily translate to less stress during this event. Because of our dedication, we worry. Sometimes too much. We manage to add our own stress to the week they come to audit. I find myself doing just that. I may look cool and confident on the outside, but not so much on the inside.
I can say that I have never had a bad audit for my work or any of the work of therapists I was directly supervising as a regional manager or a director. I was blessed with good staff and team members throughout my work experience. I currently work with one of the best teams I have ever worked with. They make my job easier as a therapist and more enjoyable as a person.
So why was the week so bad? Honestly I am not sure. We had way too much rain. The temperature dropped. I did not get much sleep. All those things combined with stress of the audit and some general money issues left me with exacerbating fibromyalgia.
I know better, and know the signs of what is next to come with this stupid illness. I had been afraid it would happen earlier in the year, especially after I fell on ice at work. But I had done some serious avoidance techniques, like increased my massages, taken more medication consistently, and even tried to find possible alternatives to work other than what I do right now. I need to lower my stress and increase my sleep.
My work hours are becoming longer and longer, and I am feeling more guilty not being with my children like I feel I should be. Genevieve seems to have developed anxiety attacks in crowds and cries and quakes at increased noise even in familiar settings. She wails at the thought of unfamiliar events- there seems to be no signs of it until it is full blown and then she is unable to be comforted. As her anxiety increases- so does mine.
I have been waiting for God to send a lightning bolt upon my head or drop anvils past my shoulders as I walk past tall buildings to catch my attention. No such luck. God apparently is thinking I should know what to do about this dilemma. But I cannot say that I do. I have been contacted with opportunities to change jobs, but the knowledge that I work for one of the better companies and have a wonderful team to work with, keeps me from making strides to leave.
I have been angry at the kids, at Barry, at appointments that I cannot make or go to, at bills that never seem to go away, at the angst of the 18 year old who at his own admittance, has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. They frankly are ALL on my last nerve. I don't even have it in me to defend why we have 4 cats and 4 dogs. I am tired, somewhat bored with the stress, and angry that there does not seem a good remedy for any of the things that are causing the discomfort.
There are not enough pills to stop the pain in my head, my neck, my back, arms and legs. The ringing in my ears is due to the medication and growing louder. Quite frankly for the moment I am a physical wreck. The only sleep I am capable of getting involves being awakened by noises 1-2 times a night and to attempt to seek another or any comfortable position in the bed. It has become the last resort torture of the illness. Bamboo under my nails is beginning to seem like a treat rather than the aching muscles of my body.
The headache accompanying the body aches just means no tolerance for noise, or light. With our crew, that means they walk on eggs. They, themselves are tortured by my illness. I don't smile much. I talk even less and they dare not try to climb on my bed for fear that I will scream out in pain or bite my lip with tears streaming down my cheeks.
The kids tiptoe in to ask permission for things, offer to rub my back or bring me food or drink. They are aware that small sounds send me into writhing pain, and some loving touches mean I recoil in deeper pain. They lose the mama they love. They have instead, the wicked witch of the west. I have returned to "get my pretties". I am sending hordes of flying monkeys to capture them and scare them into frozen silence.
It is unfair that they must lose their mama to this dreadful exacerbation. I don't have much coping power with it anymore, or perhaps lately. This is not at all the life I want for them or for me for that matter.
It is very difficult to explain even to adults what this illness can do to you. I hate the fact that I must acknowledge its existence. Today a physician told me I must be doing fairly well with it because I am only taking certain lower level drugs to assist in coping with it. I am not so sure he is correct. I take those medicines because they have fewer side effects, and less taboo about what they are. I take those medicines because I don't want most people to know about the disease. I do without having a pain free day because I think I should cope better with the pain.
I thought back to my last pain free day- it lasted about 4 hours during and after the birth of Aidan by c-section. The spinal block stopped the constant throbbing in my ribs, allowed my hips to lie on the table long enough to take him out and sew me up. The doctors and nurses remarked at how fast I could move my body and get out of bed in that 3 1/2 hour time frame. They marveled at how well I moved, but what they didn't know was that I did it so that I could somehow survive the following day without massive amounts of pain killing drugs. I knew the stagnant inactivity would cause more pain than even the recovery pain could cause.
Some days I can work through the morning pain, and eventually find myself pain free. Other days the pain creeps up on me like a gorilla scaling a tree. As he climbs higher, his weight bears down more and more on the limbs. Each one trying to bend and not break. But the weight pins down the branches and stops the flexibility of the branches. The age factor is one that keeps coming into conversation. How much longer can I handle the work load at my age? You would think I was 65. Those are the very worst days.
Sadly, the patients are beginning to see my pain and lack of sleep. They are now worrying about me! They ask why I work such long hours, or why didn't I sleep the night before. Some of them teasingly offer me the bed beside them for a quick nap. Promising to hide me from the nurses should they come in. But they are adults.
The ones that don't understand anything about why mama is not the same today are my children. You cannot tell a child about a disease that only has aches and pains occasionally and expect them to understand. So instead, I look like the bad mama that only comes out of her room and screams at their loud noises or seems to demand from them more obedience than they should be asked to have. They are of course children, not robots. They deserve the right to be loud, and rambunctious, but the bad mom days seem to steal this away from them.
It also is a day to play catch up with laundry, find missing clothing, track lost dance tights, work on coordinating the calendar, bake the occasional cookie and pretend that I am not a working mother, but an everyday stay at home mom with time on my hands to enjoy my children and working to make a better home.
Ultimately I hate Sunday nights. They arrive way too quickly, and I rarely have all the things I want completed done. That makes me pretty cranky. Alright-- it makes me a raving demon. I feel what my grandmother would refer to as "really out of sorts". I begin to transform into this mythical person as soon as the afternoon begins. Reality sets in that there are not enough hours in the weekend to meet my need to complete things. It is like I have lost a part of me when things are not getting to-done from my to-do list.
This is not a recent problem, it has been that way since high school. I would begin to become nervous as Sunday would come to a close. Worse yet, was that I would have the panic attacks in Sunday evening service. No amount of prayer could take away the sense of impending loss.I have hoped as I got older the feeling would ultimately disappear. No such luck. Not only is it here to stay, it now seems to follow me into the beginning of the week and is closing in on Fridays.
So when the ladies came from the state to audit our little corner of healthcare, I was summoned to attend the gala event. In fairness, their job is a necessary evil in our business. After working several years (no I am not admitting exactly how long), I can recognize why their job is necessary and what places won't make the grade. Their arrival however, is actually quite stressful for most administrations, and does indeed cause fear among staff. They are on their toes and working very diligently to provide the best care they can. I am blessed that that is the case everyday where I work. There are no bad nurses, assistants, or therapists. We are honest, hard working people who love the patients and work their job with dedication.
That does not necessarily translate to less stress during this event. Because of our dedication, we worry. Sometimes too much. We manage to add our own stress to the week they come to audit. I find myself doing just that. I may look cool and confident on the outside, but not so much on the inside.
I can say that I have never had a bad audit for my work or any of the work of therapists I was directly supervising as a regional manager or a director. I was blessed with good staff and team members throughout my work experience. I currently work with one of the best teams I have ever worked with. They make my job easier as a therapist and more enjoyable as a person.
So why was the week so bad? Honestly I am not sure. We had way too much rain. The temperature dropped. I did not get much sleep. All those things combined with stress of the audit and some general money issues left me with exacerbating fibromyalgia.
I know better, and know the signs of what is next to come with this stupid illness. I had been afraid it would happen earlier in the year, especially after I fell on ice at work. But I had done some serious avoidance techniques, like increased my massages, taken more medication consistently, and even tried to find possible alternatives to work other than what I do right now. I need to lower my stress and increase my sleep.
My work hours are becoming longer and longer, and I am feeling more guilty not being with my children like I feel I should be. Genevieve seems to have developed anxiety attacks in crowds and cries and quakes at increased noise even in familiar settings. She wails at the thought of unfamiliar events- there seems to be no signs of it until it is full blown and then she is unable to be comforted. As her anxiety increases- so does mine.
I have been waiting for God to send a lightning bolt upon my head or drop anvils past my shoulders as I walk past tall buildings to catch my attention. No such luck. God apparently is thinking I should know what to do about this dilemma. But I cannot say that I do. I have been contacted with opportunities to change jobs, but the knowledge that I work for one of the better companies and have a wonderful team to work with, keeps me from making strides to leave.
I have been angry at the kids, at Barry, at appointments that I cannot make or go to, at bills that never seem to go away, at the angst of the 18 year old who at his own admittance, has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. They frankly are ALL on my last nerve. I don't even have it in me to defend why we have 4 cats and 4 dogs. I am tired, somewhat bored with the stress, and angry that there does not seem a good remedy for any of the things that are causing the discomfort.
There are not enough pills to stop the pain in my head, my neck, my back, arms and legs. The ringing in my ears is due to the medication and growing louder. Quite frankly for the moment I am a physical wreck. The only sleep I am capable of getting involves being awakened by noises 1-2 times a night and to attempt to seek another or any comfortable position in the bed. It has become the last resort torture of the illness. Bamboo under my nails is beginning to seem like a treat rather than the aching muscles of my body.
The headache accompanying the body aches just means no tolerance for noise, or light. With our crew, that means they walk on eggs. They, themselves are tortured by my illness. I don't smile much. I talk even less and they dare not try to climb on my bed for fear that I will scream out in pain or bite my lip with tears streaming down my cheeks.
The kids tiptoe in to ask permission for things, offer to rub my back or bring me food or drink. They are aware that small sounds send me into writhing pain, and some loving touches mean I recoil in deeper pain. They lose the mama they love. They have instead, the wicked witch of the west. I have returned to "get my pretties". I am sending hordes of flying monkeys to capture them and scare them into frozen silence.
It is unfair that they must lose their mama to this dreadful exacerbation. I don't have much coping power with it anymore, or perhaps lately. This is not at all the life I want for them or for me for that matter.
It is very difficult to explain even to adults what this illness can do to you. I hate the fact that I must acknowledge its existence. Today a physician told me I must be doing fairly well with it because I am only taking certain lower level drugs to assist in coping with it. I am not so sure he is correct. I take those medicines because they have fewer side effects, and less taboo about what they are. I take those medicines because I don't want most people to know about the disease. I do without having a pain free day because I think I should cope better with the pain.
I thought back to my last pain free day- it lasted about 4 hours during and after the birth of Aidan by c-section. The spinal block stopped the constant throbbing in my ribs, allowed my hips to lie on the table long enough to take him out and sew me up. The doctors and nurses remarked at how fast I could move my body and get out of bed in that 3 1/2 hour time frame. They marveled at how well I moved, but what they didn't know was that I did it so that I could somehow survive the following day without massive amounts of pain killing drugs. I knew the stagnant inactivity would cause more pain than even the recovery pain could cause.
Some days I can work through the morning pain, and eventually find myself pain free. Other days the pain creeps up on me like a gorilla scaling a tree. As he climbs higher, his weight bears down more and more on the limbs. Each one trying to bend and not break. But the weight pins down the branches and stops the flexibility of the branches. The age factor is one that keeps coming into conversation. How much longer can I handle the work load at my age? You would think I was 65. Those are the very worst days.
Sadly, the patients are beginning to see my pain and lack of sleep. They are now worrying about me! They ask why I work such long hours, or why didn't I sleep the night before. Some of them teasingly offer me the bed beside them for a quick nap. Promising to hide me from the nurses should they come in. But they are adults.
The ones that don't understand anything about why mama is not the same today are my children. You cannot tell a child about a disease that only has aches and pains occasionally and expect them to understand. So instead, I look like the bad mama that only comes out of her room and screams at their loud noises or seems to demand from them more obedience than they should be asked to have. They are of course children, not robots. They deserve the right to be loud, and rambunctious, but the bad mom days seem to steal this away from them.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Tax Time Drudgery
Today I tortured myself doing something I hate. Quite frankly, I despise completing all the rigors of tax preparation. It is not because I lack the skills, but rather because I am not able to look at the end result without anger. I always have the feeling that somehow we should have earned less or perhaps ate less? maybe needed less health care? Whatever we should have done to keep the cost of living our lives to a lower level -- we should have done that. Okay-- I do draw the line at selling extra children, or renting them out as fake families to single adults.
But I hate the work. It takes me about 24 total hours to complete the task with the end result being sent as work to our CPA. He is actually quite good and we have definitely benefited from his services. But he is too far away for my tastes anymore, and we have developed an unresolved game of endless phone tag. We constantly have new questions, new issues and need additional planning since we both do some private practice work, and now we have the farm.
The fact that the farm has become the bane of our profitable existence over the last few years is a source of great discomfort. There is an end in sight, we just aren't that close yet. We keep pouring money into it with the end result being -- no real profit. However, it allows us a few notable deductions. Another aspect of the tax work that takes additional time, additional documentation and even additional planning. We tend to have some issues with successful planning.
The start of doing the taxes is known to the kids as the day Mama starts to yell and cry over paper. They are very happy to be able to go anywhere away from me when I start to lay out the mounds of papers and begin to add things up. Despite the colorful paperclips and happy sounds of shuffling paper, they know that the job does not make me happy.
I am a saver of paper. I have receipts from nearly every purchase ever made for the farm, the house, the cars, the kids, the animals, our small businesses, the thought of any other purchases... I have a pile or envelope full of them. Barry on the other hand, has a greater amount of difficulty locating the receipts. He may have them in his car, his check book, a drawer at work, or even above his car window visor (a pet peeve of mine each time I am hit in the head with the balance of his collection). This obvious difference in our style of organization has caused many long, and loud discussions. Let's just say we have reached an impasse so often, that we avoid each other successfully in order to sidetrack the argument.
To sort and organize our mountains of bills, papers, school information, applications for school, college, and other opportunities, medical receipts and bills, new purchases, maintenance agreements, etc. takes the better part of a weekend and a clean surface that can be held captive for the balance of said weekend. I have tried many tactics to solicit help from Barry and the children to reduce my attention to the task, to no avail. It seems that sorting and stacking bills chronologically, and alphabetically are not the tasks that draw their highest level interest. I was so very shocked to realize that no one else in our family wanted to spend quality time attending to the early phases of the organization process.
Unfortunately for Kyle he won the lottery this year as the number one helper. After he started complaining about needing FAFSA information, he began to throw comments that clarified how he thought I had been remiss in my civic duty and proceeded to declare me un-American because I was dragging my feet at losing a weekend to headaches, endless paper clips and paper piles. I must say that my retort was less than pleasant and I stomped off to be alone. Once I did speak again,I did, however, invite him to the sorting party. Unwillingly he accepted.
Saturday came and he was busy avoiding his senior prom. With no real plans before his carefully scheduled stint at the pizza parlor, he was pacing about the house. I inquired as to his afternoon plans. Stating he had none until work I begged his indulgence to lessen my workload. So he joined me at the 10 foot kitchen table as it became blanketed with bills and receipts. He began to scrutinize each of the piles, and seemed to be adding the dollars spent to provide he and his siblings with a roof over their head, food, and clothing.
with the addition of each Tractor Supply and feed store receipt, the cost of livestock care and animal feed was mounting. This was very distressing to him because it happened despite his efforts to grow feed, or allow the animals to graze. I actually think it was impressed upon him that the money we discuss not being available for other endeavors had been spent on worthwhile things. He could recognize the value of the purchases, despite the frustrations at being told we couldn't afford what he wanted.
He seemed less antagonistic about the length of time it was taking to complete the task once he began to look through the piles to find each bill. He was genuinely caught off guard by the number of places I had stacks of papers. He had no idea that we had that many sources for the deductions or that many bills for different services or goods. As we finished one grocery bag full, he started to leave the table. I went and found another two piles and bags of paperwork that had been stored in my bedroom. Kyles eyes widened, but he said nothing and began to sort though the bag.
He would glance at the amounts and make no comment. I on the other hand, had a remark for nearly every bill. Sometimes I said things matter of fact, sometimes angrily. I hate needing to juggle paying bills, or paying people because of the limits of our salaries. We have worked two jobs at the same time, worked overtime, done without luxuries and everyday conveniences at times in order to pay bills. Kyle knows this and has made sharp remarks about the time we have lost together while working to get things paid off.
We try to keep our children as children as long as possible. We have told them there are restrictions of money, but never attempted to explain in detail why or how they occur. Additionally, we work greater amounts of time or take on extra jobs to offset any shortfall we experience. The children don't have a strong idea about what our finances entail or what we actually make each year. Because of this, Kyle was beginning to see balances and bills he had not acknowledged before. I also believe Kyle was adding up some of the unpaid balances in his head. You could see him attempt to reconcile our perceived wealth against the balances. He was quietly overwhelmed.
I pointed out some of the obvious costs of living. He recognized the electricity and propane, the cable and phones. They seemed to be matter of fact charges to him. Despite his awareness of increases in gas and food costs, he hadn't quite gotten a handle on some of the other bills. The cost of health care staggers even my mind and we have good health coverage.
By the end of the weekend I will have organized and scrutinized our bills, and ultimately the profitability of our last year. Unfortunately, I already know we are operating in the red for now. There are too many things that need repaired to make our small operation profitable yet. There are too many things that we need or too many parallel activities that are costly which will not allow us to move to the next step for our businesses.
I know that next week will begin the tag-team phone calls between the accountant and I. Barry will attempt to answer questions, but really he is not that aware of the process. I am fearful that I may miss some deductions. I am fearful that I have added wrong or misplaced figures. Regardless of the number of years that I have done this, I always seem to find two or three receipts after it is all said and done. This year we just cannot afford any mistakes of any kind.
Like everyone else, I will finish the project and PROMISE faithfully that next year will be different. I will pledge to have all of the things together and ready to file long before December 31. But when the year ends again, we will still be putting away Christmas and waiting on last minute W-2s.
Next year there will be a difference. Kyle will have a different outlook about our income and the taxes. He will have a new idea about the work it takes to keep up the bills, and still be organized for the taxes. Knowing Kyle, he is aware he learned to procrastinate the more complex tasks from me. He also is a perfectionist and hates to feel inadequate when he does things. But he now has the idea of why the task remains undone at times, despite its urgency.
This year Kyle was the one to learn the facts of tax season and what it requires every month to keep it current. He had heard the discussions and argued against the lost time to the family. But now the impact is felt by him directly. I hope this means I have a partner in the process. Like I said, I hate doing the taxes.
But I hate the work. It takes me about 24 total hours to complete the task with the end result being sent as work to our CPA. He is actually quite good and we have definitely benefited from his services. But he is too far away for my tastes anymore, and we have developed an unresolved game of endless phone tag. We constantly have new questions, new issues and need additional planning since we both do some private practice work, and now we have the farm.
The fact that the farm has become the bane of our profitable existence over the last few years is a source of great discomfort. There is an end in sight, we just aren't that close yet. We keep pouring money into it with the end result being -- no real profit. However, it allows us a few notable deductions. Another aspect of the tax work that takes additional time, additional documentation and even additional planning. We tend to have some issues with successful planning.
The start of doing the taxes is known to the kids as the day Mama starts to yell and cry over paper. They are very happy to be able to go anywhere away from me when I start to lay out the mounds of papers and begin to add things up. Despite the colorful paperclips and happy sounds of shuffling paper, they know that the job does not make me happy.
I am a saver of paper. I have receipts from nearly every purchase ever made for the farm, the house, the cars, the kids, the animals, our small businesses, the thought of any other purchases... I have a pile or envelope full of them. Barry on the other hand, has a greater amount of difficulty locating the receipts. He may have them in his car, his check book, a drawer at work, or even above his car window visor (a pet peeve of mine each time I am hit in the head with the balance of his collection). This obvious difference in our style of organization has caused many long, and loud discussions. Let's just say we have reached an impasse so often, that we avoid each other successfully in order to sidetrack the argument.
To sort and organize our mountains of bills, papers, school information, applications for school, college, and other opportunities, medical receipts and bills, new purchases, maintenance agreements, etc. takes the better part of a weekend and a clean surface that can be held captive for the balance of said weekend. I have tried many tactics to solicit help from Barry and the children to reduce my attention to the task, to no avail. It seems that sorting and stacking bills chronologically, and alphabetically are not the tasks that draw their highest level interest. I was so very shocked to realize that no one else in our family wanted to spend quality time attending to the early phases of the organization process.
Unfortunately for Kyle he won the lottery this year as the number one helper. After he started complaining about needing FAFSA information, he began to throw comments that clarified how he thought I had been remiss in my civic duty and proceeded to declare me un-American because I was dragging my feet at losing a weekend to headaches, endless paper clips and paper piles. I must say that my retort was less than pleasant and I stomped off to be alone. Once I did speak again,I did, however, invite him to the sorting party. Unwillingly he accepted.
Saturday came and he was busy avoiding his senior prom. With no real plans before his carefully scheduled stint at the pizza parlor, he was pacing about the house. I inquired as to his afternoon plans. Stating he had none until work I begged his indulgence to lessen my workload. So he joined me at the 10 foot kitchen table as it became blanketed with bills and receipts. He began to scrutinize each of the piles, and seemed to be adding the dollars spent to provide he and his siblings with a roof over their head, food, and clothing.
with the addition of each Tractor Supply and feed store receipt, the cost of livestock care and animal feed was mounting. This was very distressing to him because it happened despite his efforts to grow feed, or allow the animals to graze. I actually think it was impressed upon him that the money we discuss not being available for other endeavors had been spent on worthwhile things. He could recognize the value of the purchases, despite the frustrations at being told we couldn't afford what he wanted.
He seemed less antagonistic about the length of time it was taking to complete the task once he began to look through the piles to find each bill. He was genuinely caught off guard by the number of places I had stacks of papers. He had no idea that we had that many sources for the deductions or that many bills for different services or goods. As we finished one grocery bag full, he started to leave the table. I went and found another two piles and bags of paperwork that had been stored in my bedroom. Kyles eyes widened, but he said nothing and began to sort though the bag.
He would glance at the amounts and make no comment. I on the other hand, had a remark for nearly every bill. Sometimes I said things matter of fact, sometimes angrily. I hate needing to juggle paying bills, or paying people because of the limits of our salaries. We have worked two jobs at the same time, worked overtime, done without luxuries and everyday conveniences at times in order to pay bills. Kyle knows this and has made sharp remarks about the time we have lost together while working to get things paid off.
We try to keep our children as children as long as possible. We have told them there are restrictions of money, but never attempted to explain in detail why or how they occur. Additionally, we work greater amounts of time or take on extra jobs to offset any shortfall we experience. The children don't have a strong idea about what our finances entail or what we actually make each year. Because of this, Kyle was beginning to see balances and bills he had not acknowledged before. I also believe Kyle was adding up some of the unpaid balances in his head. You could see him attempt to reconcile our perceived wealth against the balances. He was quietly overwhelmed.
I pointed out some of the obvious costs of living. He recognized the electricity and propane, the cable and phones. They seemed to be matter of fact charges to him. Despite his awareness of increases in gas and food costs, he hadn't quite gotten a handle on some of the other bills. The cost of health care staggers even my mind and we have good health coverage.
By the end of the weekend I will have organized and scrutinized our bills, and ultimately the profitability of our last year. Unfortunately, I already know we are operating in the red for now. There are too many things that need repaired to make our small operation profitable yet. There are too many things that we need or too many parallel activities that are costly which will not allow us to move to the next step for our businesses.
I know that next week will begin the tag-team phone calls between the accountant and I. Barry will attempt to answer questions, but really he is not that aware of the process. I am fearful that I may miss some deductions. I am fearful that I have added wrong or misplaced figures. Regardless of the number of years that I have done this, I always seem to find two or three receipts after it is all said and done. This year we just cannot afford any mistakes of any kind.
Like everyone else, I will finish the project and PROMISE faithfully that next year will be different. I will pledge to have all of the things together and ready to file long before December 31. But when the year ends again, we will still be putting away Christmas and waiting on last minute W-2s.
Next year there will be a difference. Kyle will have a different outlook about our income and the taxes. He will have a new idea about the work it takes to keep up the bills, and still be organized for the taxes. Knowing Kyle, he is aware he learned to procrastinate the more complex tasks from me. He also is a perfectionist and hates to feel inadequate when he does things. But he now has the idea of why the task remains undone at times, despite its urgency.
This year Kyle was the one to learn the facts of tax season and what it requires every month to keep it current. He had heard the discussions and argued against the lost time to the family. But now the impact is felt by him directly. I hope this means I have a partner in the process. Like I said, I hate doing the taxes.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Images in the Mirror
I have a hard time identifying with the woman that looks back at me from the mirror. Especially first thing in the morning, when I am not really awake. Okay, so I can be a little scary first thing. The hair is disheveled, mostly curling back upon itself and standing in rolls up on my head. One side of it looks more squished than the other. Occasionally I have those lovely indentations of every crease and fold of the pillow case or the palm print of my right hand across my cheek.
The prettiest mornings are the ones that show my "after the allergy hits" face. Swollen eyes, running nose, and itchy skin patches all over my face and arms characterize this distinctive look. If I had braved make-up the day before, the raccoon eyes develop Alice Cooper drips down my face and add to the intensity of the contrast of my generally pasty white pallor and the leftover make up smears against my skin. Those tend to be the days that even small children cannot help but ask if I am okay.
But yet those days are not what make me question who the woman in the mirror actually is. I began having conflict with identifying with her after I turned thirty. Somewhere that woman had become a mother to three beautiful children with one on the way. She had a husband, lived in a two story house, worked but wanted to stay home, and had two cars- a minivan even!
She rarely bought clothes for herself, and had lost track of the last time she had gotten her hair cut and highlighted on a regular schedule. She even had traded her regular beautician for the latest Great Clips close to home. That woman bought nail polish and forgot to do her nails. She had jewelry, but generally had left some or all of it beside the bathroom sink. She even struggled to keep her wedding ring on, because it was starting to feel tight on her hand as her fingers swelled with another pregnancy. So she opted to put it away for a while. Besides, everyone knew her as someone's mom. She was definitely taken.
The lady in the mirror looked a bit tired as the days passed on. Her mind seemed to be racing miles ahead of herself and preoccupied with today's list of things to do. You could see she had the grocery list, children's medicine, soccer practice and ballet class, church functions, work projects, the dry cleaner pick-up, and school assignments revolving in her mind. She didn't seem to have much time to notice that her hair had begun to gray beyond her temples. She could glance in the mirror, but really not see herself. She was just brushing away the hair from her face and contemplating where the scunci was to hold her hair back in a quick ponytail. At this point, it didn't make her look younger anymore, just preoccupied with other things than the latest hair fashion.
For the longest time, she had sold and told the latest fashions. She had a closet full of the latest new things, because she was in tune with the perfectly dressed sales associate. It was part of her job and she loved the opportunity to wear the latest. But the things currently in the closet are not the latest. Some of them are even re-runs from the last time they were popular. They don't look or fit anywhere near the same. Shopping no longer was as fun. It had become a chore to find something, anything that fits the body of someone who has had more than four children.
Why can't the lady in the mirror look like the lady in my mind? Why is this such a relatively cruel joke? The woman in my mind still looks relatively young. Not as naive, but confident. She has an air of optimism about her. Something that draws curious looks and friendly faces to her. She is not afraid of anything- though she might benefit from a little caution at times.
The mind lady has goals that seem to fit every situation. She has the solutions to most of the issues that cause sleepless nights and days fraught with frustration. The mind lady is a good and tireless mother. She looks forward to days and evenings spent with her children and never seems to tire of the joy of working with and for them. She loves the challenge of keeping everything current, the cleaning, the laundry, the house, and the homeschooling. Really she appears the little dynamo that never sits still. There can be a disgusting air of perfection about her.
For a few years, I kept this woman to myself. Slowly as I became more and more familiar with the lives and thinking of some of my elderly patients, I would venture to question them about how they saw themselves. Many of them had easy answers. For some of the women, they appeared almost heartbroken when we would talk about giving up the household chores of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. They could not fathom a lifestyle that did not allow for them to continue those everyday tasks that had reinforced who they were and what they stood for and took pride in. They wanted to continue their daily lives as they had for every day before.
For others the transition was like the proverbial rolling off a log. They did not see themselves any different than the family or staff members they talked with every day. I struggled to reconcile this difference between each of these groups. I asked more questions. I sought subtle and blatant differences between education, careers, or housewife duties, healthy or dramatically ill. There was no great "ahah" moment to explain why there could be such a difference between the lady in the mirror and the actual image of ourselves for some women.
I asked more questions and grew older myself. I had hoped and prayed for more wisdom to accept the stranger's image I continued to see in the mirror. The only answers I have found are these. I was the happiest back when I had my first children. I felt I had a true purpose and optimism about who I was becoming and the destiny of our family. I had faith that God would show us his path and his ways, so that we could delight in them and serve Him. I was comfortable with myself, my life and with my God despite the challenges back in those days.
Please don't read this to mean I was not happy having more children. There is nothing further from the truth. We asked God for each of our children and he gave them to us without reservation and we received them with great joy and pride.
What has happened is that I have become saddened by the losses of life after having our first few children. With every new pregnancy came a greater awareness of what a tight rope life is stretched between the beginning and end of the future for our children and ourselves.
I have become more wise and perhaps more jaded. I trust fewer people and fewer opportunities. I sit in much lengthier deliberations about choices for our family and for myself, sometimes agonizing for night after night seeking the best answers. The woman in the mirror reflects my fears, and deliberations. She seems to live tenuously at best. She shows evidence of having seen too much at times during her life.
Occasionally the woman in the mirror seems sad to the core of her being. She shows the signs of having cried herself to sleep for not having all the answers or all the resources. Her cheeks have the stains of floods of tears at the loss of 3 miscarriages and the fear of never having another child. Sometimes she seems to be searching for answers to questions that have no answers, but they continue to be questions she cannot let them go.
There are times the lady I see is happy and busy. She seems to suffer the "shiny bauble" distraction, as she half heartedly runs a brush through her hair. She is daydreaming as she dashes out the door to work in the garden, or see the marching band at the football game, or meet friends at knitting. Those times she can be scattered in a happy way. Too consumed in the joys of life, of having things to do, and people and family to share them with.
I have seen the woman in the mirror look thoughtful and concerned on the days she is driving a child to their first day at school, preparing to drive for the ballet audition of a lifetime, dressing to sit and watch a graduation, or going off in search of the new dorm for college across the state. Pride underlies all of her concern as she plans, and rehearses to herself in the mirror the supporting role she must play for each of their children as they grow up and away from the family.
I wish I could better know and like the woman in the mirror. I find her aloof and afraid of her own shadow sometimes. She tends to be overly self-critical and rarely measures up against the other women she sees. She wants to be thinner, prettier, smarter, more faithful, and sometimes even younger than the other women she finds herself surrounded by. Not because there is a real competition, but because perhaps if she were some how different, she could somehow be enough to each of the people in her life. She could solve problems, heal wounds and comfort sorrows better than she has been able to do up to now. She somehow would be able to leap small buildings in a single bound and still be ready and willing to be with a child or her husband. Whe would be all she dreamed and wanted herself to be.
The prettiest mornings are the ones that show my "after the allergy hits" face. Swollen eyes, running nose, and itchy skin patches all over my face and arms characterize this distinctive look. If I had braved make-up the day before, the raccoon eyes develop Alice Cooper drips down my face and add to the intensity of the contrast of my generally pasty white pallor and the leftover make up smears against my skin. Those tend to be the days that even small children cannot help but ask if I am okay.
But yet those days are not what make me question who the woman in the mirror actually is. I began having conflict with identifying with her after I turned thirty. Somewhere that woman had become a mother to three beautiful children with one on the way. She had a husband, lived in a two story house, worked but wanted to stay home, and had two cars- a minivan even!
She rarely bought clothes for herself, and had lost track of the last time she had gotten her hair cut and highlighted on a regular schedule. She even had traded her regular beautician for the latest Great Clips close to home. That woman bought nail polish and forgot to do her nails. She had jewelry, but generally had left some or all of it beside the bathroom sink. She even struggled to keep her wedding ring on, because it was starting to feel tight on her hand as her fingers swelled with another pregnancy. So she opted to put it away for a while. Besides, everyone knew her as someone's mom. She was definitely taken.
The lady in the mirror looked a bit tired as the days passed on. Her mind seemed to be racing miles ahead of herself and preoccupied with today's list of things to do. You could see she had the grocery list, children's medicine, soccer practice and ballet class, church functions, work projects, the dry cleaner pick-up, and school assignments revolving in her mind. She didn't seem to have much time to notice that her hair had begun to gray beyond her temples. She could glance in the mirror, but really not see herself. She was just brushing away the hair from her face and contemplating where the scunci was to hold her hair back in a quick ponytail. At this point, it didn't make her look younger anymore, just preoccupied with other things than the latest hair fashion.
For the longest time, she had sold and told the latest fashions. She had a closet full of the latest new things, because she was in tune with the perfectly dressed sales associate. It was part of her job and she loved the opportunity to wear the latest. But the things currently in the closet are not the latest. Some of them are even re-runs from the last time they were popular. They don't look or fit anywhere near the same. Shopping no longer was as fun. It had become a chore to find something, anything that fits the body of someone who has had more than four children.
Why can't the lady in the mirror look like the lady in my mind? Why is this such a relatively cruel joke? The woman in my mind still looks relatively young. Not as naive, but confident. She has an air of optimism about her. Something that draws curious looks and friendly faces to her. She is not afraid of anything- though she might benefit from a little caution at times.
The mind lady has goals that seem to fit every situation. She has the solutions to most of the issues that cause sleepless nights and days fraught with frustration. The mind lady is a good and tireless mother. She looks forward to days and evenings spent with her children and never seems to tire of the joy of working with and for them. She loves the challenge of keeping everything current, the cleaning, the laundry, the house, and the homeschooling. Really she appears the little dynamo that never sits still. There can be a disgusting air of perfection about her.
For a few years, I kept this woman to myself. Slowly as I became more and more familiar with the lives and thinking of some of my elderly patients, I would venture to question them about how they saw themselves. Many of them had easy answers. For some of the women, they appeared almost heartbroken when we would talk about giving up the household chores of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. They could not fathom a lifestyle that did not allow for them to continue those everyday tasks that had reinforced who they were and what they stood for and took pride in. They wanted to continue their daily lives as they had for every day before.
For others the transition was like the proverbial rolling off a log. They did not see themselves any different than the family or staff members they talked with every day. I struggled to reconcile this difference between each of these groups. I asked more questions. I sought subtle and blatant differences between education, careers, or housewife duties, healthy or dramatically ill. There was no great "ahah" moment to explain why there could be such a difference between the lady in the mirror and the actual image of ourselves for some women.
I asked more questions and grew older myself. I had hoped and prayed for more wisdom to accept the stranger's image I continued to see in the mirror. The only answers I have found are these. I was the happiest back when I had my first children. I felt I had a true purpose and optimism about who I was becoming and the destiny of our family. I had faith that God would show us his path and his ways, so that we could delight in them and serve Him. I was comfortable with myself, my life and with my God despite the challenges back in those days.
Please don't read this to mean I was not happy having more children. There is nothing further from the truth. We asked God for each of our children and he gave them to us without reservation and we received them with great joy and pride.
What has happened is that I have become saddened by the losses of life after having our first few children. With every new pregnancy came a greater awareness of what a tight rope life is stretched between the beginning and end of the future for our children and ourselves.
I have become more wise and perhaps more jaded. I trust fewer people and fewer opportunities. I sit in much lengthier deliberations about choices for our family and for myself, sometimes agonizing for night after night seeking the best answers. The woman in the mirror reflects my fears, and deliberations. She seems to live tenuously at best. She shows evidence of having seen too much at times during her life.
Occasionally the woman in the mirror seems sad to the core of her being. She shows the signs of having cried herself to sleep for not having all the answers or all the resources. Her cheeks have the stains of floods of tears at the loss of 3 miscarriages and the fear of never having another child. Sometimes she seems to be searching for answers to questions that have no answers, but they continue to be questions she cannot let them go.
There are times the lady I see is happy and busy. She seems to suffer the "shiny bauble" distraction, as she half heartedly runs a brush through her hair. She is daydreaming as she dashes out the door to work in the garden, or see the marching band at the football game, or meet friends at knitting. Those times she can be scattered in a happy way. Too consumed in the joys of life, of having things to do, and people and family to share them with.
I have seen the woman in the mirror look thoughtful and concerned on the days she is driving a child to their first day at school, preparing to drive for the ballet audition of a lifetime, dressing to sit and watch a graduation, or going off in search of the new dorm for college across the state. Pride underlies all of her concern as she plans, and rehearses to herself in the mirror the supporting role she must play for each of their children as they grow up and away from the family.
I wish I could better know and like the woman in the mirror. I find her aloof and afraid of her own shadow sometimes. She tends to be overly self-critical and rarely measures up against the other women she sees. She wants to be thinner, prettier, smarter, more faithful, and sometimes even younger than the other women she finds herself surrounded by. Not because there is a real competition, but because perhaps if she were some how different, she could somehow be enough to each of the people in her life. She could solve problems, heal wounds and comfort sorrows better than she has been able to do up to now. She somehow would be able to leap small buildings in a single bound and still be ready and willing to be with a child or her husband. Whe would be all she dreamed and wanted herself to be.
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