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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)