Grief and Letting Go

Here is the text of the sermon I preached today--the anniversary of Patrick's passing.


A little over six years ago, I stood here and preached my first sermon while Phil was on sabbatical.  It was 2009, and we were still waiting for a child.  Still stuck in the darkness of infertility; not knowing if we would ever be parents.  It’s been a full and unfathomable six years, filled with more doctors and shots and surgeries than I ever imagined.  We had Mira and Patrick and life was complicated and crazy and tiring, but beautiful.  But, as most of you know, one year ago today, we lost Patrick to complications caused by his congenital heart defect.  Learning to navigate feelings of grief and anger while simultaneously working to enjoy and celebrate Mira’s life has been difficult.  We have worked hard to find a new normal, knowing that it will only be normal for a while—until another change occurs.

Over the past year, I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore my grief and shove it away in the name of functionality.  When it refused to be shut out any longer, I struggled with depression, anxiety, and panic attacks.  When I allowed myself to feel the grief and anger, I became easily overwhelmed—crying profusely and unable to complete even the simplest task.  I experienced word recall problems and memory lapses, making work impossible.  I even had brief moments when all I wanted was to have Patrick back in my arms, no matter what it took to achieve that.  This is grief.  And it’s ugly.

Grief makes us uncomfortable.  We don’t want to see people in pain.  We want to fix it.  Soon after a funeral, lives return to normal, and we just sort of expect everyone else’s lives to go back to normal as well.  Have you noticed that the Gospels don’t really deal with grief?  Jesus dies.  Then what?  How do you imagine Mary got through the day?  Her son is dead—considered a criminal; murdered by the state.  Does her community help her, or shun her?  Nothing tells us how she moves forward.  Or we’re supposed to move forward.  How do we go on?

People would ask how I was doing, but there were no words to explain, so I lied and said I was fine, or sad, or “just hanging in there.”  Most people did not want to hear the truth.  I felt the anguish of the psalmist:

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress
my eye wastes away from grief,
my soul and body also.

For my life is spent with sorrow,
and my years with sighing
my strength fails because of my misery,
and my bones waste away.

Because of my [grief],
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors;
I am a dread to my friends
—those who see me on the street flee from me.

I am forgotten by them as though I were dead
I have become like broken pottery.

And it hurts.  We discover that there are some who cannot bear witness to our grief and others, usually those we least expect, step up and sit with us and help make life bearable while we learn how to pick ourselves back up and do the small things like breathe or shower or eat.

During grief, time passes in this strange fashion of quick and slow all at the same time, and I suddenly found myself nearing this one year anniversary of Patrick’s death with no idea how that year had passed.  And I’m not done grieving.  I’m not sure I ever will.  But.  I’m on the road to acceptance.  Acceptance doesn’t mean no more hard days, or angry days, or sad days.  It doesn’t mean that I’m done.  It just means that most of my days are good.  In the language of my day job, it is more likely than not that today will be a better day.

As I have emerged from the fog of grief, I have begun to figure out what I’m supposed to do now.  Different ideas have percolated, but most of them have made me anxious because they all fall outside my comfort zone.  “I can’t do that!” I tell myself.  But if I’m honest, it’s that I don’t want to do it.  The ideas would require more work, more discomfort, or expenditure of more time and energy than I feel ready for.  I’m scared.  The ideas involve risk, and I am a risk-averse person.

In my fear and discomfort, I have been reminded that everyone feels that way.  Jonah was clearly called to be a prophet, but he made himself miserable trying to avoid doing the work God called him to do.  Moses was called to guide and care for others in a new place, feeling unsure of himself, but having to be the adult to an entire nation.

Like Jonah and Moses, we are all called to do God’s work.  Like Jonah, we hide.  We run.  Like Moses, we fall short or fail.  We misunderstand.  Moses even tells God, “Oh my Lord, please send someone else.”  It is a comfort to me that even Moses, one of the best of God’s people, was imperfect and felt unworthy and not up to the challenges to which he was called.  And yet, ultimately, Moses goes.  Even Jesus submits to God’s will.  “Not my will, but thine be done.”  We, too, must try.  We must let go.  We must submit. 

Now, here’s a dirty little secret.  People will tell you to let go and let God.  I just did.  And we mean well.  Because the truth is, when you’re ready to let go, it will be freeing.  But if you’re not ready to let go, don’t.  Letting go before you’re ready means spending a lifetime trying to pick it back up.  So hold on.  Hold on until you know that letting go is your best option.  Even then it won’t be easy.  Letting go is still a huge leap of faith.  No matter when you do it, it is likely to feel scary.  But, more often than not, when something feels scary—if it requires you to leave your comfort zone—God is calling you out because He is doing a new thing.

So this is me—doing the scary new things God has called me to do.  I am turning my blog into a book in the hope that my journey will help make someone else feel less alone or make their path a little easier.  And today.  This sermon.  This sharing of my journey with you.  See, preaching—any public speaking really—is not my thing.  I’m a writer.  But through all of this, I have been called to share my story.  So this is me—taking my leap of faith—letting go and letting God.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

The Scariest Thing I Have to Do

I mentioned before that I moved a lot growing up.  By first grade, I had lived in three states.  Mid-way through third grade saw state four.  By sixth grade, I returned to state #1, but was on city #5, and house #6.  At the end of eighth grade, we had lived in Indianapolis for three years, and I was miserable.  I approached my parents to inquire about when we would be leaving, given our pattern of moving every 2 1/2 to 3 years.  I was horrified to discover that they intended to stay put.  I was going to have to face my demons and figure out how to deal.  Realizing I was going to have to figure out how to deal with all the crap from middle school in high school was rough.  I hoped that the influx of new people from two other middle schools would improve my chances of meeting people without preconceived notions of who I was, but ultimately, I ended up with a small circle of close friends I could trust while dealing with lots of rumors and bullying and crap.  I bided my time until I could leave for college.

That was the first time I realized that, because we always moved so much, I had never had to really deal with any of my issues.  When there were people who didn't like me, or who made my life miserable, I never really had to do anything about it because we would leave. It was never a conscious thing.  I didn't try to make problems and get out of them by moving,  And I always carried with me feelings that I didn't belong and that no one liked me.  But, ultimately, I got to start fresh in a new place, where no one knew me, and I would find a few close friends and brave the world as best I could until it was time to do it all over again.  

Recently, as I began to feel a nagging feeling to move, to leave, I began to excavate my feelings associated with all this moving and discovered that I wasn't so much starting fresh as running away. I was surprised.  How could it be running away?  After all, in the beginning, my family dictated the moves.  I never wanted to move--at least until eighth grade--so none of those moves constituted running away.  And then we didn't move when I had wanted to, so that wasn't running.  And then everyone left for college--it's what you did--so that wasn't running, etc. etc. etc.  There was always a reason I had moved, and it never had anything to do with conflict, so I always saw it as a moving bug--not as running away.  Until now.

See, I've been struggling.  Struggling to belong.  To my village.  My amazing village.  The one that has done so much for me, and supported me, and helped me so fully and freely.  The problem is me. In addition to having trouble asking for help, I tend to prefer to keep to myself.  I usually have three or four really close friends--the people I turn to first and foremost for anything and everything.  As I have moved, who those people are has had to change due to distance, but they are always limited in number.  There are lots of reasons for this.  Part of it is my being a pastor's wife and not being able to talk freely about the church and my relationships with many people.  Part of it is because I am an introvert and have social anxiety.  Regardless of the reasons, though, the fact remains that I play things fairly close to the vest with all but a small few of very close people.

Unfortunately, as my grief for Patrick continued, life moved forward on the outside, and, as sometimes happens with friendships, some of them fell away.  Of the four people I knew without a doubt I could call on for anything, I lost three.  Whether from grief, or busyness, or external obligations, I suddenly found myself alone.  The majority of my village remained intact, but was spread out across the country where they couldn't help with day-to-day needs; and those who were close in proximity were not those I felt I could call at a moment's notice for anything because I had not cultivated those friendships in that way.  Worse, I was incapable of attempting to convert any of those friendships into the type that I needed due to the anxiety and grief I was experiencing.

But as I dug myself out of my hole over the last few months, and my energy returned, my "move" bug began to bite.  Then I began to have this nagging feeling that I want to leave; to run away; to start over.  The mind talk went something like: "If I have to find new people anyway, I might as well do it somewhere else--somewhere I don't have all these memories; or somewhere I already have people I have let in."  But that's not an option.  

Our lives are here.  My job.  Phil's job.  Mira's physicians and health history.  For good or ill, all memories of Patrick.  So I have to find my answers here, where I am.  And that's hard.  Much like starting a new school half way through the year, the relationships are set.  People have already given of themselves to others.  They already have "their people"--those whom they have elected to let in and be close and will allow to call on them at a moment's notice.  It's intimidating and difficult to navigate, even for the most gregarious and sociable people.  As a socially anxious introvert, there are few things I find scarier.  

And so I have to trust.  Trust that I am a likable person.  Trust that others will see what previous friends have seen and that I will find those willing to let me in.  Trust that I will find a new circle of three or four from which my village will extend.  Confession time:  I hate this plan.  I despise that this is what I have to do.  But my feelings don't change the answers.  So, please be gentle with me.  If I seem grumpy, or withdrawn, or standoffish, or awkward, it's likely not you.  It's me.  I'm trying to figure out how to, in the words of the old hymn, "Trust and obey.  For there's no other way."

Making Progress

I am pleased to report that I am making visible progress in several areas in my life.

I visited my doctor recently, and I have finally been able to remove meds rather than add them.  We halved my anti-depressant dose and removed the Abilify and Ambien.  It took about six days to wean off the Ambien, and my sleep pattern isn't completely back to normal, but the fact that I can sleep without the meds is fan-freakin'-tastic.

I also went on a writing retreat this week and finished editing my book (it comes in at a whopping 410 pages).  The hardest part wasn't the editing; it was when I began reading the entries starting around last July.  Seeing what we were doing this time last year; how we were making plans; trying to figure out our bifurcated life and seeing what we could do to make it work because we thought we needed a long-term solution.  We believed Patrick had a future.  Seeing the hope I had.  The fear.  The naivety.  Reading those entries again was gut wrenching.  It made me cry, but I wasn't a functionless puddle.  I was still functional.  I could still edit.  And yet, I wasn't blocking the feelings.  I let myself have them.  It felt like real progress.

In other news, I am starting back to work in mid-September.  I am really excited to see my co-workers and finally feel like a productive member of society again.  Phil and I have found a house to buy that will give us a fresh start, Mira has given the house her seal of approval, and we should be closing in October.

Fall is coming.  It's going to be full, but I'm feeling optimistic.  As Phil and I like to say, "We're standing up and looking forward."  Not to mention, pumpkin everything is coming. :)  So, here's to my progress.  Let's hope it continues.

I Dreamed of You

As I headed out to Denver for my week of writing and relaxation, I found myself thinking a lot about Patrick.  Between swiftly approaching anniversaries and editing my manuscript in which he features prominently, my mind has been full of thoughts and pictures of him, so it was no surprise that I dreamed of him the night before the trip.  Thus, I found myself sitting in the airport, wanting desperately to write something, but not feeling like working on my book.  I was surprised to discover that I wanted to write more poetry.  See, I am not really a poetry person, or, at least I didn't use to be.  Apparently, among all the changes that I have undergone from these experiences, feeling like writing more poetry is another to add to the list.  So, sitting in the Detroit airport, sun blazing in the windows, I wrote a poem to Patrick.

I Dreamed of You

I dreamed of you last night;
that you were here with me.
I held you in my arms again
and rocked you fast asleep.

Closed eyes framed with lashes.
Your soft, contented sighs.
My heart swelled with maternal love
that made up for your cries.

Your small but wild patch
of red and curly hair
matched with a wicked grin and laugh
you never failed to share.

You wore a hooded shirt
of sea foam green and white.
It almost hid the cannula
that wrapped your face so tight.

You were alive again.
Just like in your last days.
I was so sure that it was real,
so piercing was your gaze.

Instead, it was a dream
But one I'm glad I had.
I got to feel your love again,
although it made me sad.

And though sometimes I'm broken,
and struggle with dismay.
Knowing you still watch over me
helped get me through my day.

Untethered

I've had a rough day.  Between witnessing the baptism of two adorable baby boys at church this morning--which reminded me of the two times we tried and failed to do the same for Patrick--and the realization that friendships have changed--resulting in feelings of loneliness and not belonging--I have just felt like running away and starting over.  Fortunately, I had someone who could talk me down from the proverbial ledge and got me through the worst of it.  And then I did what I do best--processed through writing.  Here, without further comment, is the result.


Untethered

I tried to put down deep roots.
I thought that they were strong.
Until the wind uprooted me,
And taught me I was wrong.

Like a kite, free of its flyer;
Like a tent, with pegs pulled free;
I have become untethered,
From the life I built for me.

My thoughts are unrelenting,
Regardless of their truth.
I hope things will get better,
Although I have no proof.

So, with a faith that's shaken;
With a heart shattered and frail;
I try again to take root,
Before the next wind gale.

The End of the Ride

Yesterday, we reached the end of our long, strange journey with ART (assisted reproductive technology).  Although my hysterectomy ostensibly signaled the end of our journey having children, there remained two embryos at our fertility center that needed to be taken care of and, yesterday, we finally made our decisions.

Back when we began this journey, we originally intended to donate our embryos to other infertile couples.  Having made 11 of them back in March 2010, we were sure there would be plenty left over to share with couples who needed them.  Then Mira was diagnosed with CHD, and then we had a miscarriage, and then a failed cycle, and then Patrick was born with an even more serious CHD and died.  Of the nine embryos we had used, only three ever implanted, only two ever became birthed children, and only one lives today.  We decided that we could not in good conscience donate our embryos to a couple in need knowing there was little chance either embryo would ever become a child and, even if it did, would, in all likelihood, have a complex CHD.  The infertility journey is so hard, so punishing on a couple, we simply could not put another couple through what we have.  You may think us selfish, but we think we were being kind.

The two remaining options were to donate the embryos to research and to simply take them ourselves.  We decided that we could not give them to research.  We have nothing against that option but found it was not something we could choose ourselves.  Whether it was because we had seen them as our potential children, or our concerns about the CHD aspects and whether the would be useful to research, it makes no real difference.  The result is the same.  We did not donate them.  Instead, we elected to pick them up (which makes them unviable almost immediately upon removal from the freezing process) and lay them to rest near Patrick.  

I also decided that I needed to name them.  Had they been a failed cycle, I would not.  However, because I removed that choice, that opportunity, I feel like I owe them something.  And that something is a name.  As they were conceived together, and lost their life potential together, I think of them as twins--one boy and one girl: Brent and Rain.

So we have reached the end of this journey.  Although others continue--parenting Mira and her CHD issues--this is the one that brought me here, to these pages.  It got me writing, thinking, sharing.  But I am glad to see it end.  I am ready.  It's time to move forward.  As I continue to recover from the loss of Patrick, I am healed by the end of this spectacularly long and difficult road.  There are fewer unknowns.  Fewer questions.  No regrets.  No what-ifs.  I am content with the choices we made--both for ourselves and our family.  I have a beautiful daughter who, at this very moment, is alternately yelling in frustration and hollering with joyful success at her Disney Princess Wii game in a style worthy of her father.  I have the memories of my beautiful son, who lives on through the smiles he shared with so many.  My heart is full.  Our journey a success.  It's time to leave the roller coaster. Time for other rides.  We'll see you around the park.

[Note: We have used this blog to share our journey and, as such, I feel that sharing these events is important. I think people need to talk about these things and not hide them in the shadows.  I think having a dialog is important in all areas of life. That said, this is a very personal and emotional issue.  This post is not an opportunity for debate or to attack our decisions.  We offer nothing more or less than an explanation for the choices we made.]

Memories and Social Media

Social media has transformed how we communicate with one another, but it has also altered how we remember.  This is problematic for those whose bad choices or youthful indiscretions are forever memorialized online for anyone to find.  However, it also has the potential to hold great value.  I can compare my life of five years ago with my life of today.  It can help keep me accountable to myself for goals I set and fail to obtain.  It can also bring comfort and joy when I look back and see when my children were small and how they progressed.

One of the other interesting things it can show us is patterns.  Earlier this year, I had noticed that May 23 has been the day that my iris first bloomed three of the last six years.  Maybe flowers do have internal clocks!  But, as interesting as I found that, today's FB trip down memory lane was far more thought provoking.

First, FB showed me something which I already knew--last year today, Patrick had his second open-heart surgery.  He did so well, and the surgeon was pleased, and our world was filled with hope.  Two years ago today, we were in the OB-GYN's office and found out we were having a boy.  Just two years--it feels like so much longer than that already.  What floored me, though, was looking at the flippant comment I had made that day:

At doc's office for the anatomy ultrasound.  Any guesses on boy/girl?  We're just hoping for 2 pulmonary arteries.  ;)

It was a joke.  And, even now, I still get the light-hearted way I meant it. But my brain, the irrational, judgy part that thinks I control the universe, stuck in its two cents.  "Did you do this?" it quietly accused me.  Did I?  Did my imprecision and failure to say two "normal" pulmonary arteries do this?  My rational brain assures me it did not.  Of course not.  My irrational brain, however, points out that I said we just wanted two pulmonary arteries--and we got that--they just weren't connected properly.  "Well," my rational brain shoots back, "If we're talking about getting what we asked for, we asked for no heart problems, and we didn't get that."  The sneaky, guilty part says slyly, "God doesn't grant every wish.  You should be more careful what you wish for."

It's a horrible "game."  One that, I imagine, we all experience at one time or another.  In talking with others who have suffered miscarriage or had children with CHD, we have all spent at least some time fixated on what we could have done differently, berating ourselves for how this must somehow be our fault.  And, as well as the doctors do to convince us otherwise, new research undercuts their assurances.  Indeed, a new study into the causes of CHD suggests that for older moms (read, "like me"), the chances of your child developing a CHD are decreased by exercising.  Crap.  So now this is my fault.  And since there seems to be a genetic component to it, I--that is to say my genetics--bear some responsibility for the outcome.

Without belaboring the point (too late), I love the ability to go back and see memories on social media.  I just have to beware of the traps that lay therein: 20/20 hindsight; and the belief that I was ever in control in the first place.  Go, and do likewise--and have fun out there :)

The Beauty is in the Mix

Earlier this week, Patrick's headstone arrived and was placed at his burial site.  Because we had opted to purchase a set of four plots for the family, we went ahead and got a family headstone, so our information sits on the side opposite Patrick's.  When we went to see it for the first time, Mira became very upset because she wasn't on it.  We tried to explain that we had not put her name on it because when she grew up, she might get married and want to be buried with her spouse.  She was adamant that she be included.  We told her we'd talk about it.

We talked and decided that we would get some matching frogs--one to leave at the cemetery, and one for her memory box.

In addition, we laminated a copy of our favorite picture of the two of them together and found a way to attach it to the stone so that she was part of the "family stone."

Today, when we were on our way to get the frogs, she asked again why we weren't putting her name on it.  I said we were waiting for her to make the final decision when she's older.  "I've decided.  I want to be on the family stone," she told me firmly.  I reiterated the plan, and she was momentarily placated by getting to shop.

This evening, on our way to the cemetery, Mira began to cry.  What she told us next broke our hearts:

I'm sad because I miss Bubba.  I was just about to get to start teaching him cool stuff like letters and counting when he died.  My heart is broken.  Bubba's heart was broken, too.  His heart had a piece of my, and my heart had a piece of his, and now they are both broken.  *points to picture*  That's a picture of when our hearts were together.

What a beautiful description of both the picture and her heartache.  She may not have as many words as an adult, but she has an amazing ability to use the words she does have to get right at the truth.

Even more beautiful--the flowers she placed on the headstone.  Together.  Like their hearts.  

Mira reminded me that every day is full of joy, grief, memory, love, pain, and sadness.  When I saw the final product--flowers, frog, sunshine, flowers, and monument, I was reminded that, if we look, the good and bad mix together to make a beautiful life.  We just have to remember to look.  

This is my beautiful reminder:

I (Still) Choose You

Today is my 16th wedding anniversary.  It's been lovely, fun, silly, beautiful, crazy, scary, hellish, exhausting, and awesome.  We have gone on three cruises and been to Disney World, New York City (me), San Francisco (Phil), Mexico, Canada, and Alaska.  We have attended family events in Indiana, Georgia, Tennessee, and West Virginia.  We travel well together.

We suffered the loss of five grandparents and Phil's mentor.  We became an aunt and uncle to five wonderful nieces and nephews.  We survived three moves; law school; infertility and four rounds of IVF; difficult pregnancies; miscarriage; having children; discovering our children have CHDs; seven surgeries and five heart caths in just three-and-a-half years for said children; the death of one child; and the chronic disease and ever-present specter of death with the other; all while living in a fishbowl as a pastor's family.

Looking back at just the last eight years, it's no wonder we're suffering depression and anxiety.  We have been living in survival mode.  Even if we have a moment to discover what our needs and whether they are being met, we keep our mouth shut so as not to disturb the delicate balance that gets us through the day.  There have been times recently when we weren't sure we were going to make it.  Even now, there are no guarantees.  We just keep taking things one day at a time and checking in with each other.  But, it's been worth it.

We share a love of stories--books, televisions shows, movies.  We are movie buddies.  We've seen Avengers, Sherlock Holmes, Star Wars I-III, Love Actually, Despicable Me, and countless other movies together in the theater.  We have begun taking Mira to the movies and get to share those experiences.  We have attended GenCon and share our love of board, video, computer, and roleplaying games.  We have our own language.  We will hear something that will trigger the same wrongity-wrong answers in our head at the same time.  We can say a single word and the other person knows exactly what we are talking about.  We have invested lots of time and energy and love in each other and, honestly, neither of us wants to break another person in.

We get to go out for our anniversary this year.  It's quite an exciting prospect given how other anniversaries have been spent.  Our first anniversary, Phil let me fly home by myself to attend my grandfather's funeral.  Our second anniversary, Phil was in the hospital with a dear friend and church member who was having surgery.  Last year, I was in the PICU with Patrick as they readied him for his G-tube surgery.  Four years ago, we were in the process of discovering Mira's CHD.  That's not to say we never get to go out.  Two years ago, when I was pregnant with Patrick, we got to see Carol Burnett live.  Five years ago, Phil officiated a wedding on our anniversary.  This year, we're eating at our favorite restaurant and get to spend the night in a hotel and SLEEP IN!  Chalk another one up in the good pile!

What I'm trying to say is that marriage is hard.  For everyone.  Even if the hardest thing you deal with is figuring out how to share because you were both only children, the adjustment and commitment to a single person for the rest of your life will always be hard.  There will always be moments when you want to throw in the towel.  Literally.  I was angrily tossing laundry in the dryer the other evening and the voice in my head was shouting at me to just go upstairs and call it off.  But you can't unring that bell.  Once it's out there, it colors just about everything going forward.  Take a breath.  Take a walk.  Lock yourself in the bathroom for a five-minute breather.  Go to counseling--alone, together, or both.  But don't assume that just because it's hard you're doing it wrong, or that there isn't enough love in your marriage to make it work.

My marriage, my family, my life, is worth keeping.  It's worth fighting for.  We've been through Hell, but we have stayed true to our vows.  We've seen better and worse; affluence and scraping by; Melting Pot and ramen noodles; sickness and health.  Every day we get the same choice--whether to keep choosing this life together.  And today, although in many ways it is just another day to make the same choice, it's the anniversary of our public proclamation of that choice.  And looking back at all we survived, all we've built together, all we've experienced, I'm reaffirming my choice.

Heart of my heart.  We're in this together.  I've got your back.  Madly, magically, always.

On Brokenness and Healing--Without and Within

I have been thinking a lot about the new RFRA laws, or "licenses to discriminate" as they are being called.  Here's the thing.  Religious beliefs, no matter how sincere or firmly held, no matter how ingrained in one's life, cannot justify actions that violate someone else's Constitutional rights.  If they could, religious human sacrifice would be a protected action even though it violates the victim's Constitutional right to live.

I realize that's sort of a worst-case scenario, but how about the pharmacist who could refuse to fill a Viagra prescription because the patient is unmarried, and the pharmacist adheres to the belief that there should be no sex without marriage?  Could that pharmacist refuse to fill my daughter's heart medication because it's the exact same drug?  Or perhaps the pharmacist could refuse to dispense any drug created using stem cell research.  Are you willing to accept that risk?

What if I, a married heterosexual, ordered a wedding cake for my friends' wedding without disclosing whether the parties are a same-sex couple.  Should the business be able to refuse my order?  Even if it turns out it was a straight couple?  Should the bakery be able to demand to know that information?  If I don't disclose it, or lie about it, can they sue me?

I hear people throwing around the idea that these types of laws reduce government involvement, but they don't.  Instead, our courts become bogged down in litigation as every nuance and boundary of the law is tested, resulting in numerous new rules/laws.  

I am saddened and ashamed that so much progress has been lost; that so much animosity and fear exists in the hearts of many who label themselves Christians; that so many people have fled the church community because all they see is hypocrisy.

I cannot be silent.  I stand for the equal treatment of, and equal rights and opportunities for, all people, regardless of race, gender, religion, sexual preference, gender identity, age, citizenship, political party, marital status, affluence, manner of dress, employment, or physical limitation.  We are all human.  We should all be in this together, having each other's backs.   Each of us is a child of God; an expression of God's self here on earth.  Any mistreatment of you by me is a mistreatment of God by me.  I do not have to like your behavior.  I do not have to like you, or agree with you, or engage in the same behaviors as you.  But I am called to love you and forgive you; to do no harm. 

Please, stop worrying about labels.  Stop worrying about what consenting adults are doing in their bedrooms.  Stop inserting yourself between patients and their doctors.  Instead, worry about what we are doing to ourselves, to our world.  Worry about all of the hate and venom we are spewing at each other from every side.  Worry that we are all so anxious, we have become isolated and stopped caring about the least of us.  We have become so focused on the small goal of winning at all costs that we can't see that we are all losing.  Compromise is not a dirty word.  It is not losing.  It is about flexibility, survival.  It is the flexible tree that withstands the hurricane winds, while the inflexible tree is broken.  Compassion and empathy are not horrible traits to be excised.  The Golden Rule is NOT do unto others as was done to me.  It's do unto others as I would have them do to me.  Regardless of whether I have been cheated, if I do not want to be cheated, I will not cheat.

I am sad; anxious; broken from the loss of my son.  But I am heartened; lifted; loved by the acts of friends and strangers who have given of themselves in my time of need.  None of them has asked whether we have the same political party, religion, beliefs, what have you.  They simply saw that I was in need and gave of themselves to help me.  As I heal, I am called to do likewise.  Please, join me.  I promise you, it will be worth it.

My Body, My Fitness

Today, I had a pre-assessment at the local wellness center.  I was kind of terrified of what it was going to show, but there was actually a lot of good news.  It reaffirmed that, yes, I am overweight, but it suggests a fat loss of 84 pounds, which puts me around 177.  I think that's pretty doable considering I was aiming for 180.

My flexibility is in the 35th percentile for my age and gender.  Not great, but not awful.  My VO2 max is 29.75--around the 45th percentile for weight/age.

My lean muscle is over 100% (I.e. I have more than the "normal" range, but that's actually good), and pretty much equally-balanced left and right.  My legs are right at 100, my trunk just above, and arms are 140(!).  My muscles are appropriately hydrated, and I am not retaining too much water.  As the assessor told me, "You have a great base to work from."  They will do another assessment in three months to see how I'm doing.

So, it reaffirmed what I knew--I could stand to lose weight, be more flexible, and increase my cardiorespiratory fitness--but all of those things will happen if I just keep doing my yoga and elliptical.  Knowing that I have a healthy body, it's just hiding under some fat, was very heartening to hear.  Now, I just have to get to it.

Better Safe...

Sometime last year, I started having heart palpitations--often skipped beats with an extra heavy "catch-up" beat.  I went to the doctor, he did an EKG which looked normal, and I got bloodwork done.  We discovered my vitamin D was low, so we increased it with mega supplements.  My D levels are still lower than they should be, but the incidence of the palpitations has decreased significantly, so I considered the issue behind me.  All good.

Then, sometime last month, I started noticing that I was having chest pain when I lay down at night to go to bed.  Since it didn't happen every night or last too terribly long, I assumed it was heartburn--even though it didn't feel like the heartburn I had when I was pregnant.

With my 40th birthday on the horizon, wanting to lose some weight, and knowing that physical activity can help release pent-up emotions, I got a membership to our local wellness center and began working out.  I began to feel nauseous during one of the classes I was taking, so I stopped doing those and went to just doing the elliptical.  Well, last week, I began having chest pain during my workout that didn't go away until I was done working out.  It's not horrible pain, but it's sharp and nagging.  Still, I convinced myself it was nothing.

Then I got emails, Facebook posts, radio and television commercials, all over the course of two days, discussing how the signs of heart attacks in women are different than for men and include things like back pain, nausea, and what not.  My mind began to wander and wonder--was this a message for me?  I thought about the fact that both of my kids had CHD and that there appeared to be a genetic component.  That would mean there's at least a 50% chance that the issue is from my genes, in which case there could be something going on with me.  I've had high cholesterol forever--even in college when I was 18 and weighed 150, my cholesterol was 206.  I'm certainly overweight, and I've had my ovaries removed.  All of these things increase the chance of heart attack.

I also have a family history of heart disease.  My grandmother was convinced something was wrong even though all her tests came back okay.  They finally took her in for a heart cath and couldn't even get the angioplasty balloon in, so she had quadruple bypass surgery; but she never had a heart attack thanks to her persistence.  I began to worry.  Still not enough to go to the doctor, but it was in the back of my mind.

Not until I woke up today with a sinus headache, mucus for days, and a general blah feeling, did I decide I needed to go to the doctor about this.  After antibiotic and steroid shots for the bronchitis, I had an EKG.  The good news is, it was completely normal.  The bad news is that all of my symptoms sounded very cardiac to the doctor.  And, given my grandmother's history, I was not reassured by the EKG.  So, the doctor sent an ASAP referral to a cardiologist, and I am waiting to hear back about when I can get in.

It is unlikely that anything is wrong.  It is highly likely that it's stress, on top of stress, on top of grief, on top of stress.  But, my family has already been through enough, so I'm getting it checked out.  I don't want to find myself in the hospital, or the great beyond, thinking "woulda, coulda, shoulda."  It's time to step-up the taking care of myself stuff.  Better safe, than sorry.

On Grief, Metamorphosis, and Self-Excavation

What with my own personal grief; seeing friends in pain with various losses and grief of their own; feeling like things in the world are getting worse rather than better; not to mention the whole snow/winter/cold yuckiness that is January in Michigan, I am overwhelmed with sadness and despair.  I am done.  Empty.  Spent.  Broken.  I have nothing left.  It's not that I don't care.  Rather, I care so much that I have no energy left to care at all.  I am tired of being a responsible adult.  I want permission to be weak, but then rage against any perceived weakness as a failure of the strength label I pridefully own.  I want to run away for a while.  Explore the world.  Excavate me.  But I can't.  Not yet, anyway.  I have made too many commitments.  Obligations.  Maybe later.

I am tired of worrying all the time.  Tired of being afraid.  What is this weird new bump on my finger?  Is my extra weight killing me?  Are Mira's pressures getting worse?  Am I a failure for having a messy home?  Have I failed my family?  My spouse?  My children?  Do I worry too much?  Is it depression, or grief, or both, or neither?  All this worry sucks was what little energy I manage to acquire.  Ain't nobody got time for this.  Where is my joy?  What happened to the woman who could do anything she set her mind to?  Who achieved so much educationally, professionally, personally?  I miss her.  I need more smiles.  More hugs.  More laughter.  More beauty.  More stillness.  More free time.

As an introvert, I need time away.  But I am already so isolated; so alone.  Being out in busy places with people I don't know just makes it worse.  I need one-on-one time in quiet, familiar places with just a few people who can help fill my energetic bucket.  Who won't judge me.  Who don't care how I look.  Who don't have a vision of me that will shatter if I name my truth.  Who can take me away for a while.  Who can bring me back to to myself.

I need help.  I don't know what kind.  I just know I don't want to hurt.  I don't want to cry when I see babies.  I don't want to envy someone else's life.  I don't want to be alone.  I don't want to feel overwhelmed.  I don't want to feel different, or unworthy.  I want to feel connected.  Loved.  Valued.  Valuable.  Worth the space I take up.  But not because other people tell me so--that can be taken away.  No.  I want to know it to be true, deep in my bones.  Know it with every breath.  Feel it.  Remember it.  I want to be so caught up in the joy and love of my life that I am not threatened by what others have; what I don't have.  I want what I am and what I already have to be enough.

How do I get there?  What must I do?  Excavate me?  By making time?  By making me a priority?  By making me an obligation?  Oh.  I guess that makes sense.  How can I feel worthy and valuable if I refuse to value myself enough to make time for what I need?

This is where I am going.  Do you want to come with me?  It's okay if you don't.  I just can't stay stuck in this hole anymore, trying to find happiness in food, stuff, and other people's validation.  I can't stay the same, even though I don't know what I will be when I come out the other side.  Change is scary and difficult.  It hurts.  But, quite honestly, it hurts to stay where I am, too.

I can't promise that you'll still like me.  In fact, ultimately, that's up to you.  I can promise that I intend to like myself--to enjoy my own company--and that I will work to embody kindness, joy, patience, acceptance, strength, and love.  I have no idea where I'll end up, but I will share my journey with you.  You can find me here.

#Truth2015

Picking My Battles

Making new habits is simple.  Simple because you only have to do something for 14 days until it becomes a habit.  Unfortunately, making new habits is not easy; if it were easy, we would all eat healthy food, exercise, and have tidy homes.  I have been making great strides in the exercising more area.  I have also been doing a better job of self-care (daily showers!), getting more work done, only letting laundry go two weeks before getting done, doing at least one load of dishes a week, and keeping up with bills.  Given that I am forever fighting the urge to want to do anything besides hang out under the covers all day, I think I've been VERY productive.

I admit that there is a LOT more that needs to be done, and many more areas for improvement.  However, there's only so much energy to go around, and fighting myself all day every day uses most of that up.  The result is that some things have to slide.  My main area of failure--healthy eating.  It's never been much of a priority for me to begin with and--let's face it--I'm still grieving and food is one of my main comforts.  Moreover, having added exercise to the mix, my bad eating will not be *as* problematic, and it sure as heck beats out-of-control-spending.  So, I'm not working on the food stuff.  Not yet, anyway.  Instead, I'm picking my battles.  I know me.  If I try to take on too many things at once, they will all fail.  Each one will receive less of my attention than it needs to be successful, and I will quit them all.  I have chosen to focus my energy on self-care, exercise, and work.  These three things are my top priorities.  Once I have managed to get these things to the point that they are automatic, I will attempt adjustments in my other bad habits.  It's not ideal, but I would rather succeed at adding exercise than fail at changing both food and exercise.

And, at least on the exercise front, I am proud to say that I am making progress.  I have completed seven workouts since the first of the year; my scale told me I am 9 pounds closer to my goal weight; and I am able to exercise for longer before feeling tired (although the whole back pain thing has been putting a cramp in my efforts).  It's not a perfect plan, but I am not perfect--in fact, I'm actually working on remembering that perfection is unattainable.

This is my truth.  Your mileage may vary.

Eating My Way Fat

I am fat.  This is pretty obvious, but it's still hard for me to admit.  I wear my weight *very* well and know how to dress it to hide it.  I'm not saying I don't look overweight; I do.  I just don't look as heavy as I am.  Even my docs say I don't look that big.  But this year is about truth.  The truth is, I take lots of pictures and find the ones that I think make me look smaller.  I know I've always done that to some extent--picking pictures that make me feel pretty, or at least prettier--but one of the things about finding my truth is peeling back the layers, removing the veneer, and exposing myself.  I need to look at things in the hard light of day.  So, here it is.  

I weigh 265 pounds.  My BMI is 38.  I was startled to discover that I am only a few pounds away from a classification of "clinically severe obesity".  I am already at an increased risk of diabetes, not just from my weight, but having had gestational diabetes--twice.  I am also a comfort eater.  I eat to make myself feel better.  I eat to reward myself for a job well-done.  I eat when I'm bored.  I love sugar and fat.  There are times I can eat just a little of something "bad," but more often than not, I cannot control myself.  I have come to understand the struggle of addiction.  I *know* I shouldn't eat something.  I *know* I will hate myself after I eat it.  I *know* I will feel miserable when I weigh myself.  I *know* it's bad for my health.  None of that stops me from shoveling it into my mouth anyway.  The more difficult thing about food addiction is that there is no going "cold-turkey."  No complete abstinence.  You can't rid your house, or your life, of all food.  You also can't just stop going places where it's available.  Food, particularly junk food, is ever present.  You *have* to find a way to moderate yourself.  This is, and has always been, my biggest struggle.  

In the past, the solution for me has not been to stop eating the junk entirely.  Rather, I would exercise to compensate.  It's not a perfect solution, but it's better than my current combination of eating crap and *not* exercising.  So, I'm going to make time for exercise.  I have chosen to motivate myself by signing up for a mini-marathon in May.  That's 13.1 miles.  I have done 3 half-marathons before, so I know I am capable of doing it.  It's just a question of getting my body back in a condition to get it done.  And, to keep myself moving forward, I am already verbally committed to do another one next January.  My plan will be to complete at least two half-marathons each year to keep myself in better health.

In the process, I expect I will release some weight (I call it releasing instead of losing because I usually end up looking for things I've lost).  According to the BMI calculators, I should weigh no more than 173.  That's 92 pounds from where I am, and a weight I haven't seen since I got married.  Since little goals are easier to achieve, I have set myself the following benchmarks:  240, 220, 200, 180.  At each benchmark, I get to reward myself, but not with food, or a day off of exercise.  I haven't figured out what my reward will be yet, but I have some time to figure it out--about 25 pounds worth of time.

Here's the thing.  I want you to hold me accountable.  To those of you who are friends on Facebook, I will be posting my workouts using Map My Run.  If you think I have started slacking, feel free to call me on it.  I will post a starting picture and then at least a monthly picture.  I will also post updates here.  Since my word this year is truth, my plan is to post the good and the bad.  I want to be honest about my struggle and how I'm trying to make myself better.  So, that's part of my plan for this year.  Stripping away fat; stripping away layers of camouflage; and finding the true me hiding underneath.  I hope you'll join and support me.

Me at 265: