Starting Over

It’s been a while since I blogged here.  I’ve been busy doing other things like getting my book published on Amazon.  You can buy it here in Kindle or paperback form.  I am planning to start blogging again, but my topics won’t necessarily be related to fertility or parenting.  Because of that, I decided that it’s time to retire this blog.  It helped me immensely getting through some serious rough patches, but the title is too restrictive.  I feel like I have to find a way to justify what I post in case new readers are coming expecting a fertility-related blog.  Instead, I’ve started fresh with a new blog:  www.myhalfacre.net.  There I plan to cover a wide range of topics and write about whatever moves me.  I appreciate your reading and your past support, and I hope you’ll join me over there.

Memo to Me: Depression is Chemical

I was talking with my counselor this week about my breakthrough about Patrick, and she thought I was making great progress and perhaps I was entering a new stage of the grieving process.  I told her that I thought if that were true, why wasn't my depression any better?  She answered that I had a lot of other things going on contributing to the depression.  That answer didn't satisfy me, but we moved on to talking about other things.  The next day I was talking with my good friend, and I told her the same thing: If this was such a big breakthrough, why didn't the depression lift?  She looked at me the way I look at my child sometimes and said, "Because depression is chemical.  We do not think our way out of depression."  Of course!  I knew this.  She knew I knew this, which is why she had that look on her face.  I had gotten wrapped up in the false belief that I could think my way out of depression again.  I had forgotten all of the things I knew about needing medication and why I was getting help in the first place.  Depression is chemical.  I felt dumb for having to be retold that simple tenet, but the truth is that the idea that depression is a thought disease is fairly heavy in our society and I bought into it for a long time.  It will take a long time to divest myself of all the remnants of that false belief, and this is probably not going to be the last time I have to be gently and firmly reminded.  Thank goodness for loving friends who can get me back on the path so I can quit beating myself up and take pride in my accomplishments.  I made a huge step in my grief recovery and I wasn't taking credit for it because I thought it should accomplish something it wasn't capable of doing.  My depression may not be going anywhere at the moment, but I am making progress every day.

On September, Depression, and Letting Go

School has started.  There's a crispness in the air.  Up here the leaves are starting to change.  All this means that September has arrived.  I used to love fall.  But now, as soon as the cool weather starts to come in, my depression begins to settle around me like an unwelcome friend.  I can feel it making itself comfortable like a warm blanket resting on my shoulders, except it's anything but.  It's an unwanted guest making its annual visit this time of year.  

I went on a retreat with a good friend of mine and unplugged from social media for the last week of August and the first part of September.  We started out in the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan and worked on getting our lives back in order and ended up in the middle of Detroit going to the movies, the zoo, and a Tigers game.  I thought keeping myself busy with a good friend would keep the dementors at bay.  Alas, it was not to be.  They came anyway.  They showed up like clockwork to tell me that the days were ticking down to the anniversary of Patrick's passing.  

Indeed, the last time I was at a Tigers game was 2014, and Phil and I had just visited with the surgeon and I was moving toward palliative care for Patrick.  The memories came flooding back.  The last time I was at the Detroit zoo, we were there with Mira keeping her entertained while Patrick was in the hospital.  And the memories continued to come.  But next time!  Next time I can say, last time I was here with my friend and we ate junk food and laughed about things and had a wonderful time.  Next time I can go to these places and have something else to remember because I was brave enough to go this time.  And so I enter each September wondering what I will be doing so that next year I can try to fight off the dementors with new memories.  Wondering when the depression will not make itself at home quite as easily as it does now.  Sadly, it's not this year, but I hold out hope and wait for next September.

In the meantime, though, I have learned something that might help.  This year, Patrick would have been 4.  I have seen lots of little boys running around doing lots of adorable things this year.  Some of these boys are younger than Patrick and others are around his age.  And sometimes I get caught up wondering what Patrick would have been like.  What would he have been doing?  I know he would have been driving his sister crazy, but would she have been trying to teach him the ABCs like she claims?  Would they play together?  Chase each other?  Would his problems have kept him from developing normally?  

As I contemplated these questions, as I have done in previous years, something different happened this year.  I remembered his heart--his funky, one-of-a-kind heart--and something my dad said to me.  Patrick made it so no one could make him stay longer than he meant to.  And that's the raw truth of it.  Patrick was never going to be 4.  There is no "How would he look all grown up?" because he was never going to grow up.  Imagining what he might have been like is useless because that was never meant to be.  He was not a healthy kid who had his life snuffed out early.  He was a beautiful soul who was just here for a short time.  

I've always known there was nothing more I could have done for Patrick.  I've never felt as though I let him down or that I should have done more for him.  And yet, by allowing myself to let him age in my head, I was doing just that.  I was pretending that there was a life he could have and should have had.  There wasn't.  Patrick didn't miss out.  He lived his life to the fullest, learning, laughing, and smiling to the end.  By aging him, I've been uselessly beating myself up over something that never was and never would have been.  I believed it brought comfort to imagine, but it didn't.  It simply brought home the ache that he wasn't there.  Instead of focusing on the amazing memories I did have, I was focusing on those things that could never be.  That doesn't mean I won't celebrate his birthday, and I'll probably still make the off-handed remark that he would have been able to drive when we reach his 16th birthday.  Heck, we even said that about our marriage when it hit 16 and it's not even a person.  The point I'm trying to make is that I'm ready to let go of the imaginary life I had for him.  It wasn't his.  It was mine.  And it isn't helping me.  So it's time to thank it for the part it played in my grieving process and show it on its way.  I'm ready to grow up and face the truth now.

Patrick was almost 11-months-old when he died.  That's all he got.  That's all he needed.  I need to focus on and remember those beautiful times and those beautiful smiles.

On Work and Identity

Yesterday, I was having a conversation with a good friend of mine from law school who also suffers from chronic illnesses that make it difficult to work.  We were talking about the jobs we had done that made us feel alive.  Where our passions were.  And I realized that we had lost a great deal of our identity when we lost the ability to work.  One of the first questions we often ask people when we meet them is, "What do you do?"  Why?  Curiosity, of course.  But also because how we spend our time is often indicative of what we think is important.  Some careers take significant time and monetary investment.  A person's dedication to such a career shows that they find it worthy of that commitment.  It becomes part of their identity.  Some jobs are on-call all the time so that it becomes hard to separate job time from free time, again mixing vocation and identity.  So what happens in the world when you can't work anymore?  You lose that label.  You no longer get to claim that part of yourself.  Far different from those who retire and get to retain their label, those who lose the ability to work are seen as less than and even worthless.  And for some of us, who invested largely in our vocation because it was also where our passion was, it feels like a piece of us has died.  Now, I don't subscribe to the idea that a person who does not work is worthless, although I discovered that I have been fairly well-conditioned by society to believe it is true.  Cognitively, I know that my disability did not render me valueless--though I'm still working on the emotional aspect.  But if I still have value, where does it lay?

I decided that I needed to excavate myself.  I thought I would start with some nouns or labels that I thought identified me.  Some labels were easy.  Wife.  Mother.  Believer.  Writer.  Friend.  Other labels took more thought.  Survivor.  Seeker.  Competitor.  Peacekeeper.  Some ideas didn't fit neatly into a single word.  Work in Progress.  Trying to Find Balance.  Moving through Grief.  There were labels I was less inclined to admit.  Empty.  Food Addict.  Some that I hoped were temporary.  Obese. Chronic Pain Sufferer.  And some that were fun to remember.  Music Lover.  Gamer.  But as true as each of these labels are, none of them encompass all of me.  They are all simply parts of the whole. Part of the complex introvert who sometimes wants to go out and party.  Part of the strong woman who can do anything and doesn't need anyone, but feels alone and lonely without friends and loved ones.

I don't wrap up into a neat tidy package.  I don't always make sense.  I'm not always internally consistent.  I am not a simple algebra or calculus problem where I can input all these labels, solve for x, and come up with one ultimate label.  That's not how it works.  This realization made me frustrated and angry.  I had wasted all this time trying to figure out who I am and had gotten nowhere.  But as I sat with my frustration, I realized that what I was searching for wasn't really a label.  What I was missing was the passion I had for my work.  Back when I felt like I was making a difference.  When I loved what I was doing.  I want that back.  What I need to find is something I can do that holds passion and meaning for me.  Like when I was making gift baskets for the Ronald McDonald House in Detroit in memory of Patrick's birthday.  Or when I sang in the choir at church.  So that's where I am.  Figuring out what I can do that will give my life purpose, passion, and meaning until I get back to work, or in case I can't go back to work.  I don't know what it is yet.  It may end up being a few small things rather than one big thing.  But at least I have a goal and a good idea of what I'm looking for.  And these days, Yoda can keep his "Do or do not, there is no try."  I'm following  Trace Adkins: "But all I can do, is all I can do, and I keep on tryin'.  And all I can be is all I can be, and I keep on tryin'."

Who am I?  Just another person figuring life out one day at a time, grateful for grace and forgiveness. What do I do?  These days I'm a professional struggler.  But someday soon, I hope to be something more.
Where do I work?  Hopefully, wherever I am to make changes for the better.

Of Baby Showers, Patrick, and Love

Today I went to a friend's baby shower.  I generally would not subject myself to all things baby when I am in the midst of a baby bug, but this was for a very dear friend.  She was one of Patrick's caregivers.  And because of that, in addition to things from her registry, I went down into my basement and opened up our box of Patrick's things and selected one of his sleep & play rompers to give to her baby since they are having a boy.  I wrapped it separately and marked the card to the baby from Patrick.  I told Phil what I was doing, and he agreed 100%.  Still, I was completely unprepared for the wave of emotion I would feel when she opened it up and then again at the end of the shower when I told her I hoped it was okay with her what I had done (she assured me it was).

Memories of Patrick are all around.  Pictures, books, what have you.  We talk about him, too.  There are days I think we are doing really well, but there are others when it feels like my wound has just been freshly ripped open and I might as well be back at square one.  I had one of these moments walking into the church nursery where I volunteered to watch children during church.  Seeing all of the things we donated just brought his absence freshly to mind in a way I had not expected.  It hasn't gotten easier.  Each week I walk in and all of the memories come flooding back.  I wonder what happened to the detachment and certainty and love I had when I was donating the items and putting the nursery together.  I have no doubt we did the right thing then, and I am certain I am doing the right thing now.  I'm just frustrated that my feelings have taken me on an unexpected journey.

This week marks the anniversary of when Patrick returned to the hospital for his final, months-long hospitalization.  I know that it has a lot to do with my mood.  I wonder if I will ever go through a year without having huge mood swings when these anniversaries come.  I wonder if I will ever stop yearning for a rainbow baby.  But one thing I don't have to wonder about is whether Patrick was loved.  He was so loved.  And he was special.  Not just to me, but to so any people.  And I am still working on ways to spread his love and light and joy with the world.  But I think I managed that in a small way today.  And yes it was sad.  But it was also so very good.  Because there is a new little boy coming into the world who is going to be loved so very much.  And he's going to get his very own Patrick snuggles.  Snuggles like his momma so freely gave to Patrick.  Because snuggles are love.  And love keeps going long after someone is gone.  And for that, I am so very thankful.

Weight Evaporation

I mentioned previously that I was on disability for a degenerative disc in my back.  The pain was so bad I was on opioid narcotics and learning to live life in a wheelchair.  I couldn't have back surgery and I was at the point of resignation because there was nothing to be done.  Then I saw a neurosurgeon.  He thought that if I lost weight, the pressure on the disc would subside and the pain would recede.  With time, I dropped my weight from 295 to 250 and the pain went away.  I was out of the wheelchair and doing all of the things I used to do.  Unfortunately, I got lazy, and my depression hit back hard, my fibromyalgia got out of control, and I began self-medicating with food.  Not surprisingly, my weight went back up.  I ignored it until we hit 270 and the back pain returned.  It hit a high of 275.6 before I got things back under control.  My doctors recommended light exercise would help with the fibro pain, so I decided to take up walking.  I've also switched to drinking nothing but water.  I try not to eat fast food, but if we do go to a fast food restaurant, I order salad.  So far, I'm down 5.3 pounds.  My friend and I were talking, and I said I had released 5.3 pounds.  I liked to say "released" instead of "lost" because usually you try to find things that are lost, and I don't want to find these pounds again.  My friend said that I should use a more active term than released because I was working hard to get rid of them.  We threw out some terms and finally came up with one I liked.  Evaporated.  I had evaporated 5.3 pounds.  I liked it because it was more active, but also sounded like a natural process, similar to melting off pounds.  It created a nice visual I could use when I was walking, too.  So here's to more weight evaporation and getting back to a healthier me.  One step at a time.

The "F" Word

In my last post, I mentioned that I was on disability.  I was previously on disability for depression after Patrick died and for a degenerative disc in my back until I lost enough weight to make the pain stop.  Recently, my fibromyalgia has gotten out of control.  The pain and stiffness began to come more frequently.  My good days came and went with the weather.  I am exhausted all the time, no matter how much sleep I get, or if I take a nap.  But what bothers me most is the brain fog.  It's just so frustrating.  I forget words.  Simple words.  Useful words.  All kinds of words.  All the time.  It makes talking and writing much more difficult than it used to be.  And for me--the person who uses words for precision and to figure out my thoughts--it is infuriating and disabling.  Then there are the crazy things I do, like pour cereal on plates instead of in bowls, or put toothpaste on my flosser.  Twice I ended up in my car to run errands without shoes on.  But the real kicker happened this weekend.  I was at church, and there was a person there.  I sat and talked with them, and Phil told me their name.  Not once did I recognize this person.  Not until much later did Phil mention their spouse, and I suddenly knew who they were and that I had met them several times before, had long conversations with them, and even held their children.  Granted it had been in the years before Patrick, but still.  I have always been good with faces and voices, even if I am bad with names.  It never occurred to me that I would forget a person entirely because of the brain fog.  Now, it's possible that it's something other than the brain fog.  In fact, my doctor said if the brain fog didn't get better, he was going to send me for a neurology evaluation just to rule out anything else.  But, whether it's brain fog or something else, I'm terrified that I may not be able to go back to work.  My job requires precision and being detail-oriented with words and grammar.  How can I do that if words fail me?  How can I do that if I have to triple-check basic emails to make sure I have correctly typed things that used to be so simple?  I'm seeing a rheumatology-certified NP next week who will hopefully help me get my fibro under control, but fibro meds usually work on the sleep and pain and stiffness.  I don't know any that help the brain fog.  Now maybe fixing those other things will help the fog.  I don't know.  What I do know is that, for now, I feel trapped in a body outside of my control.  So whether the "F" word if fibro, or frustrating, or f*^%, they are all in my vocabulary these days.