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.

On the Oddities of Grieving

Grief is strange.  There is simply no other word to describe it.  It hits at odd times, in ways you do not expect.  Sometimes, the things that set you off make sense, but other times, there is simply no rational explanation for how you are feeling.  Every day is different and you really can't prepare because you don't know what is going to happen.  Sure, you expect sadness and difficulties on the "big" days--birthdays, anniversaries, etc.--but there's no way to know what will set you off, no way to know what things will make you feel as though, without them, you cannot function.

I have been going through Patrick's things and have had no trouble deciding which clothes to keep and give away--except for a few things.  Oddly, the things I can't deal with right now are things that were 24-month clothes he was given but never had a chance to wear, so they still have the tags on.  In theory, there is no sentimental reason to keep them--they aren't family pieces Mira wore, and he never wore them.  So, why can't I part with them?  Also, his bedding set--comforter, sheet, bumpers, bed skirt, diaper holder, curtain, clothes hamper--I have no attachment to any of it, except for the comforter.  Why just the comforter, when Patrick never even slept under it?  Whatever the reason, my current dilemma is whether to give all of the rest of it away without the comforter, or hang on to it until I am ready to part with the comforter so I can donate it as a complete set.

At the same time, Phil and I easily decided that we will turn the nursery into a playroom/family library.  We have had no trouble giving away car seats and strollers and bouncy seats and various other bits of baby paraphernalia.  I cannot fathom what the difference is, but I am trying to honor my feelings and just putting aside those things with which I am not yet ready to part and, hopefully, in time I will either understand why I need to keep them, or be ready to let them go.

Then there are the grief triggers--things that set you off that you weren't anticipating.  Things like the crinkly paper at the doctor's office that Patrick used to love to roll on and tear up to hear the sound.  The smell of a different deodorant than I usually use, which I bought in Detroit because I ended up there without my kit bag.  The party supply catalog that comes in the mail advertising all the necessities for Patrick's first birthday party.  The Amazon.com recommendations to purchase baby items because I have purchased them in the past.  I have no doubt that Mira's trip to the cardiologist in two weeks will back tons of memories and feelings because we were last there only days before Patrick went back to Detroit for the last time.  When you are grieving, life is like a Michigan road after a rough winter--full of potholes you don't see coming, can't avoid, and might put you out of commission for a few days.  And it's not going to get easier.  Next April, and indeed at least once a year for the rest of her life, we will have to take Mira to Detroit for a cardiology visit and will have to experience the hospital and see all of the doctors and nurses again.

Even so, there are things that bring me comfort--like sleeping curled up under Patrick's fleece froggy blanket, listening to "Happy," reading through the notes people left at the visitation and funeral, watching the videos of him on my phone, and looking at the amazing picture of him and his sister above the fireplace.

I don't understand and certainly can't describe or explain how my heart can feel so full and so empty at the same time,  All I know is that I love my baby boy.  My life is both brighter for having him in it, and duller for his having left it.  I will forever be caught in the duality of gratefulness for our time together and frustration and anger at how short that time was.

I am also caught between wanting to shy away from all things CHD and knowing that I have to keep fighting because I still have a child with CHD.  I find myself crying myself to sleep at night, fearful that her next trip to the cardiologist will reveal that her pulmonary pressures are increasing, meaning that the medications aren't working, which means a long, slow trip toward right heart failure and the eventual need for a heart/lung transplant.  I reach over and stroke her hair, snuggle her close, give thanks for our time together, and try not to borrow trouble.  But, with the wounds from Patrick so fresh, the trips to the doctor so frequent, and the medication reminders every day, it's a struggle.  Like everything else, all I can do is take it one day at a time, one hour at a time, one breath at a time.  In that way, grief seems a lot more like everyday life and feels more manageable.  Here's hoping.

Moving Through Grief

We generally talk about there being five stages of grief:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  I have long known that there is no schedule for grieving and that people do not go through the same stage,s at the same time, in the same order.  What I never realized, until this week, is that one doesn't necessary "do" one stage and then do another, and acceptance doesn't only show up at the end.  And, it turns out, I cannot control when I go through or complete these stages.  [You're shocked; I can just tell.]

Anyway, here's a little look into my first week of grieving to explain what I mean:

Monday, when we first got the news, I started in acceptance.  I had known the negative result was likely.  Yes, I had held out some hope, but when the expected news came, I was at peace with it.  Mostly.  Sad to be sure, but I was somewhat prepared.  I was going to be okay.

On Tuesday, I experienced some depression, but I also did some bargaining.  "If you just let the beta results be different Wednesday, I'll do x..."  I also started trying to figure out what I had done wrong.  Maybe I hadn't followed the instructions just right.  Maybe I had picked up doodlebug too soon.  It felt like it was all my fault.

Wednesday's confirmation of the negative results brought acceptance again, but also anger.  I felt like I did when we were first trying to conceive and again when we got our infertility diagnosis.  Life was unfair.  Why did crack addicts have an easier time conceiving than I did?  It made no sense and I was feeling pretty ticked off.  Because having someone to yell at can make me feel better, being able to rant at the world in general turned out to be quite soothing in a backwards sort of way.

Thursday brought denial.  Maybe it didn't happen because we're supposed to have a "miracle" child.  I know chances are close to zero, but what the heck, right?  It could happen.  We just picked the wrong month to do the procedure.  Had we picked a different month, it would have worked.  Thursday also brought more acceptance.  I finally went back to work and was able to talk openly with people about everything without having a meltdown and bursting into tears at every turn.

By Friday, I was sure I had it handled.  Everything was under control.  I was calm and cool talking with people about it.  I was still sad, and still mourning the loss of the plans I had made for the baby I was sure was coming.  But, overall, I had accepted that this was how things were and had made great strides moving forward.
Saturday, I was too busy with a sick child to think much of anything, except, "Oh my goodness!  I am soo glad we're not having another one.  Could you imagine having to be in the urgent care; cleaning up the barf; staying up all night to hold her so she can sleep without coughing; etc., etc., etc. with a baby in addition?!"

Today, I headed into church.  I was not prepared for the overwhelming sadness and sorrow that hit me.  I had a meltdown of massive proportions, and it was a very visceral reminder that, just when you think you are healed, things can catch you by surprise and you can feel like you haven't grieved at all.  I was left raw and exposed when I didn't expect to be.  one walks to the front, takes bread, dips it into the juice, and takes the elements together.  It was World Communion Sunday and we took communion through intinction--where every.  I almost didn't go.  I was crying and I really didn't feel like parading my grief in front of the entire congregation.  But, it occurred to me that, really, there was never a more appropriate time to take communion than when I was feeling the most broken.  So I went.  Still, it was extremely difficult to allow that many people to see me that hurt.  Just thinking about it while moving forward in line made me cry harder.  I tried not to look at Phil, since he was in the middle of guiding worship, but that only made me more upset.  He exercised his pastor's privilege and moved to stand with me and hold my hand and we took communion together.  It was lovely in the middle of that moment to be able to have my spouse support me.  And, with the exception of one or two well-intentioned people who spouted hurtful platitudes, I received nothing but love and support from my church family.  I felt the church, through it's actions, really saying to me, "Peace be with you."  Though sad, I felt comforted.

So, where am I now?  Back in acceptance for the moment, but who knows where I'll be tomorrow.  Such is the nature of grief.  But, I'm getting there.  In my own way.  In my own time.

Suffering, Blessings, and the Right to Complain

I have been thinking a lot about coveting, complaining, and suffering recently.  It seems to be popping up in conversations, blog posts, and Facebook statuses (stati?) a lot these days.  And as I began to unpack my own personal wants, complaints, trials, and "n't fair" moments, I realized that there might be a way to free myself from some of the frustration and guilt that comes from these feelings.  It occurred to me that coveting something someone else has that I want and being upset because someone who seems to be better off is complaining both come from the same place--I have assessed my position relative to theirs and made a judgment.

Coveting begins by noticing that they have X and I don't and wondering how come they got it and I didn't.  I have judged myself to be equally worthy, maybe better, and wonder why they have received received a blessing I did not.  Similarly, when I get angry about someone else's complaining, it is generally because I have compared myself to them and judged that what they have is better than what I have, so they have no right to complain.  I am well aware that none of these thoughts is terribly productive, but it hasn't stopped me from having them throughout my life.  However, I think I've stumbled on a way to let some of them go--stop comparing myself and give myself permission to complain.  My best examples of where this came into play for me is, surprise surprise, infertility and parenting.

People suffering with infertility often live in a black hole.  All the joy in the world can get sucked down this hole and the world becomes a horrible place that doesn't make any sense and certainly isn't fair.  When we see people get pregnant easily, we wonder how come we have to have it hard.  When mothers who have already shown they cannot take care of children are given more, we are left to question whether anything makes sense.  And when someone who is pregnant complains about morning sickness, we hear the snotty voice inside our head say, "You don't know how good you have it.  I would kill to have morning sickness."  But, here's the problem with that thought.  Some who struggle with infertility do get pregnant.  And, some of those folks end up suffering from hyperemesis.  But now, we've backed ourselves into a corner.  We've lost the right to acknowledge our own suffering.  We can't complain because we got exactly what we asked for.  And, worse, having been that woman, we know that if we complain, other people will judge us for it.  We know we won the infertility lotto and now we have to walk this crazy line being ridiculously happy, acting as though there is nothing to complain about with pregnancy, and not being too happy lest we be seen as rubbing it in the noses of our fellow infertility strugglers who we know just want the opportunity to feel miserable, too.  Our problem is that we shifted places on the continuum and our perspective is different from this view.

A similar struggle occurs with parenting.  All kids are different.  Some people get kids who are easy.  Some people get kids who are hard.  Some people get one kid at a time.  Some people get four.  And some of us get children with special needs.  We once again find ourselves on a continuum, comparing ourselves with other parents and our children against other kids.  We want to talk about our struggles with what is hard or be proud of our achievements, but we worry that others are saying in their head, or even out loud, "You think that's bad, my kid does x..." or "You're so lucky.  I wish my kid would do y..."

And what I came to realize (remember?) is that everything in life is a continuum.  In any given aspect--upbringing, education, employment, medical needs, wealth, whatever--there will always be someone who has it better than I do, and someone who has it worse.  I can spend my time wondering why I got what I did and someone else has it better or worse, or I can acknowledge that we all live, suffer, rejoice, and experience life differently.  By doing so, I give myself permission to acknowledge and seek comfort for my own suffering when it occurs.

This requires more work on my part, however, because I must do the same for others.  Whenever I see someone who is suffering, whether I consider them better or worse off, I need to remember to be thankful for what I have, and try to provide them comfort.  Because, when it comes time for me to seek comfort, I won't know where on the continuum the person to whom I am speaking has placed me.  And, who knows, I could be wrong.  My assessment of their place on the continuum may be way off.  But, even if I'm right, it doesn't get me anything, whereas providing comfort to someone who is suffering, regardless of their station, makes a difference.

For me, it's not that I suffer more or less, or have more or less, than someone else.  It's that what I have and experience is different, which makes comparisons useless.  Comparisons work when things are roughly equal--apples to apples, and all that.  But comparing ourselves to other people is like comparing cherries to cantaloupes; fish to carrots; or even muffins to shirts.  We are often too dissimilar for the comparison to have any real meaning.  And even if we find someone who's similar enough to call another apple, there are so many different kinds of apples, each with its own unique qualities.  We don't demand that one apple be everything to all people.  We don't tell the Granny Smith that it's inadequate because it's not a Gala.  We use different apples to eat raw than we do to make pie or applesauce.  And, from the apple's perspective, the Golden Delicious doesn't care that it's not a Honey Crisp.

I believe that God creates us differently because he has different needs.  We have different experiences because we need to be molded differently to fit where He needs us.  And, I think that He shakes His head and wonders why we spend so much time comparing ourselves to others when He worked so hard to make us all different in the first place.  And I am reminded that God calls us to Him when we are suffering--"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  Matthew 11:28.  He calls us all and promises to listen to our suffering and provide comfort without judgment.  All of us.  Those above and beneath.  Us and them.  It's time I start trying to do likewise.