Team Med

 Ten years ago I was firmly planted in Team No Meds.  I wasn't willing to even consider such a notion for Noah.  In fact, before we began the diagnostic process, my mind was already made up; and if we weren't going to medicate him, why would we bother having him properly diagnosed? 

Oh my goodness, for such an educated person and mom-as-advocate, I sure was downright ignorant.  

And--ohhhhh how I stood in judgment of parents who did choose meds for their kids.  I remember at one well-check, our pediatrician's nurse told me all five of her kids were on meds and how much simpler it made things.  "Sure, for YOU," I thought.  High and mighty as I was, I thought parents who chose meds were simply incapable of being well, capable parents.  Those parents just want compliant, controllable kids--right?

I also knew the dangers of the side effects.  I absolutely hate, HATE knowing my kids have to choose between growing well or not having their active little neurons bounce around the insides of their brains.  We've learned a lot over the years, trying to work with (against) their suppressed appetites, but it's still a sacrifice to their growth.  A necessary evil.

It was actually Noah's fifth grade teacher--mid diagnosis, having returned Noah to public school from homeschooling mid-year and in the middle of fighting the school for at least a 504--who had the talk with me.  She watched him struggle and enlightened me.  Her name was Mrs Love, and she was absolutely the best thing to happen for Noah and the sunlight in a shit situation.  She heavily advocated for Noah, doing everything within her power to help him.  

So, we (I) agreed to try meds.  It was at least a year of trial and error which included finding a new psychiatrist who finally listened to us, but we hit on the correct meds and the best doses.  

Watching my kid blossom after that, I didn't walk, I ran full sprint to join Team Med.  Watching him thrive and experience life--that was just everything and more.  Honestly, though?  I've learned from it, but I'm still wrestling with guilt because I waited so long to help Noah.

That experience made things quite straightforward when Avery's turn came around.  Thanks to our experiences with Noah, we not only immediately chose meds for Avery, but we also knew where to begin with the particular meds and doses.  

And now we're here with Ezra.  Again, thanks to his older brothers, we have a starting point.  Diagnoses secured, meds prescribed.  He can't learn what I'm trying to teach him if his poor little brain is ping-ponging around inside his skull.

I'll say this again to you, dear readers: If you've never had to watch your child struggle, I genuinely hope you never do.  It is painful in every sense of the word.  I'll also say this: It was wrong of me to judge other parents, and I hope you take my lesson into account as you watch other parents.  

Today was Ezra's first full day on meds.  I had an actual give-and-take conversation with my 5 1/2 year old for the first time ever (it was still about his topic of choice, but I'm taking what I'm getting right now!).  I watched him happily play with his Legos, choosing those over the mind-numbing tablet we typically rely on (surprisingly participating in give-and-take Lego play with Avery for a few minutes).  He sat through an entire game of Go Fish, even calmly attending as I explained the rules to him.  

It was an incredibly emotional morning.  It feels so amazingly great to be able to watch my kids succeed.

I fully understand meds still aren't for everyone.  It is an extremely personal choice.  But over here in Left Field?  We play for Team Med.

Life in Left Field

 My blog was born almost eleven years ago when we received Noah's Autism diagnosis.  

Today we received Ezra's diagnoses.

That day, Shawn and I were taking a collective breath in the parking lot after loading our six month old and our newly diagnosed nine year old in the car.  I still remember what we wearing, the chill in the air, the specific color blue of the sky.

We stood behind the car, taking turns staring at the ground, the sky and each other, kicking the bumper, heaving sighs trying to contain sobs--and trying to get ourselves together enough to make the 90 minute drive home.  Covid meant today was a telehealth appointment, so hey, no three hour drive home while trying to digest the day's news.  There's that, right?

Ten years ago, I shouted, "DAMMIT!  They just dumped us way out in left field!"

Noah's diagnosis wasn't necessarily a shock to us, but the diagnostician's treatment of the entire situation was.  They handed us a little packet of information (all of which I could've written for them at that point), helped us make an appointment for six months out and sent us on our way: "Congratulations!  Your kid has Autism!  We'll see you in six months!"  We did not return to them in six months.  We did not return to them at all.  We took our Autism and went elsewhere.

That was it; no supportive care, no interventive therapies, no recommendations: just a diagnosis and we'll see ya later!  At the time, Noah was not considered severe enough for interventions.  We found our own interventions, and made our own path through life with Autism.

We'd been living in left field all along, we just didn't have a name for it until that moment.  

Over the years we've found our groove here in Left Field.  Some days we're groovier than others.  Some days I forget my groove, things feel entirely too fragile and I fear I might break under the weight of all of this.  Some days I'm angry and I shake my fist--not at my children, not at God, but at a painfully slow and broken system, at things beyond my control, at a society which demands I constantly explain and excuse my kids.  Sometimes I scream CAN WE PLEASE JUST HAVE ONE NORMAL DAY--and I remember--this is normal.  It's our normal.  Some days I mourn the 'easier'--different--life I dreamed of for my kids, while other days I'm able to fully celebrate being able to live here at all in Left Field.  Some days I have some really big, hard feelings about it all.  And--other days I recognize this is not the end of things: no diagnosis, no specialist, no stranger gets to write the final word in our history.  My kids are healthy, happy and well loved.  I have a husband who does all of this with me, and some days, for me.  We have the ability to ensure our kids receive all the help they need, and because I'm able to stay home with them, we're able to provide what a traditional school setting cannot: curricula tailored specifically to their needs and one-on-one attention.  We are able to choose specialists who not only see the best in our kids, but work hard to help them.  Most days I completely thoroughly laud every little thing about my kids, and every day, every single day, I glorify the One who made them.  I know they are the way they are because this is how He needs them.

If you've made it through your child's formative years without having to go through any sort of diagnostic process, without having to fight a system which is supposed to be for your child yet is designed against your child, without having to fill your weekly calendar with specialist after specialist--there is no possible way you can comprehend any of what I'm telling you.  You might think you can draw a parallel here or there--but you simply cannot.  And I'm not saying that to be angry or bitter with you--but you are in that population that cannot comprehend a life steeped in special needs.  It's just a simple truth.  When your kids come with 'extras,' you live on an entirely different planet, often even an entirely different solar system.  We speak a different language and walk a different walk (sometimes rather literally).  For this matter--if you haven't gone through this, I pray you won't ever

I love my boys dearly.  I cherish them.  I'm so grateful for them.  They are funny and full of life, they have the most musical giggles, we have plenty of inside jokes--and they've helped shape who I am, and who I need to be.  I wouldn't change our kids at all, for anything.  

But would I change things for them?  In a heartbeat.

Heavy (and The Light)

 Sometimes, life with kids on the spectrum gets heavy.  

Having three of them under one roof gets (insert your own personal choice of adjective here) HEAVY.

Honestly, I try to not think about it too much.  If I think about it too much, it just gets heavier.  

I know--I know--in the grand scheme of things, we're lucky.  Our kids don't risk the chance of dying from autism.  They won't lose a limb, or time out of their lives.  We're lucky our kids are on the mild end of things.  Most likely, with the proper interventions now, our kids will be able to function on their own as adults.  They could attend college and have families if they want.  

But sometimes, it's just. So. Much. When I stop to think about it.  

So I try to not think about it.

But on days like today--I can't help but feel the weight of it all.  

I can't help but hate autism just a little bit.  I can't help but just be sick of all of it and want to scream, shout, yell, cry, throw things and hit things. 

I'm so tired.  That weary kind of tired, not the kind of tired sleep will fix.

It helps to lean on other parents who understand all of this.  

Most of the time the weight turns to tears, but I genuinely hate feeling sorry for myself and my kids, and I don't like how it makes me feel like a victim.  

Also--those floodgates.  Oh, those red hot tears behind those floodgates.  Those angry, anguished, maternal wails.  That painful wailing which rises up from so incredibly deep inside me.  

Today though, I had a much needed reminder of Who is really carrying all of this heavy weight for me.  Who carries it for my kids.  My very HELP.  I was reminded whose Hand is in this, and on them.  

I was reminded of the Light inside the heavy.

He is good.  He. Is. GOOD.  When nothing else feels good--God remains GOOD.  

It is from Him where my peace comes from.  

It is from Him my children, my answered prayers--heavy autism and all--are from.  

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

Psalm 121:1–2

Well, At Least There's That

Sometimes I have to find humor where it really isn't. 

Sometimes it's not that I have to do so, it's that I just do. 

Most of the time my humor is self-deprecating and a little defensive.

I recently started seeing a new doctor.  To start things off, she ran a lot of lab work.

This woman is exactly who I've been looking for in a doctor.  Her approach has been a major sigh of relief for myself and Shawn.

The results from the lab work came back... And we're trying to figure out how I'm still standing.  How am I still functioning?  How I am waking up every morning and managing to get through my days?

 It's one of those things where this has been my norm for so long, I really don't know any different.  I don't know I'm supposed to feel better than I do--well, I do know, but I haven't had the energy to advocate for myself, to find better doctors, to scream for the attention my health needs.  The results explain so very much.

*This* is too low, *that* is too high... You get the idea.  The report was four pages of bad news, a sea of alarming red words screaming at us.  I did laugh as I read asterisked notations under many of the tests stating the lab ran them more than once because the results were so off.  Some of them more than twice.

Then, there it was.  Down at the bottom of the last page.  Big bold letters announcing the wonderful news.  My Covid antibody test was negative.

My laughter about the notations turned to cackling, Shawn's chuckling turned to full-on laughter.  I laughed until I had tears streaming down my face and couldn't breathe.

Well, at least there's that.

More than a Mom

When Shawn and Avery arrived home from the grocery store the other night, Avery said he had something to tell me during dinner.

After we sat down to eat and everyone was squared away, Avery filled me in about a mom he saw in the self-checkout line.

She had five small children (Shawn confirmed they were all younger than Avery) she was trying to corral and keep happy while attempting to just purchase her groceries (remember those days, mamas?).

"Mom, you would've had two of those kids on your hips and played with the other three as you scanned her groceries, dried her tears, made her laugh, and given her a mom pin, all while praying with her."

I made an excuse to leave the table for a moment--then had a moment.

With that, Avery saw ME.  Not Mom, not Teacher, Short Order Chef, Chauffeur, not Chore Minder--he just saw ME.  Avery saw me as a human being.

Avery acknowledged my heart, my desires to follow God's path set before me and my ministry.  Avery was able to appreciate I am more than just his mom.

The significance of this goes deeper than what I'm telling you.

As any mom of a child with autism will tell you, it's often difficult for our kiddos to relate to others.  It can be baffling for them to understand the feelings and emotions of other people, considering they are often perplexed by their own.  Most things are black and white, and deeper meanings can be elusive.

My boy sees me.

"This Too Shall Pass"

The other day I saw a meme which first gave me pause, then a great deal of laughter:

"Ohhh, this too shall pass!"
"So does uncontrollable diarrhea, but that doesn't mean it doesn't suck until it does!"

Not only did I laugh, I even passed it around.

It's possible I laughed a little too hard, and a little too long over this.  All the same--I loathe that phrase.  LOATHE.

As a Christian, one hears, "this too shall pass" often (Fun fact: Did you know this phrase actually originated from a Persian fable?).  I grew up hearing it, and over the past 18 months, I've threatened (under my breath, of course) to throat punch the next person who said it to me.

*Please note: I've decided the response from this meme will now be my response.  You've been warned.*

I mean--can we just allow others to feel their feelings completely, wholly, without trying to shut them down with Christian-speak?

Can we agree with the person who dares to say, "This sucks.  I'm sad," or "I really hate this right now"?  Can we be in the moment with our friends, our families, our children, our fellow parishioners and their feelings, rather than shoving them into the future, where we are more comfortable, but they aren't yet ready for?

It boils down to discomfort, doesn't it?

In shutting others down, we are gravely invalidating them.  Think about that for a minute--we are squelching the voice of a fellow human being.  We are robbing them of their power, the only power they might feel they have in a specific situation.  Without so many words, we are saying what they're going through, what they are feeling isn't important.

This is how children learn to be silent.  This is how children grow into adults who don't know how to work through their emotions, who don't know they are important, and who don't know it's okay to feel how one feels.  This is how we shut others down before they can even begin.  It's how we offend others, lose friends, and cause rifts within the church, the workplace and other communities.

I'm sure most people think they mean well.  In their minds, it is akin to a pat on the shoulder, a way to comfort another person, to tell them no matter how bad it is now, it's not going to last (sooooo... perhaps just say that instead???).

I think sometimes--perhaps even most of the time--it's said without even thinking, it's an automatic reaction.  I wonder if sometimes it's used even in a flippant way, though.  They don't want to take the time to listen, so they throw out an easy catchphrase.

It just rings with insincerity. 

Let's make a promise to each other: Let's begin with sincere hearts for one another.  Let's sit down and make time for intentional conversation.  Let's check in, and check on, each other.  Let's promise to be more purposeful with our actions and our words.

Even if it's about uncontrollable diarrhea.

Faith Like My Boy

When I became a mom, I envisioned myself as the teacher in our relationships.  I would be the mom to impart all the knowledge, and then some, upon my children!  I imagined myself as the wise adult, helping my children grasp everything they would need to know for adulthood.

Good grief, how wrong I was!

I quickly learned I'm not always the teacher.

Many, many times, so very often, I am the student and my children are my teachers.

My kids are my mentors, my professors, opening my eyes to things I could never imagine.  Daily, they teach me more than I could ever hope to teach them.  I am but a mere pupil.

I frequently forget important lessons.  Sometimes, there are lessons I haven't learned at all yet.

And God uses my kids in amazing ways to educate me.  

Yesterday, while at the vet for Elijah, I was reassuring Avery.  I told him the doctor would make his duck better and we would all get through this.  My teary boy stopped for a minute, looked me square in the eyes and firmly, confidently replied, "NO, Mom. GOD is going to make Elijah better."

And I have no doubt that God hears Avery's prayers and is already busy answering them.

Oh, to have the kind of faith Avery reminds me to have, time after time after time.  This boy of mine. It's such a privilege, being his mom--as well as his student--getting to raise him, having this front row seat to his life and his love for Jesus.  

Confessions of a (SAHM, Homeschooling) Quarantined Mom

Does anyone know what day of the week it is?  What month?  Are we still in 2020???

What is even going on anymore????

The littles and I have been stuck safe at home for nearly 6 weeks.

According to our state, we've got 6 more weeks to go.  Six.  More.  Weeks.

Due to my health, I cannot leave the house.  Target... I miss you... Starbucks... Do you still remember my usual?  Shawn is essential, which means he's got to go into the office.  It also means we see very little of him.  Noah is out of work, but running calls.

We're not making any unnecessary errands, we finally have enough TP and paper towels, we haven't wanted for cleaning supplies, we're washing our hands, sanitizing Shawn's and Noah's cars, they're following necessary safety protocols at the station and the office--we're doing our part.

The littles and I finished school about 3 weeks ago.  Avery and I have some loose ends to wrap up, but we're pretty much through with it.  He was able to finish up his co-op tutored classes, as well as his independent classes through Zoom.  God bless his teachers, tutors and the creators of Zoom.  We could very well have just ended things the way they were with classes, but our teachers and tutors have worked around the clock to ensure proper closure for all of our kids.  While we were scrambling to explain things to our kiddos, they were scrambling to put measures in place so we could still say hi to friends, have conversations, play games and have classes.

I will be honest... I've neglected my mamas and our group.  We had to end our Embrace Grace group with the promise of throwing the baby shower; our Bloom had her baby without us being able to cheer her on, and have only seen her sweet little girl via text.

Being an introvert and seldom leaving the house as it were already, I really thought we (I) could nail this.  It didn't seem much would change for us.  We had this quarantine down! Not much would change for us, right?

And then--everything changed, while staying the same.  Does that make sense?

Y'all--this is hard.  Like, hard hard.

And I really don't like saying that.

I don't like feeling like a complainer.

I know how fortunate we are in this situation.  We have so much to be grateful for.  And we are.  I know so many of us are in similar boats.  I know allll sorts of things, but... This is HARD.

Like most kids across our country and around the world, mine were suddenly yanked from some of the comforts and friends they knew, struggling to understand and grasp the suddenness of the uncertainty so many of us were thrust into.  Ezra was excelling in OT one minute, making incredible strides--then the office closed.  We're continuing what we can at home, but we've still seen some regression.  It's frustrating.  Avery and Ezra are both extroverts, and this has been horribly awful for them.  Avery's anxiety has come back in the forms of tears and nightmares, and he's back in our bed by midnight most nights.  He's been afraid to even go outside, admitting to getting in trouble with the police.  Reassuring my kids has become a 24/7 job.  Ezra's best buddy from co-op has promised him a play-dough playdate when this is over, so every day Ezra asks if he will see Isaac today.  I've lost count of how many times I've answered, "Not today, sweetheart.  Soon, though."  With most events, we are able to make check boxes, framing things as "(fill in the blank) more sleeps!"  But with this, there are just too many sleeps for him to comprehend.  We scrambled to find a cake, flour, a cake mix--anything--for Ezra's birthday.  Friends mailed their own flour and their own cake mixes to us.  I sincerely hope you have friends like mine surrounding you.

Oh, and to those who have said this quarantine is an introvert's dream come true--I have some strong, scary words for you.

Just as quickly as classes were closed, so were our church and our groups.  We were all left floundering, wondering what is next and how to keep in touch.

We miss our people.  We miss life outside our yard.

On any typical day, our household is incredibly intense.  It's just who we are as individuals, and who we are as a family.  During this crisis, as much as we've tried to downplay it for the littles, we've just become more intense.  Between you and me?  I didn't think that was possible.

On a difficult day, pre-quarantine, I had the ability to pack everyone in the car and hit Chik-Fil-A, head to Target, grab a chai and cruise the aisles with the kids.  We had the opportunity to get out of our own heads backyard and head to a park.

We have gone for two rides, we've done a couple "social distance" playdates in driveways, and we've made some surprise love deliveries to a few porches.  We leave fun sidewalk-chalk messages at the bottom of our driveway, and rearrange our animal statues in the front yard, hoping to provide some laughs.

While other families are struggling to learn togetherness, balancing work and homeschooling, finding themselves suddenly in a situation we long ago became accustomed to, showing off their color coded schedules, proclaiming the many lessons they're learning about cherishing these times and their children--yeah.  They want to share their pearls of wisdom with the world, absolutely certain these are things everyone else has yet to learn.  Could you... Please just, maybe not?

*ahem*  Sorry.  Quarantine Amy has no chill.  As I said, we've become um, a little more intense.

You know what I've learned, though?  Actually, this is something I already knew going into this.  *The days I forget my sense of humor are absolutely, without a doubt, the most difficult.*  Read that again.

On a good day, pre-quarantine, I was not the schedule-oriented, color-coded, get-yer-butts-in-gear mom, as so many on social media have shown up to be.  We've found that doesn't work for us; we work and function better in a more relaxed atmosphere--okay, what qualifies as relaxed for us.

Pre-quarantine, I had stopped comparing myself to social media standards, I had found my tribe, I was rolling.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I am tired.  I miss human contact outside of my own people.  My depression has plummeted, I'm trying to hide my own anxiety from my kids, I've had a massive flare up with swelling, migraines and intense pain.  We're all tired.  We're all weary.  I know we're not alone.

I've given up the basement to the children.  Psstt... Silver lining to sending them to the basement: I'm saying the word 'penis' less...  I've thrown devices at them for just a few minutes of quiet to myself...

Confession time: Sometimes, I scream into my pillow.  Or I attempt to hide in my closet with what's left of my Hershey bar stash.  Raise your hands if you're with me.

Right now, it just feels as though we're in survival mode.  I'm certain that applies to the majority of you, as well.  I wish I had some tips, some words of wisdom--anything for you.  But really, all I can tell you is--stay healthy, stay home.  Let's keep picking each other up.  Let's keep rallying around each other. Let's keep reminding each other that yes, it's okay to admit this is difficult.  And yes, we can be grateful even while admitting things like this to each other.

And--y'all--those first hugs when we emerge from this are going to be absolutely golden.

372 Days

My sister died one year and one week ago.  I haven't written about it because I haven't known what to say.  Words have failed me again.

I also haven't wanted to dwell on it (it's easier to just pretend it's not there--I wanted to ignore the day and go on as usual, whatever that is)--I know the floodgates need to open, but I keep them bay, allowing only a few tears to escape here and there.  The more I think on it, the more likely I am to reach that brink, the more likely I am to go over it--and can I come back from that?  I don't know the answer, and I don't like unknowns.  I don't like feeling not in control.  I just have so much which needs doing, and I really don't have time for Mommy-Needs-A-Few-Days (years)-In-A-Cave-To-Cope.  There's only one of me, and just so much of everything else that needs to be done.  I feel as though my kids don't need to see all of this either--yes, they need to see me crying, yes they need to know it's okay to feel, and deal with emotions in a healthy manner, and yes, it's up to me to teach them the 'proper' way of grieving--but this mess, this is not what they need, and this mess, this is not the example they need.  I am simply not there at this time.  I've put off therapy (I need therapy), asking for prayer (I need prayer--but when everyone else is asking for prayer, who do I go to?), attending prayer services (I need prayer services)--and even attending church (I need church).  It's all just too much, still.

That said, I haven't gotten through just about a single moment without either tears threatening, or full on tears for just a few seconds before I pull myself together and announce, "Enough of that," to the universe, God, my husband, to whoever is listening.  But still not the completely full-on, let-go, body-wracking sobs my body, mind and soul so desperately need.  

I know most people have forgotten about my sister and my friend anyway, so what's the good in reminding them?

So I push it away.  Everything's fine.  Everything's okay.  Everything's great.

At times, I feel as though I'm hanging on by a mere strand.  Not even a full string. Certainly, not the full hem of His garment.

There is still so much damn pain.

Yesterday, after a bushel full of crap, I talked with one of my sweet friends about it all, baring my soul to to her, knowing I wouldn't be judged; a friend who would listen and would only offer love and sincerity.  She wouldn't try to fix me, or offer unwanted help--she would quietly sit beside me (even though we are states apart), perhaps hold my hand in the quiet, not trying to fill in the silence and emptiness with her own words, and most importantly, she would LISTEN.  She did not judge, she did not offer empty sympathy--she would be exactly what--more properly, who--I needed in that moment: A sounding board full of love.

To be fair to her, it's not been the most pleasant month for her, either.  Knowing it won't solve either of our problems, we both still wish February would just be long gone.

After I poured out my heart, she replied; she knows the saying is "'God doesn't give us more than we can handle,' but He does.  Yes, yes He does at times."

Chuckling to myself (that on the verge of completely losing the rest of one's sanity kind of chuckle) because of having that same thought over the past several weeks. He absolutely does--and my training has the answer to that, but so does my inner four year old.

She urged me to continue.

Well--as a mature Christian, and with my training, I know while yes, God absolutely does give us more than we can handle as humans--or, perhaps more appropriately allow it --it is not God's works which we can humanely handle.  Those are best left to Him.  However, in those same moments, God ALSO provides us with the tools, the people, the wisdom, the guidance--and every other single thing we need to handle them.  We need only need to follow Him.  Could--will--it take time?  Oh, you can bet your pants on it.  But this a part of the entire process of growing and stretching as a Christian.  God plants the seeds, helps us water them--and in turn, we must endure the oftentimes painful pruning process as those seeds grow.  And we are merely humans.  We cannot accomplish God's works without Him.  This is the process in which we learn our reliance upon Him.  Does this process suck at times?  You already know the answer, so I won't use my colorful language to describe how much it sucks.

Then there's my inner 4 year old.  SHE is sticking her tongue out at God, "PBBBBLLLLTTT!" and kicking Him directly in the shins.  I. DO. NOT. LIKE. THIS. MAKE. IT. STOP.

I then gave my friend a caveat of sorts, bringing my thoughts back full circle:  God is okay with both.  He can handle it.  Much like when our children save their worst behavior for us because they know we're a safe haven for them--God can handle our reactions, our anger, our tears, our frustrating, and when we stick out tongues out at Him, kicking Him in the shins, because He is our safe haven.  Our hiding place.  He loves us SO. MUCH.  He's willing to withstand the shin kicking until we're spent, falling at His feet in absolute sobs, ready for Him to pick us up and ready to turn it all over to Him, ready to stand us up somewhat straight, ready for us to lay it all at His feet--no reprimand, no finger shaking, no judgment, just LOVE--and turn us toward HIS path, holding our hands, sometimes carrying us, ALWAYS holding us upright.

My friend and I agreed we're both 4 year olds right now, while also agreeing tomorrow is a new day.

She signed off telling me how much she loves me, as I signed off telling her the same, and promising to pay her bail.

And for the record, we both had a good laugh when we realized our conversation would most definitely turn into a blog.

Y'all, we ALL have moments we stray--or want to stray.  The important thing is when we come directly back to Him, knowing, faithfully, BELIEVING, standing in that chasm for others and even ourselves, knowing there are others doing the same for us.

Words for the Year

I'm not a person who does vision boards each January, makes resolutions or chooses a word or verse for the year.

This year though, our family was given three words: Grace, Goodness and Gratitude.

We were also given a verse: "I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you"--Isaiah 46:4.

We've not just been given these as words, but as actual, real life moments.  We're taking things at a slower pace, drinking everything in, enjoying just being able to be a family.

Abba is carrying us through this season.  I constantly hear Amy Grant's words in my head, reminding me, "I will carry you, my child, my child."

As I watched my sweet idiots throw each other around, jump off the furniture in flying leaps to join the pile, laughing so hysterically they couldn't stand up--for once, I didn't try to stop it.  I didn't caution them to slow down.  With the dog barking and Elijah quacking, both trying to join the fun (or protect their respective boys?), I didn't complain about the noise level.  

Rather, I stepped back and watched the melee.  Smiling, I gave my children grace--the same grace Abba affords us each day.  I curled up in my husband's lap, tucked into the safe refuge of his arms wrapped around me.  I listened to the certain, steady beat of his heart.  We soaked in the moment, offering up gratitude for this goodness.  

I nearly missed this. 

We know this won't last.  We know these brotherly moments will grow further apart, before they come back full circle.  We know we will miss this.

We know we are not guaranteed a single thing in this life.

Friends, soak it in.  Drink it up.  Let these forever moments just wash over you.  Don't hurry things along.  Breathe.  Take the time to pray and be in Abba's presence.  

And remember--Grace, Goodness and Gratitude.  And, He is always carrying you.

I Had a Heart Attack

I'm not sure how to even begin this post.  How often do I start this way?  More often than I can count. 

Here goes.

Several weeks before Christmas, a sweet little toddler died.  She and her family are part of a worship community I follow, and whose songs I sing sometimes with arms held high, other times in the fetal position and tears.

Olive died.  And her family looked to God, relying on His promises of miracles, which included raising Olive from the dead.  Her family and community rallied, prayed, worshipped with their full hearts and souls wide open, knowing and believing there would be a miracle in store.  With others throughout the world joining them, they prayed for Olive's resurrection.

God had other miracles in mind, though.

Ultimately, as everyone saw clear, God's miracle was truly in bringing His people closer to Him.  The prayer and worship movement for Olive's resurrection opened hearts, eyes, minds and souls.

To be sure, there was a resurrection here on earth--within the Christian community and many of Abba's lost lambs--but Olive's resurrection remained a heavenly one.

Her life had incredible earthly purpose, and powerful eternal ramifications.  

Throughout the entire phenomenon, I prayed for, and respected where this family and community were coming from.  Regardless, I also maintained what I thought to be a healthy dose of skepticism, guarding many of my own thoughts.  I wasn't skeptical about God and His miracles, but I felt genuinely horrible and awful for what this family was going through.  I know God's ways are often not our ways.  In some cases, He answers prayers in ways our human minds cannot comprehend.  My heart was in true agony for them.  Even so, knowing what I do about grief, I was concerned for their well being, concerned they were in denial and delaying their process.

I was so very wrong to be skeptical.  It was not my place.

Two weeks after Olive died, our family experienced a little bit of our own kind of medical emergency.

I survived 2019.

No, literally--I survived, ringing in 2020 in the critical care unit of the hospital, with all of us--family and friends--feeling more gratitude than we've experienced in a quite some time.

I had a medical crisis, we just didn't know it.

Shawn and I went to the ER when the pain and weakness in my legs became unbearable.  I was only looking for relief; but when Shawn told the staff about my sister and my cousin, family disease history, the fall I had that morning, and numerous other innocuous-seeming symptoms I've been dismissing for the past year, everything suddenly began moving very swiftly.  There was loud talking punctuated with urgency, and so many doctors, nurses, specialists and medical equipment in my tiny little emergency room suite, it made our heads spin. I was moved to the cardiac unit of the ER and the flurry of activity continued.

When my blood pressure plummeted, Shawn turned the monitors away from me, repeatedly trying to reassure me everything was fine each time I asked.  My sweet husband has no poker face, and I remember his facial expressions well from Ezra's labor and delivery, so I knew it was all far from fine.  

While still in the ER, we learned I'd suffered a heart attack and was dangerously anemic, most likely from internal bleeding due to an unknown source.  They had suspicions of other things going on, but my doctors began there.  I was started on meds, and began my first of three transfusions as I was admitted and transferred.

We sent out prayer requests, and Shawn unwillingly left me to go home to the kids, as well as to retrieve a few things for me.  The children needed to be updated and reassured. He returned to me very shortly.

I spent the next week declared a fall risk, confined to my hospital bed not only because of that, but by numerous machines.  I received a total of three infusions, which increased my hemoglobin only slightly, but enough to keep me stable and thrill my doctors.  I began proton pump inhibitors, as the  assumption was the internal bleeding and subsequent anemia were from ulcers, and related disease.  I eventually had an endoscopy, confirming I was no longer bleeding, but also verifying numerous large ulcers and several other smaller ones.  Biopsies were also taken, hoping to learn why I'm not absorbing iron (apart from the bleeding) and to rule out anything else.  From another test, we learned I had blood pooling around my pericardium, in addition to a mass in my abdomen.

It was determined I had what is called a silent heart attack.  There is minimal damage to my heart, and these are considered to be the 'less severe' type of heart attacks, although the more which occur over time, obviously the more damage is caused, which does make them more dangerous.  The symptoms are atypical of a heart attack, and often dismissed, or attributed to other reasons, both by doctors and patients.  There is a possibility I've had more than one.  Mine was most likely caused by the anemia, so there isn't any follow up treatment (aside from continuing to treat the anemia).

While we've downplayed it for the littles' sakes, this entire experience has scared us shitless and left us feeling overwhelmed.  There is still so much to process.  Shawn and I have cried with each other behind closed doors, clinging to each other with everything we have.  There is so much they don't tell you about surviving a medical trauma.  Rather, you hear a lot of hey, you survived a heart attack!  Rejoice and be happy!  You're still alive!  Surviving a medical trauma is much like grief: Most everyone is quick to remind you how good God is--and He is, to be sure--but they diminish your experience, your emotions and everything you're still reeling from.  What no one tells you is you'll develop a sort of PTSD.  You'll be afraid to sleep because what if I don't wake up?  They don't tell you how many times you'll get up to check on your kids throughout those sleepless nights.  They don't tell you how scared you'll be each time you think you feel your heart twitch, or when your arm hurts, or your legs and face start swelling again.  They don't tell you how you will obsessively check your pulse, your blood pressure, and your ECG through your watch app.  They don't tell your husband he will stop sleeping because of his own fears.

They don't tell you how many times an hour you have to tell your fears, and the demon creating them, your God is bigger than them.

This experience has also left us with immense gratitude.  My sister and my sweet friend did not get second chances.  I've been given a new perspective on my grief, as well as my life.  I've grieved my heart dry, but is living this way really honoring their memories or legacies?  It's time to start LIVING like I mean it.  We've been humbled by the outpouring of love, prayers, texts, emails.  We are grateful for deeper friendships, and knowing just how many people our family can count on.  We are grateful to still be a family, to know we didn't have to say goodbye.  We have so much to be grateful for.

I am not finished being Mama, beloved wife, niece, Mamie and Great Mamie, friend, or sister in law.  I remember breaking down, telling the admitting doctor I have three kids, nieces, and three of the sweetest little greats to see through life.  I'm not finished hearing my children laugh, hugging them tight, kissing my husband, or holding his hand.  I'm not finished loving on my nieces and spoiling their littles.  I'm looking forward to daughters-in-law, and maybe grandchildren. I'm not finished laughing and grossing my kids out when they catch me and Shawn making out in the kitchen and embarrassing my kids in public with my antics.  I'm not finished with miracles and everyday messes.  I'm not finished cherishing these times and these moments and my people.

I'm.  Not.  Finished.  Yet.

Apart from desiring to show the world God's abilities and believing in His everlasting Word, that's all Olive's family wanted.  They weren't finished with her laughter, her light, her love.  They weren't finished with her being daughter, child, sister, niece, grandchild, friend.

While my heart is shattered for Olive's family, going through something no parent should ever have to go through, I realized they were not delaying their grief nor were they in denial.  Their eternal hope is in Abba, and they have been an encouraging example to us all.

Because of Olive's family and community, I've been reminded--again--in Whom my Hope belongs, and resurrections come in all shapes and sizes.