Letters to My Girls

Truths We Find to be Self-Evident, Part Two: What It Means to Keep Your Mouth Shut

If you're joining me here today, you might wish to read Part One of this story:  Truths We Find to be Self-Evident, Part One: Mommy and the Catholic Church

Dear Darling Daughters:

A few people have asked me why I can’t keep my mouth shut about what happened at our school and just move on.  I was told at one point, “Oh, well, we are over it and moving on.”  Someone else said to me, “Lorie, I really think if you would just read the bible with an open heart, you would see that homosexuality is wrong.”  Really? 

I feel a very strong “calling” if you will, to speak up on what I consider to be a tragedy of epic proportions.  I’m not exaggerating.  “Calling” is the best word I can use to describe the sense of urgency and spiritual persistence I feel in telling this story.  And “epic tragedy” is an absolutely appropriately term to describe what I think is so very wrong about the decision that was made. 

I think anyone who has ever studied God or religion has some basic understanding of the moral objectives behind any sort of spiritualism.  Basics:  be kind to others, do unto others, don’t covet, don’t murder, don’t lie….  I don’t need to list the 10 Commandments here for anyone, and in particular, church heads, to know the basics. 

I don’t and will never understand any organization that would choose to be unkind to anyone.  Don’t we attend church to learn, to be accepted into a community, to find unconditional acceptance, to obtain guidance, and to bask in the love of God for all of us? 

And, if that’s the case, why do so many participants of organized religion so readily accept the systematic elimination of anyone who challenges the organization’s interpretation of what is meant by The Bible and the rules of the organization?  How is it possible to commit to an organization that ostracizes certain people, for whatever reason, and still believe that the greater good is being met even when the most basic precepts of spirituality are being ignored? 

Someone told me that I should evaluate the school based upon its merits and those exceptional things my children would gain such as a superior education.  I wanted to say to that person, “Would you allow your children to attend the best school in Boulder if they segregated African Americans?”  I’m betting the answer would be “no”.  What message does it send to our kiddos for us to say, “Oh, well, we don’t really believe in what they did, but we sent you there anyway because it was a good school.”

I also recognize that some of my peers at the school do believe that homosexuality is a sin or a choice and should be shunned.  If that’s the case, I would suggest you consider what you will do when one of your children comes to you with the news that s/he is gay.  Some of you will find this out while they are still at the Catholic School.  Will you allow them to continue at a place they are not accepted?  Will you speak out on their behalf?  Do you really believe that your child is somehow bad or damaged and won’t be accepted by God if she is lesbian?  I urge you to challenge your own thinking. 

I know that some would say I should have stayed with the school and tried to create change.  The fact is, I’m not a member of the Catholic Church and I don’t have the kind of financial input that I would need to have to influence anything that happens at the school.  The only ways that I can object and try to make a difference are to pull what financial influence I do have in the form of tuition, and speak clearly and loudly about what happened.  I still might not have any impact, but these two-and-a-half years later, I can still make it uncomfortable and memorable.  You’ll also notice I haven’t tried to take any individuals to the mat over this because I believe that would be as cruel and un-Christian as the original event.

So, why don’t I keep my mouth shut?  Remember that “calling” I told you about?  Part of it is knowing in a very profound and definite way what is right and what is wrong and having the spiritual strength to say so and act accordingly.  I believe that calling is as substantial and enduring as any religious figurehead who feels called to preach on Sunday morning.   The Catholic Church had its say in a very big way and now, it's my turn. 

My girls, there’s still another critical piece to this story that I will tell you in the coming weeks. 

My love to both of you!

Mommy

Truths We Find to be Self-Evident: Part 1: Mommy & The Catholic Church

Darling Girls,

I have a complicated story to tell you.  It's one I've held back for almost three years now as I've worked through one of the most difficult times I've experienced in my social and religious education.  You were uniquely involved, and I want you to have the story, from my perspective, so you can evaluate for yourself the complexities of these events.

Dad and I enrolled you in a Catholic School here in Boulder.  We were both brought up in the Catholic Faith, and as you know, we have members of the family in the Priesthood and in other roles of service to the Church.  Dad and his family attended the same Catholic School you did.  We have friends in the school and the church that go back decades. 

I suppose organized religion can be a wonderful thing.  In theory, the Church provides a gathering place for like-minded people to express their faith and support each other.  And, if you believe in God and are curious about religious philosophy, churches are a place to learn, ponder, and discuss the possibilities that exist within spiritualism. 

From very early on in my life, the Church was not a place I found to be comforting or loving.  I remember crying through my First Confession because it took place in a scary, dark, church hallway.  I could hear my heels clicking on the floor as I walked alone, not understanding what I was supposed to do or why I was there.  I was terrified and the Priest had to come out from behind the curtain to show me where to kneel and he told me what to say.  I'm sure he intended to teach me something, but when he forced me to tell him I had been mean to my parents so that he could "forgive" me and get through the excruciating session, the experience was branded onto my memory.  I knew something was very wrong - but it took me years to figure out how to reconcile that feeling with everything I had been taught about God and religion. 

Later in life, I attended and committed myself to the Methodist Faith, but found I was no more suited to it than Catholicism.  I studied The Bible in college, and I longed to understand the connection that so many had with God, that I did not.   Dad and I both travelled to Rome and The Vatican, which is the center of the Catholic Faith.  We had opportunities to study the politics and economics of the church.  We attended a blessing by the Pope.  Through these experiences, I became uncomfortably aware that I would never connect to spiritualism through the facade that belies organized religion.

When you girls were born, our families wanted us to have you baptized into the Catholic Faith.  It was understandable, as all of us had been baptized, and it was, if you will, a "rule" of our religion to do so.  Dad and I had long since stopped worshipping at the Church, however, and we were not married in the Church, so getting you baptized was not as easy as you might imagine.  And, I wasn't sure I wanted to baptize you into a faith I was no longer a part of.  This is what started us on a years-long journey that took us down some very unfamiliar paths. 

I'm going to fast-forward to the day that completely changed me in ways that both propelled me away from the Catholic Faith, and compelled me to solidify a new definition of spiritualism for myself.  One day, your classmate was told along with her brother, that she could no longer attend your school.  She was told this because her parents were lesbians and the Catholic Faith believes that homosexuality is a sin.  Never mind that her parents were part of the Church and had supported it with both their hearts and finances.  Never mind that those two children had been baptized into the faith.  Never mind that this was a loving, progressive, sweet family whose Christian beliefs set the bar higher for the rest of us. 

As you can imagine, the outcry from that decision was enormous.  The local and national press was involved.  Groups came to demonstrate at the church.  Parents got together to sign petitions and write letters to question the Archdiocese.  Some people upheld the decision.  For me, it was the absolute end to any shred of connection I had to Catholicism. 

When I say "Truths We Find to be Self-Evident," I'm talking about the fact that, as human beings, we inherently know how to love and cherish each other.  We know the difference between right and wrong.  We know that it feels good to embrace others wholly and without judgement.  It is whatever education we receive throughout our lives that causes us to choose not to be open to others.  So, when the decision of the Catholic Church was one that placed you girls into an education of intolerance, fear, and forced condescension, I couldn't possibly allow you to stay there.

What is self-evident to me?  The most exceptional and primary reason for the existence of this thing we call "God," The Bible, and the Christian Faith, is to embrace and accept each other, in all of our maginificent complexity and beauty.  Period.  No exception. 

Speaking out has had its disadvantages.  The fact is, I love and adore the people at the school.  Our friends from there are some of the best people I know.  The teachers - brilliant and unwavering in their dedication to the art of education.  Some of our friends with similar beliefs also pulled their children and support for the school.  Others chose to stay and try to create change.  I have friends who credit their Catholic communities and faith with their survival of some incredibly difficult odds.  Everyone has the right to make his/her own decision, and I very much respect that. 

There is so much more to this story that I'll tell you in the coming weeks.  Before I go onto Part II, I want you to know a few things about this story:  First, it is each individual's right and responsibility to exist in spiritualism in whatever way they choose.  I fully respect (and in some ways, envy) those who choose to participate in organized religion.  Second, the journey I took over the years was mine alone.  While I've had frank discussions with friends and family, I don't believe it is my right to push my beliefs on anyone any more than I would expect them to do that in return.  Finally, discussing these issues, particularly in such a public way, is gut-wrenching.  It's something I feel uniquely compelled to do because of the way the journey has changed me.  The point of this, however, is not to breed discontent, criticism, or angst, but to stand for what I believe and to support those who were wronged along the path.  It is, in my opinion, the right thing to do.

I love you both so very much,

Mommy 

 

 

 

 

 

To Test or Not To Test. Cancer is The Question.

Dear Girls,

I went to the doctor recently to find out how much closer to menopause I am now than I was last year.  During the appointment, along with the usual tests that are ordered, I was offered a new test to determine if I have a certain cancer gene.

The test is for relatives of those who have had colon cancer, uterine and ovarian cancer, and pancreatic cancer.  The three cancers are linked, and there is a common gene that, if identified by the test, increases your chances of developing one of those cancers by as much as 70%. 

Unfortunately, I have all three of those cancers in my family, so the chances that I could test positive for this gene are reasonably high. 

Now, I'm not afraid to find out if I have that gene.  The fact is, since my dad, my sister, and my grandfather have all died from those cancers, I've been more vigilant about getting unusual symptoms checked.  I learned a long time ago that worrying about getting cancer is useless, so finding out my chances are high doesn't make a huge difference to the way I live my life. 

Nevertheless, making a decision on whether to have the test, or not, has been difficult.

Sure, if I knew I had the gene, I could be even more focused on testing and prevention.  I could have a hysterectomy to prevent the possibility of getting estrogen-based cancer.  I could get mammograms and colonoscopies more often.  There could be drug studies or treatments open to me that might not be without knowing.  You might think this is the most responsible way to respond. 

Beyond the obvious - the stress of knowing cancer would be lurking in the background for the rest of my life - there are even more difficult issues we would have to face.

It's clear that insurance companies deny claims and/or eligibility to people who cost them money.  Just because it's illegal for insurance companies to deny coverage for people who test positive for this cancer gene, doesn't mean they won't, either now or in the future.  Laws change.  The denial of coverage could wipe us out financially. 

Suddenly, the decision isn't just about me anymore. 

Then, there's the very real possibility that, if I have the gene, you may as well.  I am not only completely mentally unprepared to test you children, the idea of trying to explain to you how to hear and respond to the information is beyond daunting.  As adults, we can deal with the realities we face when it comes to our own life, illness, and eventually, death.   I can't even conceive of what it might be like to manage my own child's potential health concerns.  And, I have no idea what it would be like, as a child, to manage the constant threat of illness.  

I've asked the advice of friends and family.  And, I sit quietly with the idea of having the test.  I haven't decided yet.  I can see benefits and drawbacks to either decision.  I don't particularly want to be a martyr, but I certainly don't want to cause the mental or financial demise of my family.  I don't want to have cancer, but knowing I have the gene doesn't mean I will or won't get the disease.  We also have heart disease in my family, a deadly alternative, and I don't do much to prevent it for myself.  There are other types of cancers on dad's side of the family.  I drive a car.  I occasionally cross busy streets on foot.   I drink cola every now and then.

Making decisions isn't easy.  There are always consequences to making decisions, some foreseeable, some not.  You'll make mistakes, and learn from them. You'll change your mind. You won't always have support from others for decisions you make.   No question - these life-changing ones are tough, but infinitely, life-affirmingly, worth it. 

I love you both,

Mommy

 

Between the Stirrups

So, that guy - the one with the white jacket and blue face-mask?  The one whose eyes are smiling at  you from beyond the white drape, holding just beyond your sight a long, thin tube with some stuff in it?  The one who you might have fantasized about once or twice because, after all, he will ultimately be the one who impregnates you?  The one who is about to bill you $10K for the next five minutes of his time? 

Yeah - that one! 

This is what he's not going to tell you about the baby he's about to put in your belly and what happens to you as a result:

-  You will bake approximately 18 dozen cupcakes by the time the child is 5 years old. (Exception:  Those who get the cupcakes at the bakery, slide them into a pan filled with "Ariel" paper liners, and swish a bit of canned frosting on top, all in the interest of appearing as though it matters that they should look home-made.)

-  You will stress over teacher's gifts every year for the rest of your child's schooling.  (Should I do this or that?  Did I spend too much?  Are the other mommies doing gifts?  Will it be tacky if I sew something? Once I do this, does it set a precedent for next year?)

-  If you have a C-section, unless you have cosmetic surgery insurance, the area between your breastbone and bikini line will have numerous saggy bits that fold over or hang down lifelessly, like dead turkey skin.

-  You will be pee'd and pooped upon in the most extraordinary of circumstances,  however, the hormonal changes will render you incapable of being grossed-out or angry, and will leave you viewing everything through very Seuss-like, pinkish colored glasses.

-  After having seen a few Disney movies, your child or children will remind you that you're fatter, uglier, or meaner than the Queen in Alice in Wonderland.  All done, of course, with a sweet, innocent, and helpful little smile.

-  Your "slam dunk" choice of toys, books, games, dolls, and clothing for your children will be viewed by the little imps with complete disdain.  They will end up on the floor, be stepped upon, broken, soiled, stretched, mangled, hidden, tossed out the window, left in the mud, and/or forgotten before the next holiday.  Your child will then have the worst Target tantrum ever upon discovering a version of the dolly (scooter, ant farm, gun) she really wanted that you won't get for her.  Or, it might be that you refused to purchase the bouffant, blue-eyeshadowed, mini-skirted, boob-enhanced doll (fist-fighting, gun-wielding, mask-wearing, warlord) you wouldn't purchase for her if it only cost $1.22 on clearance.

-  Each meal - and I mean every single meal- from the time the kid is born to the time she leaves for college will be a struggle, made more complex by the inclusion of additional family members all requiring various and constantly changing dietary additions, deletions, or exceptions.  The only solution?  McDonalds. 

-  The one-time-only "fee" you pay to school each year is just something they put on a sales brochure to get you to matriculate.  After that, plan on dropping $50 per week on book fairs, tee shirts, very specific gym clothes, even more specific gym shoes, cheerleading outfits, birthday presents, ER visits, lost lunch money, backpacks, stuffies, valentines to give anonymously, valentines to give publicly, fines to the library, lost glasses, lost retainers, oh-and lunch off-campus at McDonalds, of course. 

All of this, made totally worth it, of course, by the hugs and smooches and an occasional "I love you Mom!"  Nevertheless, since you won't get a chance after the baby is born, take the opportunity whilst your feet are hoisted up in the stirrups to gently nudge that handsome egg-wielding doctor right in the teeth with your stiletto.  

Wait - you don't wear stilettos to the OB/GYN?

Wife, Mother, Sock Hoarder

My girls:

Sometimes, admitting failings can be cathartic, allowing us to let go and move forward.  I've decided to share with you one of my miserable failings, hoping I may now be able to conquer it, and hoping you won't suffer the same way I do.  Let me just get it out right now, and then we'll talk:

            I am your mother.  And I have a stack of single socks. 

I know, I know - you're embarrassed, and if there was anything I could do to spare you, I would.  But alas, it's not to be.  Your mother hoards socks. 

It isn't that I want to hoard socks.  I don't have a thing for them or collect them for their future value - nothing like that.  It's just that, once I lose a sock, I can't ever bring myself to throw the other one away.  And unfortunately, I have lost many, many socks. 

The problem started when I began to do your Dad's laundry.  I would put the socks in the washer, pull them out of the dryer, and a few would be mysteriously without pairs.  Every so often, we would find a single sock hiding in the closet or beside the washing machine.  For the most part, the sock pairs would come back eventually, and I took to keeping five or ten single socks in a box on the dryer.  I would check them every so often and, when I was lucky, would find pairs. 

Well, then you girls came along.  We had an explosion of pink socks.  Suddenly, pink socks began to disappear.  You would think since I had so many pink socks that I could pair them up, even if they weren't with their original pairs.  But no, I quickly discovered that my favorite place to shop for kid's clothing, Gymboree, changed the color of pink slightly each time they came out with a new line.  No one pair were exactly the same shade as the next.  I would find myself pondering ten single pink socks, all slightly different shades and impossible to pair up.  To add to the shame, you girls began to grow up and I then had pink socks of different shades in every size from infant to, now, five years old. 

I thought it might help if I started branching out to aqua, brown, prints, different lengths - but it wasn't to be.  My single sock pile continues to grow. 

I've now taken the first steps toward my recovery by tossing socks that are too small, hopelessly stained, or damaged.  I try not to be paranoid, but I think once the singles know their mate is gone, they re-appear to taunt me. 

I'm not exactly certain how the socks know to disappear, or why they prefer to remain in the box rather than be worn.  Are they rebelling because I don't do the laundry quickly enough?  Is it that they want me to rescue their friends from the store, so they think by losing themselves I'll have to go purchase more of them?   Or, perhaps the stores deliberately pair up socks of different dye lots that look the same until you put them into the washing machine.  They then come out different colors, and you have to go back to buy more.  Maybe that's it. 

But, no, in order to begin my road to recovery, I have to take responsibility for what I've done.  The fact is, I lose one sock from each pair.  I do it every time I do laundry.  I am completely ashamed and I hope you girls will find it in your hearts to forgive me someday.  

Let me offer you some advice so you don't have the same problem:

1.  Never, never do anyone else's laundry.  Plan to have a laundress employed at your home, or send the laundry out.  Tell your husband/boyfriend/children you are allergic to laundry and can't even touch it. 

2.  When you have children, purchase one year's socks at a time, and buy them all in the same color.  That way, when you lose one from each pair, you'll still have half the pairs left, and so on. 

3.   Don't fear throwing singles away after a few months.  They are just socks! 

4.  Perhaps by the time you are adults, they will have invented one-use socks.  Get them and use them if you can.  Or better yet, invent them yourselves!

5.  If you're really hard-up for socks, wear two different ones and tell your friends it's "the style."  Chances are, they are victims too and will support you without judgement. 

6.  Consider getting sock tattoos.  That way, you'll always look like you have a matched pair even if you've run out of options at home. 

Much love,

Mommy

Why You Want Toys (and I Won't Buy Them)

Darling Daughters:

You girls have already become addicts to advertising.  Yes, I let you watch TV a little bit each day and I know you'll be in years of therapy because of it.  For the most part, I let you watch what you want unless or until I see gratuitous violence or content that I think is beyond your years.  Lately, I'm more inclined to put on a video rather than let you watch the tube, but there are those days when you want to see some new Scooby Doo or Dora, and therefore, you are exposed to the wonderful world of TV Advertising. 

To make matters worse, I get a few catalogs in the mail just about every day, and you girls love to hang out on the black couch in the living room, poring over the glossy pages and commenting on the toys, books, and pretty things you'd like to have for yourselves.  Sophie- as young as you are, you've figured out how to justify any purchase, a skill that, while annoying at the moment, will come in handy someday!  Izz - you're more particular, but you want things that are well beyond your years.

The thing I find so interesting is that the ad exec's have figured out how to draw you in already.  You girls love to see commercials and ads because they make you believe your life is incomplete without the thing being hawked in the ad.  I get that.  Me too, sometimes. 

A few months ago, I finally broke down and bought you guys these ridiculous waxed strings  that were advertised to be the next best thing to crayons.  You're supposed to sculpture the strings by coiling and bending them into literally unlimited small creatures, food items, pasties, vacation homes, and alternative fuel vehicles.  OK - I didn't buy those claims, knowing that you girls were unlikely to build anything particularly useful, but I admit to believing they might just be "hours of fun!" 

The thing that really annoys me is that, as an adult, I should know better than to believe that anything that sticks to itself well enough to sculpture and hold it's shape is not likely to be "mess free."  I'm irked that I read and re-read the package about ten times, looking at that phrase "mess free" over and over again, and still bought the item after you begged me incessantly for months and I was out of ideas for keeping you occupied. 

We brought them home, unsealed the package, and I started to separate the waxed strings from the cellophane.  Low and behold...the wax not only left an icky, slimy mess on my hands, but by the end of the play session, you not only failed to build the Taj Mahal, but there was icky, slimy stuff all over my kitchen counter tops, your hands, faces, and clothing.  Furthermore, the smell was awful. 

Now, being the normal children you are, you didn't care about the mess or the smell.  You were, however, disappointed that your artistic efforts resulted in tangled masses of odd-colored spaghetti and meatballs instead of perfectly executed, color-appropriate couture fashion.  (Yo - Project Runway - I feel a challenge coming on!) 

It was me who, packing up the remainder of waxed string to "donate" to an unsuspecting charity, was chagrined at the fact that the company claimed it to be a no-mess toy that turned out to be, well, messy.  They didn't completely disappoint me, though, since I thought the "mess" would be crumbled wax all over my floor, and that did not happen.  No - it was the sticky ick that turned out to be the messy stuff. 

OK- changing gears for a minute.  The government went after the makers of Pom pomegranite juice this week, for claiming health benefits from their product that have no scientific proof.  There will always be the "it" items that may or may not work, depending upon your chemistry and the company's desire to sell it's product.  Many of them don't do what they are advertised to do.  Some will.  But, why is the government spending thousands of our tax dollars going after a product that won't likely ruin our lives, rather than investment companies, tobacco manufacturers, drug companies, and their own failed programs?  Really - isn't that sort of a waste?

Yes, I have a point.  Let me get to it now. 

Your desires can sometimes supersede your common sense.  But, common sense is not only instinct, but also intelligence based upon history and knowledge.  The "knowledge" I'd like you to start with is this:

-  All ads are meant to get you to buy something.  I don't care how sincere the pitch, or what the product claims to do.  Just because something is shiny and new doesn't mean it works. 

-  Claims are just that, claims. 

-  The people in ads or infomercials are always, always paid.  Those folks may, in fact, benefit from the product, but you have no way of knowing, so ignore that advice and look for other types of evidence.

-  When you choose to purchase something, do it because you have the disposable cash, and because the product may enrich your life.  Know what your budget is.  Take advice from friends and family.  Do the research. 

-  Keep mental track of what you buy that doesn't work, and stop supporting those companies with your dollars.  There are certain mascara manufacturers that I won't buy from anymore because they re-package their products every year and make new claims about how luscious your lashes will be, while showing you computer-enhanced images of false lashes that grow magically before your eyes instead of showing you real lashes with real results. 

-  If an ad claim seems so good you can't resist it, try to resist it. 

-  Know that you are fallible.  Ads are meant to appeal to your innermost desires, and ad companies do a stellar job at it.  Even with the best education and  brain smarts, you will make purchasing mistakes.  Just try not to repeat yourselves.  

So, I'm sorry I won't be buying the sand that never gets wet, or the clay that stays fresh for decades.  I might purchase a doll or two, but not the really expensive one that talks in a cute voice, sings, poops, and really does love you.   I won't lay money down for any ride-on toy that has an accelerator.  I won't buy the deluxe makeup set and hair salon so you can start your own business and be an entreprenuer by the time you're 8.  I will not buy any moresets guaranteed to teach you how to read by the time you're out of diapers, or to have you speaking Mandarin before you can say "Mommy."   I will not believe any ad that says a battery operated machine can make an authentic French croissant, cotton candy, or real snow cones that don't taste like stale freezer air.   I will turn a blind eye to anything that is both a pet, a pillow, a sleep sack, and also doubles as an easy-fold, multi-room tent.  And, I'm cancelling the movie club right after I fulfill the purchase requirement. 

By the way, Izz - I think it's very clever that you told the high-pressure hermit-crab seller that you wanted to purchase a few to take home and eat.  That's really the only good reason to bring a live crab into the house. 

Your loving, over-protective, and really mean Mommy

Naomi's Story: Infertility, Loss & Love

When I asked my friend, Naomi, to be my first guest blogger, and knowing what a devoted mother she is, I knew she would have stories to tell.  I've read this one now a half-dozen times, and I still feel a little piece of me fall away each time the message hits me.  This story poses those "why?" questions we so often never find answers to, and end up carrying with us throughout our lives, the possible answers (if there are answers) changing as we grow and become wiser. 

Sit down with a box of tissues, and read about what this brave mommy had to endure. 

My admiration and thanks to you, Naomi, for sharing your story.     

___________________________________________________________ 

As a child, I always envisioned myself as a mother.  I would get married and have 2 or 3 kids.  They would be little stair steps like my sisters and I.  They would grow up fighting over crazy little things and be there to comfort each other when the little kid down the block was being mean.  Never once in my childhood fantasy world did I see struggling with infertility.  Growing up I never heard about anyone not being able to have a baby or having a baby that was stillborn.  I never considered the possibility.

My husband and I got married in June of 1993.  In October of that same year we bought our first  house.  In November I was pregnant with our first child.  Everything was going according to plan.  I worked full time during the pregnancy and never had an issue.  Jordan was born August 12, 1994.  He was 8 pounds 5 ounces and completely perfect.  I was 23 when he was born.  I enjoyed every stage and every accomplishment.  Jordan started walking around 10 months old.  He would hold onto furniture and eventually started racing around on his own little feet.  When he was 17 months old he stopped being able to walk.  His balance was gone.  He would stand up and just fall over.  We took him to our pediatrician and he thought it was something viral but wanted to do an MRI of Jordan's brain to make sure.  We went to Children's hospital and had an MRI.  Our worst fears came true as the doctor told us Jordan had a brain tumor.  It was on his cerebellum and that was causing his balance issues.  Jordan immediately had brain surgery and the tumor was completely removed with two surgeries.  His recovery and stay in the hospital is enough for a whole different story that I will tell another day.  He made an amazing recovery and we feel blessed every day for that!

 Once Jordan was home and healthy John and I decided to have another baby.  It truly was like that….hey let's have another baby.  It came so easily the first time, we assumed it would be the same.  Jordan was two years old when we started trying.  Every month was another disappointment.  When Jordan turned three we figured it was about time to see a specialist.  I went and saw a fertility doctor the fall of 1997.  He assured me that my body just needed a little push to get pregnant again.  I went on Clomid for a few cycles, the pill for a few cycles after the Clomid to regulate my system.  Next thing I knew, it is December of 1998 and still no pregnancy.  That month John was transferred and we moved to Indiana.  After unpacking the house and getting us settled, it was time to find a new fertility doctor.  This doctor said I needed surgery.  In the spring of 1999 I had scope surgery to determine if I had endometriosis.  During the procedure it was determined that I did in fact have endometriosis and the doctor removed a bunch of "stuff.”  I'm not sure what the official term is, but I knew this stuff was supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant.  After recovering from the surgery the doctor suggested we try insemination.  This was the next step, the next push my body would need to get pregnant.  We did two rounds of insemination….no luck.  Now it is December of 1999 and guess what?  John got transferred again.  We packed up the house and moved again.  We arrived in our new town, I unpacked the house, John went to work, and Jordan started preschool.  Preschool?  I couldn't believe my little boy was old enough for preschool and still had no siblings!  Next on the to-do list was find another new fertility doctor. 

 In the spring of 2000 I found a wonderful fertility doctor.  He patiently listened to all my stories, what we had already tried, what surgeries I had, what I felt.  He suggested a dye test, injecting dye into my tubes to make sure all was open and well.  Of course they were and he wanted to try in-vitro fertilization.  John and I agreed and this started the year from hell!  As anyone who goes through the in-vitro process knows, it is a mind twisting, body tangling, confusion inducing process.  The first obstacle for me was giving myself shots.  They were daily and required a self pep talk every time I looked at that needle.  Then there were the egg retrievals where they use a drug called Versed which puts you in la -la land but you are still awake.  I once woke up to a room of laughing nurses who told me I said I was "dreaming of the Backstreet Boys."  Next up is putting the fertilized eggs back in.  Once that happens, you stay in bed for a few days hoping they will implant.  Then the real fun begins with every other day blood draws and ultrasounds.  The doctor monitors all sorts of levels in your blood and changes on the ultrasound.  After two weeks of this when you are very cranky and almost annoyed with the process, the doctor calls and says the words you have waited to hear forever…..YOU'RE PREGNANT!

I heard those wonderful words in December of 2000!  John and I were so excited but with reservations.  We knew it was so early and we could lose the pregnancy but I just felt like it was all going to be okay.  In no time we made it through the first trimester.  I was ecstatic!  Now nothing could go wrong!  That honestly was my thought!  I am good as gold!  In April we went to Disneyworld.  John's parents came with us.  It was our last big hurrah with Jordan as an only child and we wanted him to have a blast.  Three days into the trip we were standing in line for a show.  I felt like I was peeing my pants and realized I was leaking amniotic fluid.  I ran to the bathroom and John's mom followed.  We both knew this was not good and someone called an ambulance.  I made John's parents take Jordan back to the hotel because I didn't want him to see me loaded into the ambulance.  John and I went in the ambulance to the hospital.  They did an ultrasound and put a heart rate monitor on me.  The baby seemed fine.  There was still enough fluid and they couldn't tell what was causing the leak.  I stayed in the hospital for the next 4 days.  The fluid stopped and they released me on the last day in a wheelchair to catch the flight home.

We arrived back in Ft. Wayne and my first trip was to the OBGYN.  He for the first time used the word that I came to hate….fluke!  He saw no signs or issues from the previous week.  He put me on modified bed rest at this point.  No lifting, no exercising, etc.  I felt relieved and again felt like we had made it through what would be the worst and the baby would be here in a few months.  May and June were uneventful in a good way.  The baby continued to grow and all was well. 

I woke up the morning of July 24, 2001.  I was getting my haircut that day.  I showered, got ready and Jordan and I went to the salon.  John came and got Jordan and they went and had lunch while I got my hair cut.  That afternoon Jordan and I went home.  I felt something was off and I wasn't feeling the baby move.  I took out my trusty What to Expect When Expecting book and read about less movement later in pregnancy.  The book suggested drinking some fruit juice and see if the baby moved.  I had some apple juice and nothing happened.  I called my friend and asked if I could drop Jordan off.  I called the doctor and he was out playing golf, but suggested I go to the hospital where they could monitor me since his office was closed.  I arrived at the hospital feeling sort of silly.  I thought the nurses would all think I was overreacting.  I got checked in and the nurse tried to find a heartbeat.  She couldn't.  Then she brought in an ultrasound machine.  I had so many ultrasounds during the pregnancy that I knew what to look for.  The nurse also assumed everything   was fine because the screen was facing me.  As the ultrasound started, the screen became clear and the nurse quickly turned it away.  She was not quick enough as I had already seen enough to know that baby was gone.  The baby was lying across the top of my belly, arms hanging down.  I was 35 weeks and 4 days.

At this point I was still at the hospital alone.  I hadn't called John because I figured all would be okay.  I had to call him and tell him over the phone that the baby was dead.  I honestly don't remember making the call.  I do remember him asking if I was sure.  He came to the hospital and we just cried.  Neither one of us could speak.  Then the reality of it started to hit.  I had to have a C-section.  John had to go get Jordan.   Someone had to tell our families.  The next couple hours were truly a blur.  I don't remember all the details.  I remember being wheeled in for the C-section, the epidural, again being given Versed so I wouldn't remember.  Soon I was in recovery and the nurses were bringing me my little baby boy, wrapped in a blanket, a little cap on his head.  He was perfect.  The chaplain came in and prayed with us, baptized him.  We named him Austin John, as we had always planned to do.  We both held him.  We cried.  We said goodbye. 

 The only explanation I have is that word…..fluke.  There was no explanation.  There was no separation of the placenta.  The cord was not around his neck.  Maybe the cord wasn't strong enough.  Maybe the blood supply wasn't enough.  Maybe if I had gone to the hospital earlier.  All these maybe's that are still there as I type this 9 years later.  I will never know why Austin was stillborn.  I will never know why my body decided to betray me.  All I know is that this long and winding road has made me appreciate my son Jordan all the more.  If it weren't for Jordan, I don't know that most days I could've gotten out of bed.  He was my light in a very, very dark tunnel.   This road also led me to Jillian.  Without Austin I wouldn't have Jillian.  That is what I always tell myself.  It is the only explanation that I have.  He was my light that led me to her.  I don't understand it!  I don't think I ever will, but I have two amazing children that I get to look at every day and one that I talk to every night in my prayers and my dreams!

Naomi's Story: Adoption and Sisterhood

I strongly believe that certain souls are placed into your life to teach you something you need to know that is spiritually significant.  My friend, Naomi, is one such person in my life.  We worked together in the 80's in banking, where I was lucky enough to learn some very useful lessons in management from her.  She helped me to be a kinder, gentler person.  We lost touch, found each other last year on Facebook, and she now is teaching me even more about life and motherhood.  I knew she had stories to tell, so I asked her to be my first guest blogger. 

Naomi (39) lives in Illinois with her husband, John, son Jordan (16 and just started driving), and daughter Jillian (5).  She is the consummate stay-at-home-mom, with family, photography, and fitness her chief interests.  And, she has some beautiful, touching stories to tell us.  Today's story is about how adoption became a part of her life through her sisters and her children.  Check back next week to read her story of living with infertility and the loss of a child.  

Thank you, Naomi, for being my first guest blogger!  

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From as early as I was old enough to understand, I was told my oldest sister, Lainie, was adopted.  Lainie was the firstborn.  Jess and I soon followed, biological daughters of my dad and my mom.  I always knew we were different because people were always very quick to point it out….how come Lainie doesn’t have blond hair?  How come Lainie is so quiet?  Lainie must look like your dad (always the assumption made when the three of us girls were with my mom).  Jess and I were the spitting image of my mom, blond hair blue-eyed Norwegians.  Lainie had dark hair and different facial features.  As the three of us girls got older the differences became more obvious.  Lainie was a straight A student.  She was very quiet in the classroom and obedient.  Teachers loved Lainie.  Next in line was Jess.  Jess was also a straight A student and the teachers love her too,  but she was much LESS quiet in the classroom.  Back in our high school days, teachers gave a letter grade for assignments and a number grade for “respects the rights of others” and such.  Lainie always had A1’s, which meant quiet and a good listener.  Jess always got A3’s, meaning not so quiet and not a good listener unless that meant listening to gossip.  When I entered high school it was inevitable that I would get the same teachers as my sisters.  I remember one teacher saying, “So which sister are you like, Lainie or Jess?”  She said it with such hope….hoping my answer would be Lainie.  I guess my behavior modeled more closely to Lainie's and teachers were happy about that.  As I recall I had a lot of A's on my report card too, but not straight A's.   The comparisons and the questions never sat very well with me.  I always took it as some sort of dig….like the difference wasn’t good. 

As the three of us entered college and went our separate ways in the world, we followed our own paths.   As we were all in different cities and rarely got together, we weren’t compared to one another as often.  Jess and I each got married.  We both got pregnant at the same time.  We delivered our boys within 3 days of each other.  Lainie soon followed with marriage and a baby girl.  Now we were all mothers.

 After I had my son, my husband and I started trying to have another baby.   The second time it wasn’t so easy.  We found ourselves unable to have another baby and started thinking about adopting.  My first thought was, what if our child is treated differently like Lainie?  You see, growing up I always cringed when the questions would come.  It made me uncomfortable and it made me sad for Lainie.  When John and I started seriously considering adoption my first phone call was to Lainie.  As John and I were looking at  all ethnicity options of babies we might receive I couldn’t help but think of how different they might be from us.  When I called Lainie I simply asked her, “How did it make you feel when people would ask why you looked different?”  In typical Lainie fashion she said, “Well I always knew I was adopted, so to me  it was such a stupid question.  Duh.”  It truly amazed me.  What I had always seen as a jab or a dig, Lainie saw as a stupid question.   She always knew she was wanted.  She was loved.  She was part of a family.  She had parents who loved her the second she was put into their arms.  She had sisters that would be with her for life.  Suddenly having a different “birthparent” seemed so irrelevant.

Shortly thereafter John and I dove headfirst into the adoption process.  We filled out all the paperwork, usually me filling out the papers while reading aloud to John.  I recall his only hesitation.  We were filling out our preferences for a child.  I checked off ethnicities I didn’t even know existed.  John nodded or voiced a yes as I went.  We got to type of birth….I read single, check.  Twins, check.  Triplets, check!  John yelled “WHOA.”  That seemed to be his only concern.  We did the FBI background check, home study, and fingerprints.  We made a book of pictures and descriptions of our family, why we thought we would make a good adoptive family.  The first week of July we received a letter from the adoption agency saying all our paperwork was done and we were ready to be “shown” to birthmothers.  The last week of July we got a call from the agency….a birthmother had chosen us.  I remember being overjoyed and just knew this was meant to be!

Jillian Faith was born November 17^th.  John, Jordan and I flew to Florida the day she was born.  When we arrived at the hospital, we went straight to our birthmother’s room.  We all took turns holding Jillian, staring at her, crying with joy.  When our adoption coordinator told us it was time to leave, my heart sank and I cried.  The birthmother had until the next day to change her mind.  We went back to the hotel and waited.  The next afternoon, we got the call to come pick up our daughter at the hospital.  We couldn’t get there fast enough.  The nurses took us through everything that I remembered going through when I left the hospital 10 years before with Jordan.  It still didn’t seem real.  Did we really get to leave the hospital and bring this perfect little life with us? 

We did!  As I write this I am trying to think when Jillian became ours.  Was it always written this way?  From the first phone call from the agency, she seemed like my daughter.  Was it our first meeting with her birthmother when she said she would trust us to raise her birth child?  Was it during the last couple months of her pregnancy when I dreamt about when this baby would come, what she would look like, what our first moments together would be like?  Was it the first time I held her in the hospital?  Was it when we left the hospital as a family of four?  I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I do know that Jillian was meant to be my daughter and I was meant to be her mom, the same as Jordan was meant to be my son and I was meant to be his mom.  I see no difference between them, no distinction of biological and adopted.  Maybe that is why Lainie never saw the questions as an issue….she was raised not thinking there was any difference between adopted and biological and that everyone looks different.  That is what makes us each unique and wonderful in our own way.

We talk about Jillian being adopted.  She knows we brought her home from the hospital when she was one day old.  Jillian understands as much as she can at 5 years old that she was in another woman’s belly. She knows that her birthmother gave her to us because she thought we would be the perfect family for her.  We certainly don’t talk about it everyday.  But I want Jillian to be aware of it, to know it is part of her story, to understand that being adopted is a great thing.  That way when the questions come, the differences are pointed out, she can embrace it and tell her story just like Lainie always has.  No big deal.  I’m different because I am me.  Adopted or not, isn’t that the best lesson we can all learn?  Embrace the fact that what makes you different, what sets you apart, what some people criticize and fault,  are the same amazing things that make you you!  Nobody else in the world is just like you?  That is a wonderful thing!

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Have a question or comment for Naomi?  Write us in the comments section below and Naomi will answer! 

Super-Glue and the Urge to Extricate

My darling girls:

I was thinking about Super-Glue this weekend.  When you get Super-Glue on your fingers and then press them together, they stick, right?  What's the next thing you do?

I don't know what you do - maybe you are calm, cool, and collected in the face of fingers stuck together.  What do I do?  I pull them apart.  I don't just try to pull them apart - my fingers panic and they pull apart all by themselves, no matter how hard I try to stop them.  In fact, because my fingers are so intent on being apart, they don't really care if they have to tear themselves up to do it.  A little bit 'o thumb on my forefinger; a little smidge of forefinger on my thumb. 

This has me thinking about human nature and what happens to us when faced with uncomfortable changes.  And, it has me thinking about how I personally react to that feeling. 

As I've grown, educated myself, experienced more, and take more calculated risks with my life, my first response to being trapped isn't panic anymore.  More often, I shake my head a little, roll my eyes, and think, "Fuck me!"  (Yes, Virginia, I do use the "F" word occasionally.) Then I figure out how much danger I'm in, what my options are, and extricate myself.  (Lately, I'm also thinking about what the experience will look like in blog-form.  Go figure!)

I suppose you might think, then, that you grow older and wiser, and therefore handle things better, but I don't really think that's always true.  I also think that handling things well is situation-dependent.  Anything you haven't thought through or experienced before can tend to bring on that same sense of panic.  And of course, there's the Super-Glue factor - the idea that a permanent change to something you've taken for granted all your life is worthy of the most volatile reaction.

So, then I wonder whether I am now too restrained when it comes to extricating myself from difficult situations.  Have I evolved so much as a human being that I no longer have that natural adrenaline, that response to get away when a threat appears?  And why, in the face of something so benign as Super-Glued fingers, wouldn't I choose to just go upstairs, get the acetone, and calmly correct the situation?  Why do glued fingers inspire such drastic human response?

I think in my mid-forties, I've come to trust myself well enough to know I can handle just about any situation.  There isn't really much in life that remains mysterious to me if I'm interested in it, and I'm not afraid to explore things to which I once would have fearfully shut my eyes.  And, having seen the circle of life play itself out so many times around me, I know that the worst possible result of any difficult situation is death, and that the chances of it are unlikely under most circumstances. 

So, going back to the start of this dicussion - why do glued fingers still make me automatically want to pull them apart, in spite of the damage it causes?  Is it because I know the pain and potential blood involved is survivable?  Is it because the feeling of losing control over a lifelong relationship with my fingers is so uncomfortable that I have to get them back to normal, even if it means a painful process to get there? 

I don't  know the answers (yet), but I hope you'll take this away: 

Educate yourselves on everything you can.  Knowledge and experience help you evaluate difficult situations and react more appropriately.  And, know that it isn't necessary to hurt yourself to get out of a sticky mess, but it helps to know that if you do, you'll survive. 

With love,

Mommy 

 

Your Health, Your Doctor, and Self-Advocacy

My Dear Daughters:

We will spend lots of time talking about your health.  We'll talk about how to care for your body, how to feed it, exercise it, nourish it, respect it.  I'll tell you the mistakes I made and why.  We won't focus on what we look like, how much we weigh, cellulite, or emotional eating - I promise.  I won't tell you "it's all in your head" and I will listen compassionately to your thoughts about your bodies.  If there's a question about whether you need a doctor, I will always take you to the doctor.  If we have to go to three doctors, we will go. 

I was faced today with one of the most baffling mysteries of medicine.  No, it wasn't the fact that I'm now ten days into an allergic reaction to a mystery substance, though that certainly is one for the books.  It's the fact that I'm standing here ten days and three doctors into the situation, and I still feel odd about stating the facts of my own case. 

Doctor One put me on anti-histamines for a massive allergic reaction, in part because he never looked at the hives on my body and consequently underestimated the condition.  Doctor Two told me two days later upon seeing the head-to-toe hives and swelling that I was "so far gone" by the time she saw me, she had no choice but to hit me with massive steroids to control the condition.  Doctor Three came into the ER room saying, "I don't know what else I can offer you..." before even looking at me (he was about to send me home), and then once he saw my ballooning head and realized I was having massive chest pain and shooting pain down my arms that maybe I needed a little epinephrine and some additional anti-histamines. 

I'm not so arrogant that I can argue with any of the three doctors.  I think they all did the best they could under the circumstances and evaluated the situation as accurately as possible.  The thing that has me absolutely bamboozled is that, once I finally had a clear enough head to think through the situation and do a little research, I still felt odd stating my thoughts to the doctor this afternoon. 

First, suppose I take responsibility for the Doctor One not getting the whole picture because I wasn't assertive enough about making him look at my hive-covered ass and melon-like kankles.  Had I insisted he stay in the room while I dropped my pants, perhaps he would have understood why I was there at the Urgent Care at 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning. 

Second, I have sympathy for Doctor Three walking into the room with a conclusion before even looking at me or talking to me.  Had I come in crying, exclaiming in pain, breathless, irrational - perhaps I would have made a more impressive patient.  I shouldn't have been so stoic, I guess. 

Doctor Two, who clearly got the message and put me on the right drugs at the right time, got it just right except for the fact that we didn't anticipate the chest pain thing on a day she wasn't in the office. 

But, here's the thing.  I spent some time researching what happened to me today, before going in for follow-up treatment this afternoon.  I had several possible conclusions about what my body did, but I'm not a doctor.  I know that, so I went in and patiently explained that I had lots of information and needed help putting it all together. 

Since I had failed so miserably stating my case to the doctors to begin with, I wanted to be sure at this visit to explore what was going on in my head - make sure I didn't leave anything out that was potentially important.  I wanted to take an active role - not just sit there and hope the doctor would somehow see everything there was to see.  I also wanted an education - I knew some of my theories were wrong, but I didn't know why.  And, I need to know. 

So, why did I feel so lame giving the information I had and asking questions?  Why, after not getting what I needed from Doctor One and almost missing the boat with Doctor Three, did I have the impression the information I had to offer was not appropriate for discussion?  Why have I felt like I was over-dramatizing my condition to friends and family asking after my welfare? Why did I feel like I needed to dumb it down? 

I remember so distinctly hearing my sister's voice become more and more thready as she went through weeks of mis-diagnosis before someone finally, finally did a chest x-ray and found she had lung cancer.  I remember hearing how beaten she was after someone at an ER told her "this place is for life and death illnesses" and was sent home with "the flu."  I remember that from her sickened state, she had few words to describe the symptoms she had and how serious she could feel they were to her mortality.  I remember the doctor who hospitalized her one day, not because of the description my sister gave, but because when she got up from a chair to get on the exam table, she was unable to lift herself and walk without assistance.   

She didn't cry or wail, either. 

I remember with you, Izz, that you were breach in my tummy and that I didn't want the doctors to try to turn you.  You had been lying hammock-style in my belly for the last three months of the pregnancy and it seemed clear to me there was some reason for that.  The fact is, it could've gone either way, but in the end, when they delivered you via c-section, the doctor immediately saw that you were stuck in that position, and she told me there was no way they could've turned you - meaning, without hurting you. 

My girls, I hope to give you many gifts - I won't lie.  I won't say this is the most important thing you need to know because we haven't even started talking about sex, drugs, and alcohol, and I have lots to say about those things and how they affect your life.  But, please take this one seriously - you must advocate for your own health, and surround yourself with the support so you can do that. 

I hope I can be there when the time comes, but if it's not me, ask Dad, a friend, a trusted teacher, or a family member to help you.  Talk through what's happening to you so you have some practice at telling the story.  Research what you can and take notes.  Always command the discussion with your physician - set the agenda and be sure you get everything discussed.  Be curious.  Ask questions.  Trust your instincts.  But, also be ready to accept change when the facts belie your theories.  Don't stick to a solution that doesn't make sense if you have no facts to back it up. 

One thing I've learned over the years is that being emotional in a doctor's office is almost never productive.  I hate to tell you that, because when you are sick or have problems with your body, it can be scary.  Lean on me for emotional support and I will help you manage any stress you have before you go to the doctor.   

Above all, know that it is your right to know what is happening to you and why.  It's your right to ask what the treatment options are and to make the best decision you can based upon the facts and your own instincts.   It is your right and responsibility to give all pertinent information.  It is also always, always, better to know what's happening to your body than to hide from it.  Most of the time, I promise, you will come out healthy.  Those times you don't, the earlier you catch a problem and get it checked, the better. 

Despite feeling odd about discussing what happened to me today with my doctor, I did get my questions answered and I said everything I wanted to say.  I endured a few moments of embarrassment at my own ignorance, and that's OK.  I came out with what I need, for now, and maybe because of the information I shared today and the requests I made, I will get some answers, and be better off for them.

My deepest love for you both, 

Mommy