Friday, February 22, 2013

Rut

My moving forward has hit a rut, between stomach bugs and knee injuries. And a gray winter that just won't budge.

Luckily, I have good people around me to shore me up and steer me the right way.

Read this, bookmark it, and repost it on your Facebook wall - it may help someone you know:

http://localcaremidwifery.com/blog/posts/midwifery,-mothering-_and_-me___-what-to-say

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Truth

I'm a really private person.

Don't laugh.

I know it's not something you would expect from someone with a public blog, but its sort of like a reality show boiled down to three minutes. I'm showing you snapshots of my one-sided experiences, highly filtered. Everything is true, but I'm choosing to share it.

I'm also really sensitive. I hate making people feel awkward or uncomfortable. To the point where I was at a get together the other day, among friends and a few new people, where we were doing introductions. Almost everyone there knew about Sarah. And I couldn't bring myself to say, "I'm a mom to Jonah and Rachel. And to Sarah that we lost just 4 months ago."

It's true. But what a mood killer is that at an otherwise upbeat event, right? That nagging voice in my head saying, "Don't play the dead baby card." So I didn't. It wasn't the time or the place.

I hated myself just a little for it, though. For being cowardly with the truth. For perpetuating the stigma of death and grief being hidden. Because even among friends, it's not always easy to know what's right, even when it is the truth.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Uncle

"Mama? Uncle Andy's brain is different. Will he learn new words?"

Jonah is starting to notice that his uncle, his dad's brother, is not like everyone else. At five years old, the words "autistic" and "mentally retarded" and "seizures" are hard concepts to grasp. They're even difficult to explain to adults because of the wide spectrum of (dis)abilities that are manifested.

Yes, he's autistic. Yes he has a diagnosis of mental retardation. No, he will never live independently. Yes, he can read at a post-high school level. No, he can't hold a conversation. Yes, he can be prompted to answer questions. No, he cannot drive a car. Yes, he still goes to "school." Yes, he is older than Daddy. And yes, like everyone else, he will die. No, I don't know when.

Luckily, there is one question that has always been easy to answer. Yes, we love him.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Ducks

Our 14 year old cat has been sick, so I brought him to the vet yesterday. I wasn't sure how serious it was, but at that age, I braced myself for the worst.

I adopted my orange tiger guy when I started graduate school. He and his sister were dumped on a farm and eventually captured. She was sweet and affectionate, albeit shy. But he wanted nothing to do with people, ducking whenever a gentle hand came near him. He became "Duckie" and she became "Samantha Eagle" for her flopsy front legs that spread wide like wings when held on her back like a baby.

After 14 years, I've never been able to de-feral D, but he's had the best life possible. He loves snuggling the other cats in our home. Sometimes, late at night, I hear him yowling in delight. I wish I could pet him and enjoy more than a glance as he runs past. But the trauma he endured before he came into our house was just too much to overcome.

It was stressful, capturing Duckie and getting him to the vet. Once there, he needed to be sedated to be examined thoroughly. While he was under, the techs worked quickly to get blood as well as groom him and clip his nails. They scraped his teeth, administered meds for an infection and gave him pain killers.

I was relieved to receive the blood work back today: nothing seriously wrong. We'll keep a close eye on him and hopefully he can heal.

Jonah spotted the cat carrier today, out in the hallway, and inquired about it. I hadn't told him Duckie was sick, but when I did, he replied with, "Oh no! Did he die?"

Which broke my heart.

Yes, I want my boy to grow up. But it's so hard, going from a world where sick can be fixed by medicine and doctors to sick equalling death.

I explained, gently, that the vet did lots of things to help Duckie feel better. And that like all living things, eventually he would die. Hopefully not soon, but yes, someday.

He nodded solemnly. And then asked for a snack.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Depressed?

My primary care doctor offered me anti-depressants. I'm guessing it was because I was crying in her office. Not because I wanted to, but because neither she or the nurse bothered to look at my paperwork BEFORE walking into the examination room. And I wasn't prepared to hear, "Congratulations!" as I started to explain my recent hospitalization.

I think she meant well. And really, this is the second time we've met. It was a physical, scheduled a year ago. And I kept the appointment. My mistake?

She suggested that some people feel like they need to feel sad. Which I found insulting on the surface, but I think she was trying to say that some people feel like they can't move on. That they need to stay in a sad place in order to honor the experience of losing a child.

But from what I understand, you don't choose to be depressed. Either you are, or you aren't. And perhaps you can nudge those feelings along with the help of drugs, therapy and all sorts of alternative medicine.

Right now I've chosen the path of natural endorphins, through exercise, along with an army of friends who keep it real.

I also know that what is considered "normal" for grieving is specific to culture. Different societies have different levels of acceptability for how long it's okay to be sad - and how to display (or not) those feelings.

I write this on the night of my 36th birthday. Four months since Sarah died. Thirty six is a multiple of 18 - chai in Hebrew. Which means life. Hence the toast you're likely familiar with - l'chaim - to life.

I'm only superstitious for fun of it, but my wish this year is for life to be kind and fulfilling. And for the good feelings to outweigh the sad.

L'chaim.