bewildered by grace

I had the unspeakable joy of experiencing my first brain zap today. I remember my reaction upon reading those words for the first time. I believe my exact question was, "what in hell is a brain zap?!" 
It's more or less exactly what it sounds like. As I grew up on a farm, all I could say is that it felt like someone places a piece of electric fence right at the base of my skull. Zap. My vision blurred for a second and then cleared. I don't know if I could say that it hurt per se. I've had a pretty persistent headache for days now so it aggravated that. Then I proceeded to have about 15 more in the space of about thirty minutes. Zap. Zap. Zap. I can imagine how people would be unable to go to work. I could barely concentrate on pushing my stroller around WalMart. I kept bumping into things. I was suddenly terrified to drive, wondering if one of them lasted longer than a second, if I'd black out. I'm sorry to say I was too embarrassed to call my parents, I'd been crying on my mother's already burdened shoulders enough that day. I got in the car, the cold air in my face helped, and drove to get Peter. Stopped for a red light. Zap. 

By the time he got into the car I was crying and so incredibly tired I thought I could sleep for a month. I was so hoping that those last 50mg of Sertraline wouldn't make a difference either way. But because they negatively affect my Effexor, I'm being cautioned that this may be the hardest part of the weaning process but also the most important. Taking them together greatly increases my chances of getting Serotonin Syndrome.I just couldn't keep taking a risk like that. It's not just me. I belong to a lot of people, who I'm learning now feel like I've already been gone a LOT during these last seven months. I took my last dose on Friday, so we've now hit about 72 hours. They say most withdrawal symptoms are gone or greatly lessened in about  a week. Four more days.

I've also found a new doctor, and have an appointment two days from now. Part of me wants to yell at my doctor but I know that's really misdirected anger as well. It's pharmaceutical companies. They are who tell the doctors how safe it is, how wonderfully helpful. Here is what I have learned as fact through some pretty solid research lately. I'm living on my laptop right now.


-Adverse reactions to prescription medication is the number four killer in the USA. Not overdoses. Reactions. 


-It is impossible as a doctor, especially a GP to know the ins and outs of every medication. Mine never showed me a sheet of paper regarding the ones he prescribed. He had no idea that it raises blood pressure, and thus never monitored mine. He didn't know that doses need to be tapered upward just as slowly as downward. He didn't know that prescribing the Sertraline could actually poison my brain. How could he? Who can learn that much off the top of his head? Eight years of school is not enough. However, both he and I had a responsibility to check. He also had a responsibility to realize that the drugs are mood altering, so following my progress based on how I say I'm feeling, is a pretty poor way to gauge the situation.


-Doctors define addictions primary symptom as being the intense, overwhelming desire to have more. If the drug doesn't cause that the way, say, heroin does, then you are not addicted. The excruciating and sometimes fatal physical withdrawal symptoms are called simply that. You have withdrawal syndrome. Not addiction. As I am not emotionally addicted to my medication, quite the opposite, I am therefore not addictive, and the medicine is classified as non-addictive. When you take something you need to be SO clear on asking if there are withdrawal symptoms and what they are.


I've spent days crying already. I have heard stories of things I have said to Peter that I do not remember. I have been told that I blatantly lied to my mother, and was hideously rude to her on a number of occasions. My memory of these occasions is blurry at best, mostly not there at all, sometimes totally inaccurate, though clear to me. Peter is devastated that he didn't check closer. We blindly trusted, and won't ever make the same mistake again.


Let me tell you something though. When both Bella and I are medicine free, we are throwing one heck of a party. Peter will be getting a trophy. Bella will get presents, and I will get to see their smiling faces and have a clear, perfect memory of a perfect day. That day wasn't today, but tomorrow's coming.

That's at the forefront of what I'm feeling. I don't know how this happened, or how I got here. I remember needing a doctors advice not to go back to work this August. I was still pretty stressed out about Bella's medical state and I had a health nurse say that I should talk to a doctor and go on short term disability in order to be home with her. She was needing medications three times a day - no daycare would have touched her, and I needed to be with her anyway. I was anxious about her. I was anxious about her relapsing. When I went to the doctor I told him I was struggling with anxiety but that I knew it was situational. I didn't think I had any kind of disorder, I just knew that I was pretty tense about her health and that I could see the effects of that in my day to day life and knew I would be a mess at work. I know this doctor. I go to church with him. I totally trusted his judgment on the topic at hand. He suggested medication. I balked. I didn't want to take pills. I didn't want to become addicted to something. He informed me that we would stay on a low dose, and that it was non-addictive. He mentioned that stopping it suddenly would produce undesirable side effects, as would missing a dose, but that it was not addictive. Semantics, I later found out. I noticed a change very quickly on a very low dose. I was happy with the results, and I felt like myself. The goal was to get me to 75mg and stay there for a few months, give myself time to relax, for things with Bella to go better. I was on half that and feeling pretty good. The trouble began when we got to 75 and I thought I would feel better than I did. I felt the same. Not worse but the same. He talked me into 150. The same. He talked me up to 300, which I now know is the highest dose I am able to be on without being hospitalized.  I did not know that then.

I'm not clinically depressed. I haven't thought of suicide, or of drowning Bella in the tub. Never. After we hit 300 I said I still felt the same, still not sleeping well. The nightmares that I'd been experiencing before medication were still a problem. He told me it was possible I wasn't tolerant to the current drug, and perhaps we could try another. I was supposed to start the other drug and then wean off this one. That never happened. Until about a month ago, I found myself on the max dose of a pretty serious anti-depressant, and a high dose of another, which was sold to me as little more than a sleeping pill, also non-addictive.

I began to worry the first time I forgot to take a pill. I became so suddenly and so violently ill that I couldn't move. I couldn't turn my head without getting such dizziness that I thought I would pass out. I was home alone with Bella. I stumbled to the kitchen, ate a piece of bread that I kept down through sheer force of will and took my pills. I felt better within a couple hours, and luckily Bella went to bed. 

Two months ago I told my doctor I wanted to go off the medication, and was more or less told no. It was said nicely, in good medical (and even biblical) jargon. If you don't stay on for at least nine months your risk of relapse is super high. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to ask, "relapse of what?" Bella is fine. She's doing great. The situation that was causing me anxiety has been lessened greatly. She's weaning off her medication beautifully so far. Why am I stuck on mine?  He told me to come back in two months.

I'm starting to feel claustrophobic about these pills. I'm afraid to not take them because I get so sick. A month ago, when I refilled my prescription, the pharmacist gave me smaller pills. I knew I should take two, that it was the same amount of medication, but that other pill was staring me in the face and it upset me somehow. I  didn't take it. Peter said I was nuts for doing it without a doctors consent. I couldn't have cared less. I cut my dose in half and found that I slept poorly and was unbelievably tense for a few days. I say "tense". Peter would say "furious". I still sleep worse, but don't feel as though I'm on a trigger switch to bite someone's head off. I haven't taken my original dose again. 

Knowing that I was going to the doctor very soon to talk about coming off (nine months be damned) I started to research withdrawal symptoms online. I figured if missing a dose made me so sick, what on earth would not taking it do? I was nervous. Then I spent two days online, and I'm horrified.

What kind of poison am I pouring into my system? For what? I feel like I was put of chemotherapy for a paper cut. Chemo is necessary, it's good - if you have cancer. The possible benefit outweighs what the disease will do untreated. But I wasn't depressed. I was anxious about a situation and I wanted some extra time off work. I wish I'd left well enough alone. I should have stuck Bella with my mom and gone back to work. I should have made a visit with a psychologist. The few drop in visits I had helped me FAR more than this medicine has. We've never noticed a difference beyond the initial. I'd have been fine on 37mg. And now I'm on almost ten times that. The stories of people coming off this drug are horrific. People literally live on it for years because the withdrawals are so bad. And when they withdraw their doctors tell them it's their original depression returning, and so they go back on, and because the drug doesn't work as effectively after you've tried to come off, they go one more. Or add another. 

I'm terrified. I look at those stupid bottles by my bed and they make me feel sick. They make me afraid. I see my doctor on Monday morning and I'm telling him that I am coming off. I'm done. I don't care what they say, or what happens, I'm not becoming more dependent on this than I already am. I'm so angry that I didn't research more when he handed me that first bottle. I'm astonished at how this has snowballed. I'm taking the medication of a severely clinically depressed person, just a few steps away from a psych ward. Unreal. 

In the doctors defense, I approached him with a problem that he only had one answer to. They give out medication. I should have seen a psychologist. He never even recommended that I should. It's like I took my car to a plumber and expected a fix. I'm angry at myself for that. 

There are so many stories like mine online. Stressful job, trouble sleeping: ten years later, still on meds and addicted to a host of them that have been taken to try and get off previous. I get that online is where I'm going to find the worst case scenario. I get that. I know it's not proportional, but there's SO MUCH of it. So many people who said they were told it wasn't addictive and believed it until they tried to quit. So many people who have asked how to come off to be told that they shouldn't. 

In good news, I found a non-profit organization that combats withdrawals with natural supplements. They are INCREDIBLY well reviewed. They are founded by people who have been in much worse shape than I've ever been and by doctors who believe that antidepressants are being prescribed at a catastrophic rate, and often to people who do not need them. I'm calling them for a consultation later today. Then I'm going to the health food store. I'm considering stopping the one medication that I'm on a low dose for tonight. It's the weekend. Peter is home and starts day shifts now. We'll see what happens. I'm going to pray, eat well, and be really nice to myself. Peter's going to give me a wide berth (which I need, since one of the other side effects has been weight gain.) I'm going to try to sleep a lot and play with Bella and get outside. I'm going to get off this crap if it's the last thing I do.

Please, oh please, if you are reading this and are taking something for depression, I think that's great. If you have a doctor you trust and you've been through something horrible or you actually have a chemical imbalance in your brain, I think that these medications are good. I can testify that they work. I know people who have needed them and there is NO shame in that. I'm not one of those Christians that believes that every form of depression is spiritual and that doctors are evil and God will heal you if you're supposed to be healed. I don't believe that at all.

I just don't know how I got here. How anxiety over Bella turned into this. A couple of stupid panic attacks forever ago and I'm being treated like I'm practically psychotic. I'm angry. I feel bad for my doctor when I see him. I'm going to make Peter or my mom come with me. That'll keep me calm. I don't mistrust him per se, just don't understand why I'm here or how this happened and why he won't let me come off. He's going to give me a plan to come off on Monday or I'm going to find another doctor, and that's all there is to it. If I had read online what I know now, I would have never popped one pill. Never. And now it's been seven months. I guess we will see how it goes. Stupid. Stupid. I suppose, all this is to say, if you're considering going on medication of any kind, do a little research. See what you come up with, and under no circumstances be afraid to ask your doctor anything. Get a second or third opinion and don't be ashamed of that. At the end of the day, you still have to go home with you. And your myriad of pills. Blast and wretch.  

Dear Bella,

Oh little girl. What a ride we've been on, you and your daddy and me. We have all cried so many tears together, haven't we? Today, our wonderful doctor said that you are doing just amazingly and we are going to try and quit your medicine. I know right now you like it, you think it's fun to shake the bottle, and you love to play with your syringes. You even give your stuffed toys "meh-essin" sometimes. I wish I could tell you how sad that makes me. Baby girls should never know what those things are. They shouldn't know where medicine is kept, or what a syringe is used for, or how to comfort a toy who has to take medication. It's so cute, and it's still so sad. 

You are such a brave and good little girl. I'm so happy that you don't remember the beginning days of this, and I'm praying with all my heart that we don't have to go back there. So I have you ask you a favor. Baby girl, Mama needs your tiny little body to be super tough right now. I need it to remember that we don't want that mark there anymore and that it needs to keep fighting it away even when the medicine is gone. I don't want any more rush trips to the hospital. I don't want to see your beautiful smile go still on one side. I can't. I don't want them to give you the really bad medicine that hurts your poor tummy and makes you a little crazy. Even more crazy than you normally are - can you believe it?!

Mama's going to be a bit funny these next few days. She's prayed for a really long time that we would be all done your medicine. I want to throw those syringes in the garbage. I can't tell you how badly I want to throw them away. I want to stop looking at your mark and wondering if it's looking better or worse. I want to see your body do what it's supposed to do, and that is to keep you healthy and safe. I'm a little bit scared, did you know that? I hate feeling like I'm gambling with you, but that's what we have to do. The only way to know if you don't need the medicine is to just take you off and see, and I don't like that very much.

Here is what I do like: I like that you are the happiest and smartest and prettiest little girl there is. I like that you and Daddy and me are a family. I like how today in the car out of nowhere you said, "I miss you, Tasha!" It's true- we didn't watch any Backyardigans today. I can see how you'd miss her. I like your "cheesy smile" and the way your giggle sounds. I like all your little words, and your dancing and how much you love shoes and make up and books. You're amazing. You're such a good girl, and we're so close to being done, and when we are all done, your Mama is going to throw you a party and invite all your friends. Six weeks baby girl. Six weeks and then we're done. 

I love you more than you will ever know, sweetheart. I'm so lucky to have you. So lucky.

Mommy.
xoxox

Brennan Manning said that. I've waffled with thinking it's true or not a bunch of times. Surely the base of trust is rooted in something more than just the ability to be thankful. But the more I think about it and run it over in my mind, and have those words stick with me through some hard times, the more I realize how true they are. 

I know that the opposite of love is not hate: it's apathy. The opposite of trust is not independence, as I so often seem to think and act out. The antithesis of trust is fear. I am almost always afraid in one form or another. But how afraid would I be if I simply looked at facts, and was grateful for what I found. It's a very simple truth, that if you just start counting your blessings, all of a sudden you find that you're just not afraid anymore. 

Let's say, for the sake of a point, that I become paralyzed with the fear that Peter will cheat on me. He'll find a younger, prettier, easier woman to spend his time with and he'll leave Bella and I. I can take my mind down this road until I'm a total mess. Once I'm already afraid, Peter's words that he loves me and would never do that are useless to me. I'm terrified that he's lying. Telling me he isn't doesn't soothe me. But lets say I take a moment and very clearly list to myself what I know about Peter, what I can take in with my senses. 
-Peter tells me he loves me all the time. He spontaneously says it at times when I feel unlovable. 
-Peter is a man of integrity. He is a man who has never once broken his word to me in even the smallest thing. 
-Peter is a perfectionist. Peter is someone who tries his best at literally everything he does from his job to installing our new DVD player. Peter is driven by a need to do things correctly.
-Peter is a good father. He's more than that, he's completely in love with Bella. If nothing else existed, if I was the most hideous wife of the planet, Peter would stay just to save Bella from having her parents split up. He'd walk through fire for her to have a good day, let alone a good life. 


All of a sudden, the fear in me is replaced with how lucky I am to have Peter. How blessed Bella and I are. All of a sudden the suspicion in me that Peter doesn't have my best interests at heart is driven away by the obvious fact that he does. Because I know Peter. 


I'm not good at this when it comes to God. Very likely because I don't know him as well as I should. Someone told me once that every time you screw up, every fear and worry you have all boils down to one of two misconceptions about who God is. You either believe he isn't big, or he isn't good. I believe he can't or won't come through for me. Both are pride. One says that I understand the concept of 'good' better than God does, and the other says that God is too small to be able to help, and so therefore I must figure it out myself. Because I'm so much better and keeping my life in control. It's laughable when you boil it down but it takes place on a daily level in some form or another with me, often it's both. God is way up there in Heaven (small) and not concerned with the little goings on of my day to day life (mean). I think God is small and mean. Nice. And here I thought I was such a good Christian. 


I am concerned with every little thing Bella does. Today she said "duck" perfectly clearly. It used to sound like "dut" and I knew what she meant. Today it was perfect and I was so proud. Not only am I concerned with every incredible thing she does, I think everyone else should be. I live in a constant state of, "look at her! Isn't she amazing?! Is that not the most beautiful and intelligent little thing you've ever seen?!" I love how much she needs us. I love being everything to her. It makes me feel amazing. 


Last night, when it was bedtime, we did our routine. Medicine, "Mama, shake it? Shake, shake, shake!" She loves to shake that bottle. Find a clean cup, fill with milk, start warming. "Bunny?" she asks. I find the bunny half under the couch. Clean diaper "Pants! Bella, don't touch," she warns herself while I clean her up. Then it's into her sleepy sack. "Night night toes? Mmm-wah toes?" she asks sweetly. I let her kiss her toes. Then I must do it. Then it's grab the cup I forgot in the kitchen, and settle into the chair in the dark and rock her. Two seconds later she'd emptied her cup. "More cup Mama? More milk?" She points at her mouth to make sure I got the point. I lay her in her crib and promise to come back with milk. She sits quietly. When I get back though, she says, "Mama, no. Cup, bunny, bed." And my heart falls through the floor. She doesn't want me to rock her. She wants to go to sleep. She's tired and wants to stretch out in her bed. And although I spend all my time teaching her how smart she is, how good at doing every little thing, this hurts me. I know that it's a really great thing, developmentally. I've read enough to know that she feels secure enough to fall asleep by herself.  This is progress. This is a step in the right direction, but it hurts me. Because I love her. Because I miss her when she sleeps, even still, and I don't care that it's stupid and makes me one of 'those moms'. I kissed her goodnight on the head, prayed for her, and told her I loved her. "Ove you.." she whispered. This might be the only thing that let me walk out of that room instead of forcing her back to baby-dom. I was crying, but I left. She went straight to sleep and the loneliness here was a little overwhelming. I may have asked Peter to come home early from work. I wanted my baby back. I wanted her to need me, and the funniest part is, when she woke up a few hours later and I was already in bed, I grinned from ear to ear when I heard her little voice say "Mama?" and start to cry. 


I wonder how much of our feelings for our children mirror God's feelings for us. He refers to himself as a father so many times in the bible, you'd think he was trying to make a point. I wonder if he does this? Waits for us to cry and then rejoices to himself that the proper order has been restored. We need our Daddy to save us. I wonder if our posturing at independence hurts him? It must. It must hurt him over and over again as we tell him that regardless of what he says, we're still afraid. That no matter how many times he's shown us his love, we still don't totally get it. I wonder how often the distance between Heaven and Earth frustrates him. I know I hate it. I know there's so much I want to say to him face to face. So much I want to ask. I wonder if he feels the same? I wonder why I don't think of it in these terms more often. It makes sense.

There's a story about a little girl and her father crossing a bridge. The father is worried for his little girl, and tells her to hold very tightly to his hand. She looks at him and says, "No Daddy. You hold my hand"
"What's the difference?" he asks.
"Well, if something happens and I get frightened, I might let go of your hand. But if I ask you to hold my hand, I know that no matter what happens, you'll never let go." 


Oh to have faith like that. To be able to admit to God and to myself that I get afraid, and when I do, I make choices that could endanger myself. Oh to know my father well enough to not have it need to look like such a lofty spiritual goal as trust. It's just fact. If something happens, I know you'd never drop me. And here I thought that God would be all upset if I said that I was going to let go. Here I thought that real faith was being able to hold his hand when all it is is just knowing that he must hold mine in order to make it. It's just a simple understanding of my own flawed and frustrating behavior, and to choose to not place myself in a situation where I'd need to rely on myself. Huh. Maybe he's not waiting for us to say we'd never let go as much as he's waiting for us to say that we just know that he wont. 

So it seems as though I have jumped back on the blogging wagon. I re-did Bella's Blog and I like it a lot. It's pretty cute. I'm not going to lie... I don't know why I use that phrase so much "Not gonna lie", it's not like I normally make a habit of it and need to specify, especially here, but I digress. I'm really not sure if I'm going to keep this blog layout. I like it, but after searching through thousands, and not being smart enough to make my own (besides, how much time would that waste?) this is where I ended up. Maybe I'll change it again soon. How simple can I go without it boring me to tears? That CAPS at the top is killing me though. Someone tell me how to fiddle with the HTML and get that CAPS the heck outta here.

This is going to be more than slightly incoherent; it's late and all I'm really thinking about is my new bedding. Peter and I (with some gift money from his family) got it for each other for our anniversary. Six years.  Anyway, I'll do pictures when I get my Balinese mosquito net up, and clean up all my laundry. Nobody wants to see pictures of my unmentionables. 

So here's our topic, after all of that. I am reading The Wheel of Time books. I hate fantasy. Except Lord of the Rings. And Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel. Oh that was a great book. Anyway, I'm not big into fantasy at all but I love these books! I'm on book six and I only started book one in about September. I'm averaging about a book a month, which for me is pretty lame, but they are nearly a thousand pages each and there has been a lot of stuff in the middle. Moving, Bali, two Thanksgivings, a Christmas, New Years and an anniversary. That should have had me another book ahead at least. I love how long the series is. I don't have to pace myself. I read when I want to and it just seems like there's an endless parade of books waiting to be read. I guess a lot of people who don't like the books quit around book four or five and I just don't get it. They're great. Perfect escapist fiction.....ohhhh bedding. Bath first? Sleepy time tea? It's so pretty in there I can hardly stand it. I can't wait to get in. You see? Who really cares what I'm talking about anyway? 


Wheel of Time. Right. Great books, and I like that I like them. I know, it barely makes sense and by now you're sitting here wondering why you're at the computer at all and wishing you were watching adorable cat videos on YouTube. I like that I like them. I hate that I like Facebook. I hate that I love cereal before bed. But I like that I like these books. I surprised myself, and honestly, that doesn't happen all that much. It's a side of me I didn't really know was there. I'm embracing my inner nerd, as it were and finding that she's kind of cool, in her own way. 


I think I just needed to put something on here that was recent. Carrie, why don't people love book four and five? What's the deal with that? Anyway, maybe I can shave my legs quickly while sitting on the side of the tub. My hair is still wet from my shower this morning. Seems silly to take a full bath, and waste all that water. Plus I may fall asleep in the tub and accidentally drown myself. And on that note....

It's silly sometimes how often you have to re-learn the same information. You learn a hard lesson and you tell yourself to watch for certain things so that next time, you'll see it coming and you'll know what to do. Bella is teething terribly right now. It takes a long time for me to figure this out. Granted she only has six teeth right now, so I don't have a lot of experience in noticing the signs but I tell myself after every tooth, "Melanie, the next time you look at her and think, 'Who are you and what have you done with my sweet, happy baby?' - remember. She's probably just teething. Give her some space." Two months later I'm exasperated and can't figure out why she's SO grumpy and poof! A tooth pops through and I feel like a schmuck.

I'm realizing as I type that this may be an unflattering comparison, though I don't mean it to be so, but Peter is exactly like this. I remember after we got married, and he'd get into these moods and he'd just be in a funk for SO LONG. I'd try and make him a nice dinner when we were newlyweds and it wouldn't help. I tried ignoring him completely, a couple of years in. No luck there either. Suffice to say that by four or five years down the road and my tactics in dealing with this no longer involve dinner. I get annoyed. I try and make him tell me what's wrong, and in the classic words of men everywhere, he looks at me in a mixture of confusion and annoyance and says, 'nothing's wrong. I'm fine. What are you talking about? I'm not in a bad mood." It makes me laugh as I sit in the dark now and type, but at the time, it's the most infuriating thing. I know him. Peter is not the kind of guy who gets uptight when his plans get changed at the last minute. So when he does, I immediately try and figure out what the heck is going on. I usually start with myself. I've probably done something, said something, didn't say something, bought something, etc. I don't know how I manage to be that narcissistic and self-deprecating at the same time, but I make it work somehow. Who was is that said that in an unsolvable problem the simplest answer is usually the correct one? (or something to that effect?)

Peter needs to be outside. Don't get me wrong here. Peter doesn't like to hike, or snowboard, or camp. He must. He needs is in exactly the same way he needs to eat. He'd probably say more. He's not merely 'outdoorsy" or "rugged" as Luc puts it. When Peter goes too long without doing something that is as much a part of him and is as unchangeable as his eye color, or his faith, or his music, something in Peter slowly starts to die. And the pain of that part dying, makes him grouchy. He laughed the other day and said, "like a soul-less grump". It's truly like a bear with a sore paw. And like with the teething, I look at him and think, "Who are you? Where is the man I married? Stop being so ornery!" It should be noted that saying these things doesn't work. At. All.

So yesterday, I was fed up. I was sick of him being tired, being sick, being grumpy and I wasn't going to put up with it any more. I was going to get this dealt with. I put on my dominating wife hat (which I usually try to keep stuffed in a box somewhere - it looks terrible on me) and took matters into my own hands. And bought him a lift ticket to Mt. Washington. This morning I got up at the unholy hour of six to pack him a lunch. He protested when I told him he was going, just a little. "We can't afford it" was the argument of choice. Maybe he's right. But we can't afford not to. Because it's not about snowboarding. I told Reagan that he needed to go with him. I can't snowboard. And even if I could, Peter doesn't want me around today. He wouldn't want to say it, but it's very true. He needs to get up into the mountains and do something a little risky, something adventurous, something with another man. He needs to forget about being a husband and a father for a few hours and if I'm smart that won't offend me. Tonight, he'll come home and I'll have my husband back. No arguments, no fuss, no annoyances at each other. I'm learning after six years (can that be right?!) that when Peter becomes impossible to deal with, make him go outside. He's shouldering a lot of responsibility, and he'll never put himself first without a little nudging. I miss him, I've missed him for a couple of weeks, and I'll be happy to have him back.

Aren't we all like this? Peter's learned about me that every once in a while, I need to 'get away". Sometimes that means that I just need a morning in bed with a coffee and a book and to be alone. Every once in a while I need to be taken out to dinner. Not because of the dinner, but because I need to hear someone else say, "Good evening. What can I get for you?" and know that whatever mess I make, someone else will clean up. I am hardwired to travel. Sometimes that's a night away three minutes from the house, sometimes it's moving, sometimes it's just dinner or a book that takes me somewhere else. Everyone needs a few minutes sometimes to just be exactly who they are, with no restrictions, no rules, no roles that they've taken on. I'm not a wife, not a mommy, not anyone. I'm just me right now. I just want a coffee and a book and a few moments with no demands on my time. It lasts me a LONG while.

I love that God knows this about us. Doesn't he? Don't you ever notice how all of a sudden in the middle of a foul mood, you'll see the most beautiful sunset. You'll stop to grab a coffee while you're rushing around and discover the best latte in town. Here it's Mon Petite Choux. Your little girl will spontaneously kiss your face and say, "Ah ove oooh". Two seconds of total bliss in what can often be a nightmare world. I wonder how much of our stress and frustration is simply a result of not taking a moment in our lives to just do what is truly us. I think God built into Peter the part of him that comes alive in the outdoors. When my mom gets on the back of a horse you can literally watch her change - her face, her eyes, the set of her shoulders. Everything about her suddenly looks different and you know that you are seeing her the way God made her, doing something that God has built in her. This is a person living out their own private destiny, right in front of you. It's incredibly beautiful.

CS Lewis said it so much better, and SO MUCH more succinctly than I,

"It is a serious thing, to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously -- no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption."

So some of my Facebook friends have cartoon characters for profile pictures right now. I will be honest, my first thought was similar the reaction I give when I receive spam. "Some dying child wants this forwarded..." ad nauseum. But then I thought about it. I know a bunch of guys who took part in Movember. I had to have that explained to me. Mo-what? Why? For your prostate? I don't get it. How does skeazy facial hair raise awareness? Not that I want to see something more, um, closely related to the subject at hand. I don't. Get your prostate checked. Shave. ALL good advice.

More than a few of my Facebook friends think the cartoon characters are stupid and their profiles say so. I'm of two minds. Aw, who am I kidding. I'm not even of one whole mind. Ahem. So here's what I think: My profile picture as Piglet does not RAISE awareness, nor does it in any way prevent child abuse. However, what it is, is an outward symbol that I, Melanie, possessing about a half a mind, do not believe that the emotional, physical, mental, or sexual abuse of a child is okay, and I will DO SOMETHING regarding that. I have and will use my time, my money, my effort, and my prayers to that effect. I believe in the cause of the oppressed, and I am a defender of children. Just ask the boy whose lip I split on a water fountain in fifth grade because he was torturing a handicapped girl in the hallway. I got sent to the principal's office. My mother took me out for lunch and told me she couldn't have been more proud.

Wearing red after the hurricane hit Haiti didn't help the Haitian people one little bit. But the money I raised did, and I wore red to show that I was a supporter of the Haitian people in their hour of need. I believe that women should be checked for preventable and treatable cancer and thus posted the color of my bra last year. It was the oh-so-stylish lingerie of a new mom. Nursing bra. Bigger than one would EVER want to wear. Beige. Like your Gramma's carpet. But I have gotten checked, and told others to do so, and offered to go with them if they need a hand to hold.

This is NOT to toot my own horn. I have a couple of charities that I REALLY love and I give to them regularly and on tight months, not at all. But I'm a big believer in actions speaking louder than words. Or a Piglet profile pic.

Click here to view this photo book larger

Today Peter and I were talking about Christmas. We have the budget talk every year, though I'm not sure why. I blow it every year. He doesn't, because like a normal logical male, he thinks that when we decide something that's that.

I had just picked him up from work and was driving, and Bella was sleeping in the backseat. We were talking about money, which isn't ever fun, unless you have lots of it and don't have to think about it. We did that one year. The second Christmas we were married. I remember the number we'd set for each other, and honestly, it's so stupidly high, I won't even type it. We were both working and getting paid well, living very cheaply, and didn't have Bella. So we went a little crazy. I don't really remember what I got.

This year is not like that. I'm not working, we have a baby and expenses are high. The list of things we need to get in the next little while for Bella includes things like a new stroller, which is expensive. Babies are expensive. Groceries are expensive. Debt is expensive. But it's not even about that. I was trying to come up with a list of things I wanted even if we had more money and I came up blank. I thought I was being lame so I walked around the mall window shopping and I came up blank. I don't want anything. I can't think of a single thing that I would want that's not ridiculous. Like ANOTHER Bath and Body Works lotion. I should do a lotion post. If I lined them all up, you would be astonished. It doesn't help that I barely use them, I usually forget. Obviously, there are a few large ticket items that I'd like that are just unrealistic. Like a new dining room set. Not gonna happen.

So we were talking about what to get, and how much to spend and how to add it all up, and I think what happened is that I pulled into an intersection to turn left and was going to stop, but Peter didn't think I was going to stop. (It's true that sometimes I tend to brake later than some would). He pointed at the oncoming traffic, that I had planned to avoid, but when he said to watch out, I got a fright and thought I was doing something wrong and jumped into the intersection. I have no idea why this was my knee-jerk (or foot stomp) response. It was highly stupid. I had to slam my gas pedal down to make it across. It scared the life out of me. And as Peter is trying to figure out WHY I would try and rush across a busy intersection, and I'm trying to figure out what just happened, it crossed my mind that I very nearly ruined Christmas. And every day following. One accident. One stupid, distracted mistake. We'd have been hit by a car going about 70 on Peter's side and I don't want to think about the rest. All of a sudden the money wasn't an issue. We were all safe and warm in the car, and although it's cliche and a little bit cheesy to boot, I knew that I had everything I wanted for Christmas already. And then some.

That being said, we do have to shop. But I want to get people things that mean something. I wonder, if you spent more time and thought and less money on Christmas, what you'd end up giving? What would you end up getting? That being said, I have come up with my Christmas wish list this year:

~I want to have Christmas Eve night in front of the fireplace, curled up in new jammies with Peter and Bella, on the mattress that we've dragged out of our bedroom. I want a bunch of Superstore appetizers and a cheap bottle of wine.
~I want memories like we just made in Bali with our family.
~I want to go to Children's Hospital next week and hear a good report about Bella's health, and more than that, to be able to see her doing well as we take her off the medication she's been depending on for over a year. I want to drive out of the parking lot, and I will. So many other parents will spend the holidays there.
~I want to play Settlers with Loren and Peter
~I want to bake cookies with my mom and Robyn and have them tease me all day because I'm such a terrible baker, and then hear my mom yelling at Robyn for decorating her gingerbread men inappropriately.
~I want to chase Bella away from the tree a million times (does anyone have some of those baby fences they want to lend me?) because she's so excited, and it's so pretty and new and fun.
~I want to go horseback riding in the snow with my mom.

I don't need more stuff. I'm trying to get rid of the stuff I already have. That being said, tomorrow, I am going to the Christmas Craft Fair in Parksville to take a look around, and hopefully become inspired as to thoughtful gift ideas for others and yes, do a little shopping. Plus, I love a good craft show. And there's free hot chocolate. And free carriage rides. I'm so in. I'll take photos.

As the headlights move through the darkness I wake up just in time. I rub my eyes and hear my parents whispering in the front seat, trying not to wake seven sleeping children. I sit up and my mom turns from the front seat and smiles at me. I look out the windows and see the little town moving slowly by us under it's sparse streetlights. There's the church with a tall steeple and the graveyard that my cousins and I used to run around in in the dark. Before we were sternly told how disrespectful that is. We didn't know. We don't know any of the lives buried under that soil. Not yet. The church makes my heart beat faster, it looks the way churches are supposed to look. I'm happy we're home. I lived in this town a short time compared to all the other places in my life, but this house more than any is home to me.

We pull into the driveway and I hear my brothers and sisters start to wake up. I'm the first out of the car. It's cold outside and I left my jacket behind so I rush on toward the door. I walk into the garage first and it smells of my Grandpa. Of hard work and of repairs around the house. There's another smell intruding though, this one coming from the house and my mouth waters in anticipation. My parents have caught up with me and my mom stops to knock softly on the door before opening it without waiting for an answer. None is needed. All nine of us try and pack into the tiny landing and we must look like fish in a barrel from my Grandma's perch in the kitchen. She laughs at us as we wiggle out of our shoes and come up the three steps into her waiting arms. She's still dressed even though the clock on the stove says that it's midnight. The stove catches my attention and it stays there. Nothing makes me feel as loved by my Grandma than this. There's a hot pot of soup on the stove, zummaborscht, which will be comfort food to me as long as I live. It occurs to me that she's cooked a huge pot of soup for us so that we have something warm to put in our stomachs before bed. Cooking for this many is a big task, especially given all the cooking she'll be doing from early the next morning. Somehow she knows exactly the moment to put the soup on the stove so that it's hot when we get there, but hasn't been cooking so long that her potatoes have boiled to nothing. This is a skill she'll try to teach me long years from now, that I will fail to comprehend. My mom embraces her mom and a feeling of rightness fills the house. I belong here.

My Grandma has a slight air of relief about her, and I know instinctively that she's been praying for our safe journey. She asks my dad about the weather, and he talks quietly to her about it. My Grandma can tell God to change the weather, I think to myself. At this age, I can't imagine even God not listening to Grandma. It's still many years before I will see tears fall on her soft beautiful cheeks, mourning her own prayers not answered, loss hanging over her like a blanket. Right now, I've never seen my Grandma really cry. She gets slightly teary-eyed when she says goodbye to us. But right now is a time for hello, and she looks happy and calm. There is an air of quiet around her, it's calming to be near her. Or maybe it's the soup. But something is wrong. I smile to myself as I walk through the kitchen and attached dining room into the living room. The lights are out except the tall lamp in the corner, and my Grandpa sits in his rocking chair with his bible open in his lap, hands still on the pages, head back. He's asleep. I lean forward and put my arms around him and he wakes up and his hands come up to my back. I love the way he says, "Hello, Melanie" with the emphasis on the greeting and his breath coming out as he says my name. It sounds like he's been waiting for me, and it makes me feel special. My family crowds in behind me, my Grandma laughing that Grandpa managed to sleep through our noisy entrance, he must be getting old. But it's a joke. They don't seem old to me, they never have.

We all crowd back into the dining room and my mom grabs the bowls that are ready and waiting by the stove and Grandma ladles out soup and she brings us each a bowl and a bun that I know were made earlier that day. I could have eaten a feast ten minutes before entering the door and I would still want a bowl of soup when I arrive here. We've never come to this house at any time of day without a hot pot of zummaborscht waiting for us.

My parents tell us to hurry, we need to get to bed, and the kitchen is strangely quiet as we all concentrate on eating. Grandpa walks up behind me and put his hands in my collar. They're cold - they always are. They tremble slightly and I giggle. The shaking seems like a part of him, it's not anything that scares me. It almost feels like he does it to tickle me, and it won't occur to me for long years yet to be truly concerned about it. And not for a few years more to actually be scared. My Grandpa is invincible. I'm as certain of this as I am that there will always be soup in Grandma's kitchen when I arrive.

As soon as my stomach is full I realize how tired I am, and my sisters and I walk into the little yellow bedroom where a bed is already made for us. I stumble through getting into bed in a fog and am asleep before my mom comes in to turn out the light and say goodnight.

The next morning I awake to the sounds of clanging in the kitchen, the shower running down the hall and the smell of brewing coffee. I get up and walk into the kitchen in my pyjamas and see my mom and Grandma already dressed. My mom motions to the clock, it's ten-thirty already. She tells me to wake my sisters and get dressed. I walk back into the room and us girls laugh as we get ready, pulling our new clothes out of our bags. We always have new clothes for holidays at Grandmas, and I'm not sure when or why the tradition started.

By the time I'm dressed with my teeth brushed, I come back into the kitchen and some of my aunts and uncles and cousins have arrived with things to put in the oven to warm before lunch. Everyone is hugging and saying hello, talking about the weather and the road conditions for those of us who have driven a long way. It already smells amazing in the house, turkey that my Grandma has had to set her alarm to put in, and my aunts and my mom are moving around the kitchen. Each has a purpose and they're peeling potatoes, doing dishes, chopping and seasoning, all the while visiting and drinking coffee. My uncles are gathered around the dining room table and are laughing, teasing. My uncle John laughs, a sound that always makes me want to giggle myself, and he talks about the fishing trip he took that summer. My uncle Jake is talking about the one that got away, and they're discussing how long it is before they're able to ice fish, an activity that has never had an ounce of appeal to me.

I go off in search of my cousins who are gathered in the basement. I wiggle again through the landing, pausing to give a hug to my Uncle Henry and Auntie Margaret. Calling to Amy and Leah that we'll be downstairs. Cindi and Jen are downstairs, in the second kitchen. They've found pickles. I laugh in excitement as we all grab one, and I studiously avoid the pot on the stove. I looked in one once and found nothing but a pair of chicken feet, it was like something out of a horror movie. There are pies on the counter though, and from the smell, I know there are cabbage rolls in the oven. If I could figure out how to steal one of those as easily as a pickle, I'd do it but for now the pickle is the perfect appetizer. Our parents pretend not to notice that we all eat three or four pickles before lunch and we pretend we're doing something sneaky by stealing them. Amy and Leah join us and we all hug and giggle. Cindi's heard a rumor that this year we actually get the corner table, which will be used for that game the uncles all play after lunch, that I can't pronounce. This is big news. It's usually where the cool girls in the family sit - Becky and Angie, Heather and Lisa. I'm excited. It feels like a certain type of graduation, not having to sit on the floor with all the little kids.

Before long everyone has arrived and an endless line of food has come down the stairs where long tables are set up. It's noisy and there are people everywhere. A toddler is crying somewhere, and suddenly my Grandpa moves to the head of the table and everyone is quiet. He prays a blessing over the food and over our family, and as he says amen there's a slight press towards the food. We're not sure why we do it. We know the adults serve themselves first, and then the kids that need help getting their food. I'm okay with waiting as long as there is ham and cabbage rolls when I arrive. I could care less about the turkey. I missed the cabbage rolls one year and I was devastated. We all get our food and we sit at the corner table and I glance over at my older cousins and suddenly where they're sitting seems cooler to me, and I wonder if I'll always want to be older. I hear adults talk about wanting to be younger and I can't imagine it.

After lunch there is pie and endless pots of coffee. We get chased from our table so that our uncles can play their game, and someone starts a game of Balderdash and immediately, hilarity ensues. This is a game that adults and older cousins play and it's another thing I can't wait to graduate to. I sit on a couch next to the table and listen for a little while. Listening is almost as much fun as playing even though I don't quite understand some of the definitions. Before long Cindi taps me and says she's taken over the blue room and I dash upstairs. We sit in the blue bedroom, where my parents slept the night before. There's a little crib in the corner that all of us have slept in at one time or another but there's no babies in the family right now. Before we know it, our cousins will start having babies, then ourselves but that seems very far away to us right now. We sit and talk about frustrations with our brothers, about boys and whether any of us has gotten our period since the last time we've talked. We spend the afternoon this way, venturing out to get another piece of pie, or a bun with some cold turkey or ham for dinner.

Night falls and those who have further to drive start to go and it's the morning, only in reverse. People everywhere, hugs and safe travels. We are staying a few more days and we make plans to do a big girls shopping trip at Value Village the next day. Before long everyone is gone, and we're alone again in my Grandma and Grandpa's house. My house, I think to myself strangely. I grab a book and curl up in my Grandfather's rocking chair. On another family gathering, long years from now, and across the country I will sit here again. My baby girl will be tired and I will need to put her down for a nap and I will sit in this chair and hold her and feel the rough fabric under my hands and the wooden arms worn smooth by my Grandpa's hands. I will rock in that chair in the dark and tears will roll down my face because he's gone. Because he never met my baby girl and because somehow I grew up. Somehow those days in Grandma's basement are over, and I don't know how that happened. Because the cemetery that we used to play in now holds two people who I dearly love.

The sounds outside the door are still the same. Someone is talking about old Balderdash definitions and they're laughing. I wonder if they'll wake my baby, but I can't imagine a better sound. Family. Laughter. We are still laughing. The smells are the same. Someone remembered to bring cabbage rolls. There'd better be some left when I'm finished.

There's so many things I wish I could change about myself. I so easily look at my own faults and have a really difficult time with the things I do well. I don't usually notice them, and this week I had someone point out to me some of the things that I thought were my faults as my strengths, and because it came from a totally impartial source, not even a friend at all, it made me listen. I have a really hard time with appearing weak, but just as hard a time when people assume I'm strong and can take more than I know I can. I know - it's a frustrating dichotomy. I probably get offended a lot more than I need to, simply because I try and seem fine, and when people believe me, I get upset. Peter has gently pointed this out to me time and time again.

I'm not heading back to work right now. Not because we're rolling in loot and don't need the money, but because I can't do it right now with Bella. After the year I've had, I just can't. I don't have it in me. I'm so incredibly tired, all the time. I'm so exhausted by looking at her mark and praying that it doesn't get worse. So I had to call work and tell them that I wasn't okay with coming back, and it was one of the harder things I've done in a long time. It was incredibly humiliating. Maybe it wouldn't be for you, but for me, it felt like calling in sick on a huge scale. I felt like I was letting everyone down. We could use the money - I was letting Peter down. We could use the benefits package - I was letting Bella down. It was a job I believed was a gift and one I liked - I was letting myself down. It was a job I was mildly good at - I was letting my boss down. I felt like a wimp. Like I should somehow figure out how to suck it up, and just be tougher.

Someone told me a while back that I use the phrase "I should" way more than I need to, and that every time I do it, I need to take a step back and ask myself why I think I "should" do what I'm berating myself for.

"I should be able to relax about Bella."
She is doing better all the time, but there is still a risk. What parent, with any level of risk to their child, is relaxed about it? We close off stairways, move our cleaning products, lower the crib level, put covers on all our plugs. I watch Bella's mark and her facial movements. I listen to her breathing. I give her medicine. And when your baby nearly falls down the stairs, or you find them with an extra-strength Tylenol in their hand wet from having tasted it in the two seconds you were looking the other way (true story) there is a moment of total panic, even though nothing happened. Your brain reacts as though it did, for just a moment, and you're terrified. I've lived like this for a year in one degree or another and I'm not constantly panicked but I am tired of worrying. Bella's mark looks much redder at times, and every time, I wonder. I hope that after I put her down for a nap it'll look light again and I can breathe a small sigh of relief. It doesn't ruin my life, it's not the end of the world, but it is a lot for me. Maybe you'd deal with it better. I don't. I'm doing what I can. And right now, what I can do does not include being a bank teller. I should not feel guilty about that. But I do. Oh, I do.

"I should do more. Work, be a mom, keep the house cleaner."
Why? I'm not ambitious. I don't have any ideas of excelling at my career until I'm a manager or have a desk with my name on it. It's not who I am. Here's a secret. I'm not a bank teller. I work at a bank, or I did, until last year. It's a job that I go to and like, in exactly the same way I used to like serving tables (the enjoyment fades a lot more quickly with that one). In no way does it define me, in fact, some of the things I think define me are in opposition with the actual act of going to work nine-to-five. It's not me. I'd be much happier being a 1950's wife taking care of my kids and having dinner on the table. That doesn't make me less, but in today's day and age it means that I'm less of a woman. I'm letting down my gender by being so openly un-feminist. If I never had to work another day in my life, but was expected to do the housework and make dinner and do the grocery shopping, I would feel incredibly liberated. I'd even wear the apron and the cute little house dresses. Sounds perfect. Sorry to all those who marched and fought on my behalf to get me into the workplace and earning the same as a man. I kind of don't care. I kind of believe that this woman's place is at home, in front of the stove. Sorry.

Someone told me that I was choosing the difficult path, by staying home with Bella. He said that the wimpy thing to do, what a lot of people would do, would be to suck it up. They'd go back to work, and they'd be miserable and worried. He said that it takes a lot more courage to say that I'm not doing okay right now and I need to work on feeling better for myself and my family before I do anything else. It's a lot harder to be open with your struggles than it is to hide them and suck it up. I'm trying to honest with myself about who I am and where I am instead of constantly worrying about who I "should" be. The funny thing is that there's a lot of things that I've pushed myself to be that I actually dislike in others. There's a lot of things about myself that I've been trying to change that I really love in others.

I'm going to end here before this becomes a hippy post about loving myself and just being groovy or something. Besides, Backyardigans just ended and Bella's calling "up, up!!" from her excersaucer and throwing cheerios on the floor. She's ready for a cuddle and a nap, and so am I. I could use one, I'm tired.

There used to be this water slide in West Edmonton Mall called the Cannonball Run. Maybe it's still there. You'd be on a perfectly boring slide, going quickly but essentially in a plastic tube where not a whole lot could happen to you and then suddenly, the slide would dip and then just end in mid-air. You'd drop about eight feet into a tank of water and it was so much scarier than jumping off an eight foot diving board. For one thing, I could never predict where the slide ended. I went on it a bunch of times, but it surprised me every time. Also, when you were in the water, because you dropped straight down, the water coming out of the slide was pouring in on top of you. For a minute under the water, you have no idea which way is up. You just swim blindly and suddenly, you're out. The current is pretty strong, and you have to really swim to get to the side. At least, that's how I remember it. It's been about twelve years since I've been on it, so who knows. Maybe it's nothing.

Last September, I felt like that. I felt like things were fine, fun even, and then the slide just ended and I was underwater not knowing which way to swim to get out. Now, I feel like I'm in the tank, the edge of the pool and the ladder to get out are just beyond my reach and I'm praying that I'm done. I'm praying that I've proven myself in some way and I won't be asked to go again. I'm praying that my prayers get answered how and when I want them to, knowing so many people who haven't been as lucky as that. I want it to be over. I want to breathe a sigh of relief and move on. I know that day is coming, but I'm a details person. I want to mark it on my calendar, and I can't do that. Nobody knows when it is.

My mom and I, on the last trip to Vancouver to see Bella's doctors, were talking about what I needed to know. It's a common ferry conversation. What do I need to know before we leave today? What are my questions? We were talking about how long Bella would have to be off her medication entirely before we could be free from the worry of relapse. I said without thinking, "When are we out of the woods? Would someone please just tell me how long these damned woods go on for?"

I'm an "are-we-there-yet" person. I want to be able to plot something on a grid. I want to deal with problems that have reasonable solutions. I don't like maybe, and I don't like surprises. Just tell me what is going on. Bella has been on a reduced dose of medication for over a week. So far so good. When do I get to let my guard down? November 19th, we go back to do it again. When do I get to stop freaking out when she coughs? I can't not think about it. I'm always thinking about it. And even though right now is a good time, because the doctors think she's ready to go off, it's a terrifying time. This is where the rubber meets the road and the consequences are just too high for me.

People just keep saying I need to trust God. Can I tell you a secret? I trust that God is exactly who He says He is, and I'll believe that if she relapses. I don't know how her situation or being concerned about it has anything to do with trusting God. I believe that He wants her well, but I believe He wants a lot of things that never come to pass on this earth. I know where I live, and it's not a place where everything goes right. This isn't Eden. This is Earth, and on Earth, crap happens, and it doesn't make God different. It just means that I'm not in Heaven yet. I believe that my heartache over my daughter's pain has taught me a little bit more about His heartache over ours, but that doesn't mean He's going to save me from it. It just means that He wishes it wasn't like this either. But it's like this. Adam and Eve ate that stupid fruit and here I am. And I don't have the worst of it, not by far. I have the best, in a lot of ways.

I do know that one day, maybe not in my lifetime, He'll make it right. He'll have collected all my tears in a bottle and show me how much he cared, and for the first time, I'll get it. I know that Bella will get better, and I know how close I came to that being a MUCH more complicated issue. I know I'm lucky, and I know I'm blessed. I know that "gratitude is the essence of trust," as some wise person once said, and I'm grateful. She's incredible and she's getting better and I'm grateful.

I can't decide if today was a big step forward or back. I will preface by saying this: I no longer recognize myself in the mirror. Not in any sort of a deep way, but in a way that says, "hey! Who put that there?!" I dislike my appearance immensely. I don't remember ever liking it less. Having a baby does weird things to you that I'm not going to get into, but certainly contributes to the above exclamation upon getting out of the shower and accidentally going past the mirror (an activity I try to avoid).

If I could only blame it on that, that would be one thing, but I can't. I'm a stress eater. Or rather, when I'm stressed, I could honestly care less about what I'm eating. And let's face it, it's been a very stressful year. My worst, in the stress department. If I'm holding a crying baby in my arms and it's between putting her down to cry for ten minutes while I make a healthy salad, or grabbing a bag of Lays that I can plow through while I'm nursing, I'm going for the chips every time. Even if it's breakfast. I've had too many other things to think about. I don't care what I eat, lots of days I don't care what I look like.

Thankfully, those days are happening less and less. Which means that I now get up in the morning and scream, "I haven't been pregnant for almost a YEAR! I'm NOT putting on THOSE maternity pants again!" But then I look around at clothes that I don't fit into and can't find the energy to try and fit into, and on they go again. It's depressing, it really is. I have to pull them up a hundred times a day.

So today I decided that I cannot live in the past, or worse, the future (when I finally lose the extra weight) and I caved and made Peter take me shopping. He was the unfortunate recipient of this task as it was him who said the other day, "honey, I know that dress is comfortable in hot weather, but it does NOT do you any justice at all. None." He said it was okay for around the house. I asked if it was okay to wear to the store. No dice. He wasn't wrong either - it's a terribly unflattering dress. Makes me look like I'm packing seventy-five extra pounds instead of, well, you know. The thing is, the thought of buying anything with a double digit size on it (an absolute first for me) just depressed me. And things have been hard. Why add to all that?

But I have literally no summer clothes. Two or three t-shirts and one tank top. One pair of capris bought at a maternity store. Not one pair of shorts. The ugly sundress, and that's it. I'm a walking episode of What Not to Wear, and I'm wondering why my loved ones haven't nominated me so I could get the five grand. It's a beach day today. ALL my fans are on and I'm sweltering. I'm wearing jeans. Stupid. Enough now.

So I went to Superstore (don't you just love the clothes there?) and got a pair of shorts, two t-shirts, and two tank tops. And you know what? They fit. They fit a girl my size. They look nice. I feel nice in them. Like I want to go for a walk outside, or make a salad. While trying on my umpteenth top, a woman who was, strangely, getting changed in the change room hallway smiled at me and nodded in the direction of Peter and Bella, "it's hard when you've had a baby. Everything's in the wrong place. That looks nice." I would have hugged her had she not been half undressed.

I'm going to lose the extra weight, I swear I am. I feel more motivated now than I did sitting in my maternity jeans and trying to figure out if I looked pregnant enough that people would ask. I'm just sick of looking like an idiot in the process, you know? Who wears jeans in this weather?

Anyway, step forward or back, it was a step that required shopping, and those are always my favorite kind.

We were at my mom and dad's for most of Easter weekend. Dad picked me up on Friday morning and I was too busy. My dryer broke and I was loading up all my wet laundry to take to mom and dad's to dry. Mom wanted me to bring my Wii, so we could play Mario. There was just too much stuff to grab. Either way, I shouldn't have forgotten. But I did. I forgot Bella's medicine at home and remembered my stupid Wii. It shouldn't have been a big deal, Peter was coming later on so he could grab it. She'd miss her morning dose, but that's happened before, not very often, but once or twice. Not the end of the world, just enough to send me on a self-induced "worst mom of the year" guilt trip.

Peter brought the medicine, I gave her a bit extra for the afternoon and evening, since she'd missed the morning. I left it at my mom and dad's so when I came back the next day I wouldn't have to worry about forgetting. We got her morning, afternoon and evening doses on time that whole day. I should have noticed. I should have noticed when I picked up the bottle, when I put it in the syringe, it's the wrong color. There's a freaking "S" right on the front, I put it there with a Sharpie so that this wouldn't ever happen. I should have noticed when she didn't want to nap, and wouldn't sleep longer than a half hour at a time, or when she inhaled about five times as much Easter dinner as Cadence, who is twice her size. I'm her mother, I should have figured it out.

When we got home Saturday night, after giving her her evening dose, I went to put the medicine in the fridge, in the spot I always keep it. But there was already a bottle there. Her medicine. Peter had grabbed her steroids. After all the hard work I'd done to get her off, after how excited I had been that I would never have to give my baby a stomach ache again, I dosed her with a good amount of steroids for two entire days.

I totally fell apart when I saw it. Put my face in my hands and sobbed until I couldn't breathe. I CANNOT screw up with this. I just can't. And I did. Yes, Peter grabbed the wrong bottle, but he never should have had to grab it in the first place, I should have remembered. And I should have noticed the S. And I should have noticed the color. But I didn't. We called the nurses line and they made sure we didn't overdose her, which I already knew we hadn't, since I've had her on much higher doses before, and when she was much smaller. But going off steroids quickly can make your brain suddenly swell - were we now risking that? I needed to give her her other medication, but it affects blood pressure, and since she hadn't had it for a while, was I risking her heart rate? We used to have another medication to give her because of how hard the steroids are on her tummy, I didn't have any.

Nanaimo hospital was totally useless. They wouldn't even tell us who the on call pediatrician was. I wasn't going to take her to emergency to sit with a bunch of sick people (what about her immune system?) to have some stupid resident have to pull out a textbook to figure out what a hemangioma is. Plus, she's one of a handful of kids who is being treated with the medicine that she's got. It's an extremely new treatment. I needed to talk to someone who KNEW. We called Children's. Her doctor was on call. Thank God. Except that we paged her over and over all night and she never answered or called us back. We stayed up until one thirty before I took her to bed with me and tried unsuccessfully not to worry.

Next morning, more of the same. More paging, no response. Until a receptionist at Children's made me feel like total garbage for not going to the emergency room, or calling 911. "I'm a mom. That's what I'd have done if it were MY child." Translation: "That's what you would do if you were a good mother." More tears, accompanied by some swearing and stomping around by me. Bella was playing happily in her Jolly Jumper. FINALLY, a call from her doctor. "You poor thing, you must have been so worried! No dear, she's fine, she'll be fine, it's okay. You did the right thing." So after all that, nothing too severe. I tossed the steroids in the garbage and we moved on and tried to have a good Easter, but you can see in all the photos that I've been crying all morning, and all the night before. One more first that I feel this damned medicine has stolen from me.

I'm tired. I want it to be over. I want to get in the car and go somewhere with her without worrying about her medicine. I want to put her to sleep without having to wake her again because I forgot to give it to her earlier. She can actually take it in her sleep now, she's so used to it. That makes me so terribly sad. I want her to be better, that thing to be away from her airway and eye. I want her never to remember this, which I am fairly sure she won't. That's something at least.

In good news, she has started sleeping in her crib. Two nights in a row now, only getting up once to eat and going straight back to sleep. Hopefully a little more sleep will help my coping mechanism to work a little better - because Saturday night is a pretty good indication that I am still not coping well with this at all. You wouldn't believe how I lost it.

I want something else to type about, or think about. Maybe my next post will be about her birthday, that I'm already planning. That might be fun. Or the trip to Saskatchewan and hopefully the horse show that I want to take her to see. That would also be great. We're going to Wyoming for Bella's first camping trip in June too, and I can't wait. Things aren't all bad. For the most part, we're coasting along okay over here. But nothing can happen. I can't screw up. I have to do everything perfectly or everything falls apart and I feel the same way I did in the hospital all those months ago. I have the ability to do our day-to-day life and absolutely nothing else.

But she makes me impossibly happy. She says 'mama' and "dada' now, and she gets excited when Peter comes home. She still loves American Idol and still sings herself to sleep. She smiles so easily and laughs at nothing at all. She laughs best at Luc, but today she was giggling like crazy when I was nibbling at her fingers. She's such a happy little thing, and she's perfect in every way, and I can't imagine feeling a little more sane, but being without her. I'd take the insanity any day of the week. She's completely enchanting and makes it worth it. I told Peter once, "I love you madly" and he responded "I love you, Crazy". How very apt.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

--Emily Dickenson

I love Emily Dickenson, and always have. She's my favorite poet. I found this one recently, posted in part on Facebook by a mom I know who is now going through the same thing with her son that we did with Bella in September. Neurologists, MRI, waiting, worry, and that gut wrenching fear that encompasses everything you have ever known. And somewhere beneath, hope that maybe you'll scrape by. Maybe you'll get lucky, that you won't hear the words many terrified parents have heard before. You won't see a doctor shake their head and talk about treatment and things to expect that scare you half to death. Literally scare you so badly that you can't figure out how to live through it.

We got lucky. I pray she does too. I don't know her, never met her and likely never will, but my heart aches for her. For the way she feels when she lays awake and looks at her beautiful son. For the way her heart stops when they take him from her arms to poke him with needles, put him to sleep, and try and make sure that his brain will be okay. I want to hug this mom. I want to tell her that it'll be okay, and I want her to know that I've been there too, and that I'm still scared. I pray that the hope wins out for them too.

~I'd live at the spa. Or go once a week. I don't care how "high-maintenance" and hoity-toity (a phrase I LOVE to use) it makes me sound, if my benefits covers massage at TighNaMara, I may go every ten days or so. Peter said he'd happily watch Bella, I'll go to the spa, have a swim in the mineral pool (free to spa guests) and a massage for an hour or so. Since massage is covered, my outlook on life has greatly improved. A couple hours of alone time, a massage, and home.

~I would get a tub like the one we used yesterday. It was hand pounded copper, and retains heat beautifully. It had a big hump in the middle so that when you lay in it, it supported your knees, taking pressure off your lower back. Not sure how much pressure is created when you're sitting in the water, but whatever, it was nice. I love being in the bathtub. LOVE IT.

~ I would eat out a lot. I love trying new foods, seeing how people make things beautiful and tasty.

~ I would have such a beautiful kitchen that it would entice me to stay at home and cook, just to be in there. I would have copper pots, and a beautiful gas stove and would feel like I was on a cooking show every time I boiled water.

~I'd live in a log cabin. Maybe this one. And I would have a lot of land, and no neighbors in sight. Not that I have an issue with my neighbors now, but I'd really prefer to be alone.

~I'd have a little four stall barn and I'd teach my daughter to ride. And when things got stressful, we'd hop on and run up into the hills and come back when we feel better.

~I'd travel. It's been so long since I've gone anywhere that I can't think about it or I develop a twitch. I'd let Bella see the world.

~I'd never go back to work. I'd stay home with my beautiful little angel, homeschool her and have dinner on the table for Peter when he gets home. Or have dinner reservations.

But yesterday felt like a million dollars. What an amazing anniversary. I'll post photos soon. I used my camera underwater though, and although it's made for that, I'm waiting a few days before I take out the memory card in order to ensure that it's totally dry. Because I'm paranoid like that.

But it was six whole hours, where nothing was required of me, where my worry for Bella seemed a lot farther away then it usually does, and where I got to actually talk to my husband. It was glorious, and not because of the spa, though it helped. It would have been nice to just sit on a couch somewhere in front of the fire and say, "hey! I know you! How've you been lately?" That was nice.

Thanks mom and dad for watching our angel. You have no idea what those six hours meant to me.

Being a mom is so so different than I thought it would be. And maybe it's different because of the way my pregnancy ended with so much fear and uncertainty, and then Bella's life began with so much fear and uncertainty.

I feel like I am having a hard time connecting with other moms. I feel isolated with everything that Bella and I have gone through together, because there's nobody that really understands that. There's a mom and baby group at the health center that I keep meaning to go to, but in talking to a friend the other day, don't know if I'm up for it. I need to be more positive about things like that. So many of my feelings are different that I know they would have been if everything had been okay. Maybe this isn't making sense. I'll grab another coffee and think about it.

Okay, here's the thing. I feel like the only thing moms talk about is parenting. Go figure right? And of course that's fine. It's even good. But I feel very much like an outsider in these conversations. Because I just don't care, and I can't figure out a way to get myself to care. When I was pregnant I was always on Baby Center. What milestone was my baby blueberry at this week? Fingers and toes! How exciting! A heartbeat! A gender! There were all these things you looked forward to. And generally, you do the same with a new baby. She looked at me, smiled at me, held up her head, rolled over, sat up, talked, ate solids, slept through the night, etc. Moms LOVE to talk about this. They compare and contrast and give advice about how to get a baby to eat solids, take a bottle, sleep through the night. There is a wonderful sense of community they feel when they do this, and I'm glad that it's there.

Our milestones are different. I don't check to see if she's doing anything new this week, and I couldn't tell you when she rolled over for the first time. I check her mark. I check her brain for swelling and I try not to think about what I'd do if her brain swelled and I try and keep her medications coming on time. I call her doctor, her pharmacist, her specialists. I don't have any advice about getting her to sleep through the night, because until very recently, with her steroid dose, it wasn't even an option, and she still doesn't do it. And I don't feel like participating in a conversations about it because I don't care if she's a year before she does it. I can get up with her. I know she's not going to be ten and waking me up three times a night to make her a sandwich. And I become easily frustrated with moms who are exasperated at three months that their baby isn't sleeping through the night, and exasperated with moms who are so proud that their baby does. Because it so doesn't matter.

Okay, so here's the confession, and I realize I'm a jerk for feeling this way. I really do. But I simply cannot take hearing a parent complain about their child in any way. I get that being a mom is a HUGE change and that moms need to be able to vent, and I know your whole life changed and nothing in your daily routine is the way it used to be, whether you have your first baby or your fifteenth. I know that we all don't know what we're doing and we need each other and we need the community of being able to share and vent and ask advice. But I came too close to having my routine change not at all. I came so close to having no reason to get up in the middle of the night, except to stare at an empty bassinet and cry my eyes out with an ache that would never go away.

I know if none of this had happened, I would be the type of mother that I feel so different from now. I'd have been such an anal, by the book mom. I'd have gotten Bella on a strict schedule and tried to do everything just right, and maybe she'd have been a better kid for it, and maybe I'd be a better mom for it. But I can't. I don't care about those things. I don't care when she sleeps through the night, eats solids, walks, crawls, etc. I care even less than Peter sometimes. And I don't know if that makes me a bad mom. I don't know if I'm a bad mom if I let her co-sleep, not only because she needs it, but I do. I need to wake up in the night and feel her warm sleeping body breathing softly next to mine. I need to convince myself a thousand times a day that she's okay, that she's going to be okay. My liver isn't going to kill her, and her mark isn't going to affect her brain or her eye or her airway. I need to convince myself that that horrible day in the hospital was just a really close call. That I haven't hurt her in any way from having her on steroids for so long. I need to know that her heart murmur is gone and that her heart is working fine and that these current drugs aren't going to change that.

I need her. She's the most amazing thing in the world, she's such an incredible treasure, and I need her. I don't need her to sleep through the night. I wouldn't mind, but I don't even try and work at it. And when we sit in the dark in our rocking chair and I feel her little hand crawl up the front of my housecoat to find my skin, and I hear her sweet sighing sounds that she makes when she's happy and falling asleep, part of me hopes that she never sleeps through the night and I feel sorry for people who have babies that do. Because I know that one day that is not too far from now, she'll walk into the house, toss her car keys on the table and call "Night mom!" and go to her room and shut the door. And I will LONG for this. My arms will long to hold her in a bundle on my chest and snuggle her to sleep.

Maybe everything traumatized me to the point that I possibly have too much perspective. I certainly don't have enough grace. There are times where it's hard not to feel angry at people who have it so easy, and I know that I don't see what they may actually be going through. There are times when I feel annoyed at people for not having the same perspective that I do, and yet, I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not ever.There are times where I could kill someone for asking about her mark and times when I could kill someone for ignoring it. The worst is to ask and then ignore the answer. I know people are just trying to make me more comfortable, but I so long for someone who just understands this. Who doesn't think that I'm a bad parent because I don't know that I really do parent Bella. I play with her. I enjoy her. I don't try and teach her anything other than that I love her and will always be there for her. If she tries to crawl and gets frustrated, I pick her up. If she wants to eat ten times a night, then I feed her and my poor husband goes to work dead tired and we sit in our jammies all day. I forget to give her a bath because she was playing with me, and I forget that if I want her to sleep through the night, I should teach her to nap by herself. But I cuddle her and she falls asleep and I breathe her in and just can't bear to put her down. People who follow Baby Wise would think I'm a hideous parent, and maybe they'd be right, but again, I just don't care.

It's just that with very few exceptions, I don't know how to talk to other moms. I don't know how to not feel embarrassed or elitist when they ask if she sleeps through the night, or if she's hitting certain milestones. I feel like I'm neglectful if I don't know the day she rolled over, like how could a good mother not know something like that? Have marked it down in a baby book and remembered that date? And without giving someone the long story it's hard not to just feel like an outsider, even though I'm a first time mom too.

So I avoid the mom-and-baby groups. I give people answers they like to a question that is too complicated. "Are you sleeping any?" "Enough." "Is she a good baby?" This question always makes me laugh. Do people actually say no? "Terrible baby, this one. Don't know what we're going to do with her. " She's a perfect baby. I don't know if she's ahead or behind in her development, and I truly don't care, so questions about her weight and abilities are all hard to answer. I had no idea what she weighed for about two months. We had so much time away from the doctor that I forgot to weigh her. It felt too nice to not have to go that I couldn't even bear to bring her to the health unit to check. I currently don't know how long she is. I've never known what percentile of anything she's in. She's here. She's alive and she's happy and she laughed at Peter the other day and I caught it on videotape. Yesterday when he walked in she called "hi" from the couch, clear as a little bell, and we died laughing. Last night I almost forgot to give her her medicine, and I'm terrified of doing that. The other day her breath caught and for a moment I was so worried about her airway that I couldn't do anything else but hold her and cry and try to convince myself to be rational. I dreamed about being back in the hospital with her, and the way she looked on that little bed, so sad and small and sick and I woke up so scared I had to have Peter pray with me before I fell back asleep, with her snuggled into me and remembering that I said I would never co-sleep. I pray every night that I will wake up in the morning and that mark will have vanished and I can just be a normal parent, and not such a basket case. But I wake up and it's there and then she smiles so hugely at me and screams as though she's just won the lottery and I laugh and pick her up and we start another day together and I thank God that we do.

I don't know if after all this, this is still making any sense. I need to get it out somehow, and part of me needs for people to understand, and part of me needs to understand it myself and I still don't feel like I do. But she's here, and she's okay and that's all I ever wanted in all the world.


EDIT: Just to avoid any confusion here. If you're reading this, I'm not talking about you. Just so we're clear. I just needed to vent today, and maybe needed to realize how seriously screwed up this has all made me feel.