When the "I Ate Your Halloween Candy" videos were making the rounds these last few years, I was disturbed by them. I thought it a cruel prank to play on little kids by the people in their lives that they were supposed to trust for their physical and emotional safety. Everyone, at times, doesn't follow through with what they said they would do, or inadvertently misguides someone, but I would hope they would step up to apologize and try to remedy the situation. Deliberately lying to your children, however, seems to be something different. How do you deal with having your trust in your parents broken by them?
I've been thinking about this as Christmas approaches, and what we're going to tell my one-month-old daughter about Santa Claus. The struggle I have is that the story of Santa Claus is everywhere, yet I do not want to lie about Santa. I do not want my daughter to learn that she cannot trust me to be honest with her.
I haven't thought much about exactly what I think Santa Claus is, since I know there's no way a large, jolly guy would be able to squeeze down a chimney, never mind the fact that I don't know a single man who would voluntarily dress in a fuzzy red suit. As I contemplated this, I decided that he stands for the generosity of giving to others, without the need to be given something back in return. He can also be the spirit of receiving, with graciousness and gratitude, without feeling the obligation to reciprocate. Santa Claus was in action on Friday, when I went through the drive-thru at Starbucks and discovered that the person in front of me had paid for my coffee and breakfast. Santa Claus is in action when someone anonymously leaves a pile of warm clothes, food, and gifts on a doorstep for a family who is struggling. He could be seen as a personification of the spirit of love, of giving, of oneness and community.
In a world in which we sometimes all struggle to give to others without wanting something back from the deal, and in which we all struggle to overcome our own feelings of lack and of wanting, Santa Claus can be a reminder that giving without an agenda is its own reward, and that receiving with gratitude is also its own reward. Maybe this is what I will tell my daughter about Santa Claus.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
First Time Pregnancy: Some Stuff You Might Want To Know
Here I sit in my rocking chair, finally on maternity leave, about to have my first child (or so they tell me), and I find myself reflecting on some of the things I have learned over the course of being pregnant. I thought I'd share them with you all, so that 1) people who are considering becoming pregnant can have a sneak preview of some of the joys and non-joys of the pregnant state as experienced by just one person; and 2) people who have "been there, done that" can sit back and have a self-satisfied chuckle.
1. Miscarriage is surprisingly common.
Having a positive pregnancy test doesn't mean you will stay that way. We all sort of know this, but I was very surprised to find out when I miscarried at 9 weeks last December that nearly every woman I knew who had children had had at least one miscarriage somewhere along the way. It can be emotionally and physically challenging to have a miscarriage for some women, especially if you have been trying to become pregnant for a long time. Just go into it aware that there is a very decent chance you may experience this yourself.
2. You can test positive later than you think on a home pregnancy test.
I tested positive only after three tests and ten days after my expected period, and I have a regular cycle. Everyone is different.
3. "Morning Sickness"
"Morning" my ass. Try 24/7 sickness for 9 weeks (some people have it even worse, with dehydration, hospital admission, IV fluids, and so on). That made having a full-time job, at a public school, where the cafeteria is right near the front door cooking mystery meat first thing in the morning, a challenge in ways I cannot adequately explain. I had to resort to sniffing lemon essential oil vials in my workroom while others weren't watching. I have never disliked food -- or even plain water -- so much in my life. The only things I could consistently keep down were milk and Gummy Bears, and I only discovered the Gummy Bears because I was craving sweet things, averse to chocolate, and desperate for protein.
4. Less Testing is Sometimes Best
I found out after an early ultrasound for dating purposes -- with which I was fine -- that my embryo's development was measuring a week and a half behind where the professionals thought it should. I thought that made sense, considering that my test was positive a week and a half later than I would have expected. They told me they wanted to schedule a follow-up ultrasound a week later to "check on things." The thing is, I had figured out a few things about myself during my previous pregnancy. One is that excessive testing was total hell on my nerves. I could not think of anything other than the tests. Not knowing any better at the time, I had four ultrasounds, no fewer than ten blood tests (ostensibly to monitor hCg levels), and almost wound up with an exploratory surgery I didn't actually need. This isn't to knock the work doctors and medical professionals do. They have reasons for wanting to do things like this. On the other hand, how was having four ultrasounds going to prevent a miscarriage? The answer -- it wasn't.
This time around, I told the nurse who wanted to schedule my follow-up that I wanted to wait a month before having a follow-up ultrasound in order to help keep my anxiety level low. She didn't seem totally pleased, but it was a game-changer for me as I realized that 1) I had choices, 2) I did not have to undergo testing if I did not want to, and 3) It felt much, much better to say a genuine "hell, no," even if it pissed someone else off, than it did to placate someone else and give myself up in the process.
5. Be Prepared For Comments About Your Appearance
I was so grateful that the vast majority of comments about my appearance over the course of this pregnancy were along the lines of, "you look great!" I don't care if they were lies or not, though I was extremely surprised by the marked frequency of such commentary. Occasionally, I did get well-intentioned but mildly annoying comments about making sure I didn't gain an excessive amount of weight. There were also the humorous comments about cankles, which made me smile. On the other hand, I did get a few comments later in my pregnancy about how I "didn't look so great." Fortunately, these didn't come from anyone I'm particularly close to, so I was able to easily blow them off with comments like, "It's because I'm wearing black" or "It's because I haven't slept through the night since July."
6. Weird Things Can Happen To Your Body That You've Never Heard Of Before.
It started innocently enough, with stretch marks on my abdomen. I had heard that might happen. Sometime in the middle of my third trimester, though, it started to feel as if fire ants had taken my entire abdomen by storm. I was itching intensely, day and night, and nothing seemed to help except the occasional cold pack. No one had ever mentioned severe itching to me as a pregnancy issue.
Let me point out here that if you are having abnormal itching anywhere on your body during pregnancy, you ought to check with your doctor or midwife right away. Some itching conditions are "benign" (although you feel like you've descended into the ninth circle of hell) and others pose real health risks to your baby.
I didn't get an official diagnosis that this is what I've had, but I'm 99% certain that when my midwife said, "looks like a pregnancy rash" at 39 weeks, she was talking about the condition known as PUPPP. So I went to Dr. Google to learn that there are some women who get stretch marks on their rapidly-expanding bellies, and their bodies have some kind of response to that that causes them to develop an itchy rash. I started looking for remedies online, since lotion, oatmeal baths, and scratching myself into oblivion were failing strategies that brought on real concern that I might have to just peel my skin off and start over completely. I wanted to limit hydrocortisone cream and Benadryl, so I discovered a way to get the itching from this maddening issue under control.
What follows is how I treated this issue. The itching had dramatically decreased by day 3, and by day 5, it was almost entirely gone. Your mileage may vary. Please note: I'm not a doctor, so please use your own judgment and common sense, and take responsibility for your own decision to use these recommendations or not:
1. Get Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap. They sell it at GNC, natural food stores, or online at Amazon. Grab a washcloth, get into a cool or tepid (not hot) shower, and lather up on all the itchy, rashy areas. Start with three times a day (I'm serious). Let the soap stand for 5-10 minutes, then rinse off. If the washcloth makes you too itchy, don't use it. At the end of day 2, I had some stinging on my skin after using the soap. The next day, the majority of the itching had gone away and I decreased the use of the soap to 1-2 times a day, depending on what I needed on a given day to manage the itching. NOTE: You will smell like a campfire for a few days. If you have PUPPP, though, you will definitely not care.
2. Aveeno sells an eczema therapy/colloidal oatmeal bath product. Get it. After you use the soap, take some of the oatmeal out of the packet. Don't use it as a bath; that's bullshit. Instead, make a paste and apply it to the itchy spots. Leave it there for 5-10 minutes and rinse with cool or tepid water. Use it with the same frequency that you use the tar soap.
3. When you get out of the shower, either pat yourself dry or set your blow dryer to a cool air setting and use it to dry yourself. Yes, you will freeze, but at least you won't itch.
4. My spouse made a concoction of oatmeal, mint herbal tea, jasmine tea, salt, and sugar that he heated and then stored in the refrigerator. It made a sticky paste that I applied to the itchy spots which dried and helped soothe and protect my skin. Be sure to strain well so that you don't have tea leaves sticking to your belly. Use as needed.
5. I found it helpful to keep myself as cool and dry as I could comfortably manage, and to drink lots of sugar-free liquids (both hot and cold) to stay hydrated. I recommend lemon water and herbal teas. I found that moisturizing lotions were not helpful, even in New England in November, and that if my body got warm, this would make itching worse.
6. If the benefits outweigh the risks for you, take an antihistamine as recommended by your doctor or midwife. My midwife approved Benadryl, if absolutely necessary. I took one tablet (25 mg) for three nights before bed to help manage some of the itching and so that I could sleep. Benadryl on its own did not take away all the itching.
7. Be Prepared To Go Past (Maybe Way Past) Your Due Date.
First-time pregnancies are notoriously long, dates can be miscalculated, and Mercury can go retrograde, all of which can contribute to a later due date (well, I don't know about the Mercury thing for sure). Don't obsess, but start to think about what you will do if you go past your due date. Will you opt for medical induction? Will you try natural induction methods? Will you wait a certain amount of time past your due date, or are you just ready to get on with giving birth? No one can tell you what is right for you, but trust yourself to know what the best course of action is and speak respectfully but firmly with your prenatal care provider about your options, benefits, and risks.
8. Early Labor Can Take DAYS.
I've been having legitimate irregular contractions at night and in the early morning for the past 3 or 4 nights. Then I wake up and they go away. I've heard this called false labor or pre-labor. I can think of other names for it, but none of them are suitable for sharing here. Some point out that your body is doing SOMETHING and can even talk about having had this sort of early labor feeling for as long as a week before their water breaks and they have a relatively short active labor. Just, you know, don't be surprised or think there's necessarily something wrong with you or the baby if this is what is happening for you. Obviously, check with your care provider if you think something is amiss -- it's appropriate and reasonable to err on the side of caution. Other than that, keep yourself well hydrated, stay with your exercise, and keep yourself distracted by doing early holiday shopping or writing super-lengthy blog posts.
1. Miscarriage is surprisingly common.
Having a positive pregnancy test doesn't mean you will stay that way. We all sort of know this, but I was very surprised to find out when I miscarried at 9 weeks last December that nearly every woman I knew who had children had had at least one miscarriage somewhere along the way. It can be emotionally and physically challenging to have a miscarriage for some women, especially if you have been trying to become pregnant for a long time. Just go into it aware that there is a very decent chance you may experience this yourself.
2. You can test positive later than you think on a home pregnancy test.
I tested positive only after three tests and ten days after my expected period, and I have a regular cycle. Everyone is different.
3. "Morning Sickness"
"Morning" my ass. Try 24/7 sickness for 9 weeks (some people have it even worse, with dehydration, hospital admission, IV fluids, and so on). That made having a full-time job, at a public school, where the cafeteria is right near the front door cooking mystery meat first thing in the morning, a challenge in ways I cannot adequately explain. I had to resort to sniffing lemon essential oil vials in my workroom while others weren't watching. I have never disliked food -- or even plain water -- so much in my life. The only things I could consistently keep down were milk and Gummy Bears, and I only discovered the Gummy Bears because I was craving sweet things, averse to chocolate, and desperate for protein.
4. Less Testing is Sometimes Best
I found out after an early ultrasound for dating purposes -- with which I was fine -- that my embryo's development was measuring a week and a half behind where the professionals thought it should. I thought that made sense, considering that my test was positive a week and a half later than I would have expected. They told me they wanted to schedule a follow-up ultrasound a week later to "check on things." The thing is, I had figured out a few things about myself during my previous pregnancy. One is that excessive testing was total hell on my nerves. I could not think of anything other than the tests. Not knowing any better at the time, I had four ultrasounds, no fewer than ten blood tests (ostensibly to monitor hCg levels), and almost wound up with an exploratory surgery I didn't actually need. This isn't to knock the work doctors and medical professionals do. They have reasons for wanting to do things like this. On the other hand, how was having four ultrasounds going to prevent a miscarriage? The answer -- it wasn't.
This time around, I told the nurse who wanted to schedule my follow-up that I wanted to wait a month before having a follow-up ultrasound in order to help keep my anxiety level low. She didn't seem totally pleased, but it was a game-changer for me as I realized that 1) I had choices, 2) I did not have to undergo testing if I did not want to, and 3) It felt much, much better to say a genuine "hell, no," even if it pissed someone else off, than it did to placate someone else and give myself up in the process.
5. Be Prepared For Comments About Your Appearance
I was so grateful that the vast majority of comments about my appearance over the course of this pregnancy were along the lines of, "you look great!" I don't care if they were lies or not, though I was extremely surprised by the marked frequency of such commentary. Occasionally, I did get well-intentioned but mildly annoying comments about making sure I didn't gain an excessive amount of weight. There were also the humorous comments about cankles, which made me smile. On the other hand, I did get a few comments later in my pregnancy about how I "didn't look so great." Fortunately, these didn't come from anyone I'm particularly close to, so I was able to easily blow them off with comments like, "It's because I'm wearing black" or "It's because I haven't slept through the night since July."
6. Weird Things Can Happen To Your Body That You've Never Heard Of Before.
It started innocently enough, with stretch marks on my abdomen. I had heard that might happen. Sometime in the middle of my third trimester, though, it started to feel as if fire ants had taken my entire abdomen by storm. I was itching intensely, day and night, and nothing seemed to help except the occasional cold pack. No one had ever mentioned severe itching to me as a pregnancy issue.
Let me point out here that if you are having abnormal itching anywhere on your body during pregnancy, you ought to check with your doctor or midwife right away. Some itching conditions are "benign" (although you feel like you've descended into the ninth circle of hell) and others pose real health risks to your baby.
I didn't get an official diagnosis that this is what I've had, but I'm 99% certain that when my midwife said, "looks like a pregnancy rash" at 39 weeks, she was talking about the condition known as PUPPP. So I went to Dr. Google to learn that there are some women who get stretch marks on their rapidly-expanding bellies, and their bodies have some kind of response to that that causes them to develop an itchy rash. I started looking for remedies online, since lotion, oatmeal baths, and scratching myself into oblivion were failing strategies that brought on real concern that I might have to just peel my skin off and start over completely. I wanted to limit hydrocortisone cream and Benadryl, so I discovered a way to get the itching from this maddening issue under control.
What follows is how I treated this issue. The itching had dramatically decreased by day 3, and by day 5, it was almost entirely gone. Your mileage may vary. Please note: I'm not a doctor, so please use your own judgment and common sense, and take responsibility for your own decision to use these recommendations or not:
1. Get Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap. They sell it at GNC, natural food stores, or online at Amazon. Grab a washcloth, get into a cool or tepid (not hot) shower, and lather up on all the itchy, rashy areas. Start with three times a day (I'm serious). Let the soap stand for 5-10 minutes, then rinse off. If the washcloth makes you too itchy, don't use it. At the end of day 2, I had some stinging on my skin after using the soap. The next day, the majority of the itching had gone away and I decreased the use of the soap to 1-2 times a day, depending on what I needed on a given day to manage the itching. NOTE: You will smell like a campfire for a few days. If you have PUPPP, though, you will definitely not care.
2. Aveeno sells an eczema therapy/colloidal oatmeal bath product. Get it. After you use the soap, take some of the oatmeal out of the packet. Don't use it as a bath; that's bullshit. Instead, make a paste and apply it to the itchy spots. Leave it there for 5-10 minutes and rinse with cool or tepid water. Use it with the same frequency that you use the tar soap.
3. When you get out of the shower, either pat yourself dry or set your blow dryer to a cool air setting and use it to dry yourself. Yes, you will freeze, but at least you won't itch.
4. My spouse made a concoction of oatmeal, mint herbal tea, jasmine tea, salt, and sugar that he heated and then stored in the refrigerator. It made a sticky paste that I applied to the itchy spots which dried and helped soothe and protect my skin. Be sure to strain well so that you don't have tea leaves sticking to your belly. Use as needed.
5. I found it helpful to keep myself as cool and dry as I could comfortably manage, and to drink lots of sugar-free liquids (both hot and cold) to stay hydrated. I recommend lemon water and herbal teas. I found that moisturizing lotions were not helpful, even in New England in November, and that if my body got warm, this would make itching worse.
6. If the benefits outweigh the risks for you, take an antihistamine as recommended by your doctor or midwife. My midwife approved Benadryl, if absolutely necessary. I took one tablet (25 mg) for three nights before bed to help manage some of the itching and so that I could sleep. Benadryl on its own did not take away all the itching.
7. Be Prepared To Go Past (Maybe Way Past) Your Due Date.
First-time pregnancies are notoriously long, dates can be miscalculated, and Mercury can go retrograde, all of which can contribute to a later due date (well, I don't know about the Mercury thing for sure). Don't obsess, but start to think about what you will do if you go past your due date. Will you opt for medical induction? Will you try natural induction methods? Will you wait a certain amount of time past your due date, or are you just ready to get on with giving birth? No one can tell you what is right for you, but trust yourself to know what the best course of action is and speak respectfully but firmly with your prenatal care provider about your options, benefits, and risks.
8. Early Labor Can Take DAYS.
I've been having legitimate irregular contractions at night and in the early morning for the past 3 or 4 nights. Then I wake up and they go away. I've heard this called false labor or pre-labor. I can think of other names for it, but none of them are suitable for sharing here. Some point out that your body is doing SOMETHING and can even talk about having had this sort of early labor feeling for as long as a week before their water breaks and they have a relatively short active labor. Just, you know, don't be surprised or think there's necessarily something wrong with you or the baby if this is what is happening for you. Obviously, check with your care provider if you think something is amiss -- it's appropriate and reasonable to err on the side of caution. Other than that, keep yourself well hydrated, stay with your exercise, and keep yourself distracted by doing early holiday shopping or writing super-lengthy blog posts.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Sensitive Man
It's Halloween, and since I'm feeling unusually enormous, what with being 38 weeks pregnant and all (not to mention the fact that it's flipping cold outside), my dear spouse happens to be outside handing out the treats this year. I saw him through our front door, and even from the back, he looked slightly forlorn, as if he had been left out of the clubhouse.
I waddled my way down the stairs and out to the cold, concrete slab that passes as a front porch to sit with him for a few moments.
"Sometimes I feel like the local deviant," he told me.
I frowned. "Yeah, I know," I said. "I picked up a bit of a vibe that you might be feeling that way. What's up?"
"Well, you know. The being-a-man thing. And having a ponytail."
It's true. He's a man, and he has a ponytail. His hair is much longer than mine; thick, wavy blond hair of which I am perpetually envious. I have many fortunes in life, but great hair is not one of them, which may go some way to explaining why I am consistently attracted to people with gorgeous hair. But I digress.
"You know what, though?" I said to him, hoping I was being reassuring, "You're a kind, sensitive man. That has to count for something, right?"
His turn to frown. "I think that's part of the problem."
I wondered if he was right.
The more I come to terms with the ways in which women have been wounded by societal stereotypes, oppression, and control, the more I see the ways in which the way the world happens hurts men, as well. The more I deal with my own issues and grow in compassion around the ways in which I'm expected to demonstrate my worth and value in the world as a woman, the more I can see the issues that men face, and the more I feel compassion for them.
My spouse is a tall, distinctly masculine-looking man, yet has some traits that are not so traditional. He is our regular household cook. He loves to bake, and has often mentioned opening his own bakery one day. He increasingly takes care of many of our household tasks. Besides his long, blond ponytail, he is soft-spoken, gentle, kind, and much more patient with young children than I am. He shares his toys with our friends' children when they come to visit and has fascinated little ones over and over with his collection of old spinning tops, light-up airplanes, and stacking block towers. I feel so fortunate that he will be co-parenting our child with me. I wish that his gifts in these areas could be more broadly shared, but I find that they often are not, in part based in a fearful bias around adult men interacting with children that aren't theirs. Time and again, this fear seems to permeate our society's collective subconscious.
I don't know what to do to help change this. It doesn't make sense to me that someone who demonstrates nurturing qualities is suspect of ill intentions, simply because of belonging to a particular sex or having a particular gender identity. Yet I know that I have made similar assumptions about others. An aspect of humanity is that we all tend to make snap assumptions about us based upon what groups people belong to (or appear to belong to). Sometimes I think the best and most meaningful way to challenge these assumptions is in being in the world just as we are, even if it's challenging or lonely.
All I can think to say to him is that maybe he can set the tone of any interactions he has at our front door, and that maybe they'll all take their cue from him. And, I think to myself, maybe I can look at my own behavior and not assume ill intent from people based on their sex or gender.
Now he is at the front door, handing out candy and joking with teenagers, who are walking away and wishing him a Merry Christmas instead of Happy Halloween. His face seems a little lighter as he comes up the stairs once again from our front door, and it seems that maybe he is having a good time after all.
I waddled my way down the stairs and out to the cold, concrete slab that passes as a front porch to sit with him for a few moments.
"Sometimes I feel like the local deviant," he told me.
I frowned. "Yeah, I know," I said. "I picked up a bit of a vibe that you might be feeling that way. What's up?"
"Well, you know. The being-a-man thing. And having a ponytail."
It's true. He's a man, and he has a ponytail. His hair is much longer than mine; thick, wavy blond hair of which I am perpetually envious. I have many fortunes in life, but great hair is not one of them, which may go some way to explaining why I am consistently attracted to people with gorgeous hair. But I digress.
"You know what, though?" I said to him, hoping I was being reassuring, "You're a kind, sensitive man. That has to count for something, right?"
His turn to frown. "I think that's part of the problem."
I wondered if he was right.
The more I come to terms with the ways in which women have been wounded by societal stereotypes, oppression, and control, the more I see the ways in which the way the world happens hurts men, as well. The more I deal with my own issues and grow in compassion around the ways in which I'm expected to demonstrate my worth and value in the world as a woman, the more I can see the issues that men face, and the more I feel compassion for them.
My spouse is a tall, distinctly masculine-looking man, yet has some traits that are not so traditional. He is our regular household cook. He loves to bake, and has often mentioned opening his own bakery one day. He increasingly takes care of many of our household tasks. Besides his long, blond ponytail, he is soft-spoken, gentle, kind, and much more patient with young children than I am. He shares his toys with our friends' children when they come to visit and has fascinated little ones over and over with his collection of old spinning tops, light-up airplanes, and stacking block towers. I feel so fortunate that he will be co-parenting our child with me. I wish that his gifts in these areas could be more broadly shared, but I find that they often are not, in part based in a fearful bias around adult men interacting with children that aren't theirs. Time and again, this fear seems to permeate our society's collective subconscious.
I don't know what to do to help change this. It doesn't make sense to me that someone who demonstrates nurturing qualities is suspect of ill intentions, simply because of belonging to a particular sex or having a particular gender identity. Yet I know that I have made similar assumptions about others. An aspect of humanity is that we all tend to make snap assumptions about us based upon what groups people belong to (or appear to belong to). Sometimes I think the best and most meaningful way to challenge these assumptions is in being in the world just as we are, even if it's challenging or lonely.
All I can think to say to him is that maybe he can set the tone of any interactions he has at our front door, and that maybe they'll all take their cue from him. And, I think to myself, maybe I can look at my own behavior and not assume ill intent from people based on their sex or gender.
Now he is at the front door, handing out candy and joking with teenagers, who are walking away and wishing him a Merry Christmas instead of Happy Halloween. His face seems a little lighter as he comes up the stairs once again from our front door, and it seems that maybe he is having a good time after all.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Babies, Loss, and Keeping Secrets
A little over a year and a half ago, my younger sister found her infant son in his crib, cool and unbreathing, on an early February morning.
It's the kind of thing that you think will never, ever happen to you, nor to anyone you love. Not my family. Not my children. Not my niece, nephew, grandchild, brother, sister, cousin. It's also the kind of thing that you just don't get over. Life goes on, yes. New things happen. People come and go. Yet the death of a child is one of those things that lingers in your heart. Like all deaths, it is a forever kind of game-changer.
Early this morning, I awoke to thoughts of the afternoon tea party and shower that my mother and sister-in-law are hosting today in celebration of our first child, who's due to come join the rest of us at some time in November. It hasn't escaped me that my child's due date is close enough to my deceased nephew's birthday to matter. It hasn't escaped me that, as we approach the birth of my first child, my sister is approaching what would have been her deceased son's second birthday. So, I find myself thinking of my sister today, too, as well as my oldest nephews, who are now 13 and 12 and remember all too well the events surrounding their little brother's death.
My child is the first child to be born to someone in my family of origin since J. passed away. As I get closer to the end of my pregnancy, I find myself thinking less about the pain of labor, or whether or not I have enough (or too much) stuff packed in my hospital bag, and more about loss. I find myself staring down thoughts and stories of loss, and remember the words that someone very wise once told me: loss is a part of life, and loving fully means accepting that loss can and will occur. Even if the loss is something as common as the child being born, growing up, and leaving home, there will be many little losses and changes to meet along the way. There is the loss of oneself, too, as a person who is not a parent and becomes one. I think that keeping a loving spirit in the face of loss comes from accepting and acknowledging (but not resigning oneself to) the fact of loss. Shortly after J's death, a friend also shared what she had learned about loss, saying that it was not something you really get over or move past, and that no one else can take the place of someone who has passed away, but that you discover that you are big enough to hold the space where that person used to be.
I have seen my sister act in ways over the past year and eight months that show something of her own understanding of both of these ideas that others in my life have expressed. I've been able to witness some of the changes that have come to her over time as she follows her life where it takes her. I see her growing, both because of her devastating loss and in spite of it, holding the loss and expanding around it as she moves further along the path of her life. I have the most profound respect for the challenges of her journey and how she has met them.
At my midwife's appointment the other day, I was asked about my sister's kids. I told the midwife that she had six children. "How old are they?" she asked. I found myself saying, "The oldest is 13, and the youngest is almost 2." That was the first time that ever happened. Usually, when I talk about my sister's kids, I tell them how old child number 5 is, and that the youngest passed away from SIDS. I don't ever say, "my sister has five kids," because that is not true and dishonors the short time that J. came to hang with us here on planet Earth. I suppose that the reason I told the midwife something different was because I just didn't want to get into the big, awkward conversation that tends to happen when someone finds out a child you know has died, even as I wanted to keep the memory of my nephew alive. I also feared being seen either as attention-seeking for sharing this information in the first place, or uncaring in the way I sometimes matter-of-factly convey this information.
The thing is, I'm not a big fan of secrets, although I've been known to harbor a few. Privacy, yes, but secrecy, no. You can decide just once not to tell the whole truth about a situation, for a reason that may feel perfectly right at the time, but then it gets easier and easier not to tell the whole truth. You start to box parts of yourself and your life experience away. Whether it's because of shame, or being concerned how others will view you, or whether or not someone's opinion of you will change, or just because it seems easier for the moment, you keep a secret that needs to be expressed or you hide something of yourself that is starving for light and air. Loss winds up begetting loss. You may have started by losing a person to death, or an important perceived part of your identity, or all of your money, then you start to hide these facts of your life. That is where you wind up losing yourself.
It's the kind of thing that you think will never, ever happen to you, nor to anyone you love. Not my family. Not my children. Not my niece, nephew, grandchild, brother, sister, cousin. It's also the kind of thing that you just don't get over. Life goes on, yes. New things happen. People come and go. Yet the death of a child is one of those things that lingers in your heart. Like all deaths, it is a forever kind of game-changer.
Early this morning, I awoke to thoughts of the afternoon tea party and shower that my mother and sister-in-law are hosting today in celebration of our first child, who's due to come join the rest of us at some time in November. It hasn't escaped me that my child's due date is close enough to my deceased nephew's birthday to matter. It hasn't escaped me that, as we approach the birth of my first child, my sister is approaching what would have been her deceased son's second birthday. So, I find myself thinking of my sister today, too, as well as my oldest nephews, who are now 13 and 12 and remember all too well the events surrounding their little brother's death.
My child is the first child to be born to someone in my family of origin since J. passed away. As I get closer to the end of my pregnancy, I find myself thinking less about the pain of labor, or whether or not I have enough (or too much) stuff packed in my hospital bag, and more about loss. I find myself staring down thoughts and stories of loss, and remember the words that someone very wise once told me: loss is a part of life, and loving fully means accepting that loss can and will occur. Even if the loss is something as common as the child being born, growing up, and leaving home, there will be many little losses and changes to meet along the way. There is the loss of oneself, too, as a person who is not a parent and becomes one. I think that keeping a loving spirit in the face of loss comes from accepting and acknowledging (but not resigning oneself to) the fact of loss. Shortly after J's death, a friend also shared what she had learned about loss, saying that it was not something you really get over or move past, and that no one else can take the place of someone who has passed away, but that you discover that you are big enough to hold the space where that person used to be.
I have seen my sister act in ways over the past year and eight months that show something of her own understanding of both of these ideas that others in my life have expressed. I've been able to witness some of the changes that have come to her over time as she follows her life where it takes her. I see her growing, both because of her devastating loss and in spite of it, holding the loss and expanding around it as she moves further along the path of her life. I have the most profound respect for the challenges of her journey and how she has met them.
At my midwife's appointment the other day, I was asked about my sister's kids. I told the midwife that she had six children. "How old are they?" she asked. I found myself saying, "The oldest is 13, and the youngest is almost 2." That was the first time that ever happened. Usually, when I talk about my sister's kids, I tell them how old child number 5 is, and that the youngest passed away from SIDS. I don't ever say, "my sister has five kids," because that is not true and dishonors the short time that J. came to hang with us here on planet Earth. I suppose that the reason I told the midwife something different was because I just didn't want to get into the big, awkward conversation that tends to happen when someone finds out a child you know has died, even as I wanted to keep the memory of my nephew alive. I also feared being seen either as attention-seeking for sharing this information in the first place, or uncaring in the way I sometimes matter-of-factly convey this information.
The thing is, I'm not a big fan of secrets, although I've been known to harbor a few. Privacy, yes, but secrecy, no. You can decide just once not to tell the whole truth about a situation, for a reason that may feel perfectly right at the time, but then it gets easier and easier not to tell the whole truth. You start to box parts of yourself and your life experience away. Whether it's because of shame, or being concerned how others will view you, or whether or not someone's opinion of you will change, or just because it seems easier for the moment, you keep a secret that needs to be expressed or you hide something of yourself that is starving for light and air. Loss winds up begetting loss. You may have started by losing a person to death, or an important perceived part of your identity, or all of your money, then you start to hide these facts of your life. That is where you wind up losing yourself.
Friday, April 6, 2012
On Taking It Personally
A friend of mine rarely seems to take things personally. If she does, she does a terrific job of not letting it show. Lousy day at work? Oh well, no big deal. Spouse in a crappy mood? Clearly, that has nothing to do with her. It just rolls off, like water off a duck's back, as they say.
I have historically been on the other side of the field when it comes to taking things personally. A glance with a little too much heat has me flushing with embarrassment, wondering if I have done something wrong. The abruptness of a few people at work has me wondering what I've done to piss them off. A slight here, a casually tossed-out snide remark there, and I go into meltdown mode inside the nearest motor vehicle or bathroom stall, wondering what just happened, and why does this get to me so much?
It's a hard way to live, for sure, and yet I have tried so HARD over the years to overcome the ways in which I feel so incredibly delicate, sensitive, fragile. I've even managed to cultivate a grand ol' horse-and-pony show in which I sometimes manage to come across as obtuse and uncaring when I am feeling anything but that. One day, a few weeks ago, I gave up. After some well-intentioned advice that I had heard time and again from one person after another, I was so angry. In being told not to take things so personally, I interpreted the message as a way to blame and shame me for my own experience of life. Others get to be cold, unfeeling, uncaring, and inconsiderate, I thought, but I have to find a way to check out of my experience and stop taking things so personally? I have to condone the bullying behavior of others? Well, blank that! I will do no such thing.
That day, I decided to start taking things personally, and like magic, things started to shift.
As I noticed the tons of little things during the day that I was inclined to take personally, the feelings hung out in my body and then dissipated. After a few days of this, I started to notice that my body began to relax, and curiosity got me wondering about that. Upon exploring it, I noticed that I had been fighting so hard not to take things personally out of some misguided notion of trying to be good that I was stuffing down everything I actually felt. I had been stuffing down tiny, everyday kinds of hard feelings -- a bit of loneliness here, a smidgen of sadness there, maybe even a touch of heartbreak -- and doing it for so long that taking things personally had become a kind of safety blanket. It protected me from more of the slinging arrows of dealing with real, imperfect people in a real, imperfect life. I was able to be kinder to myself. I started to get the sense that all of these things I had taken personally were just part of life. That knowledge didn't necessarily make things easier, or make me like that this is how life goes sometimes, but feeling how I felt and being kind to myself about it made a tremendous difference.
That's not the end of the story, since the end of the story is still to come, but at least I am moving in a direction that makes sense to me. When I start to take things personally now, it is becoming an opportunity to see where I am feeling some kind of pain, and to be compassionate with myself as I give it space to be. This, in turn,allows me to put words to it, to speak up for myself when necessary, to separate myself from a difficult situation, or to accept things as they happen to be and move on. In this, I am starting to glimpse a bit of freedom that wasn't there before.
I have historically been on the other side of the field when it comes to taking things personally. A glance with a little too much heat has me flushing with embarrassment, wondering if I have done something wrong. The abruptness of a few people at work has me wondering what I've done to piss them off. A slight here, a casually tossed-out snide remark there, and I go into meltdown mode inside the nearest motor vehicle or bathroom stall, wondering what just happened, and why does this get to me so much?
It's a hard way to live, for sure, and yet I have tried so HARD over the years to overcome the ways in which I feel so incredibly delicate, sensitive, fragile. I've even managed to cultivate a grand ol' horse-and-pony show in which I sometimes manage to come across as obtuse and uncaring when I am feeling anything but that. One day, a few weeks ago, I gave up. After some well-intentioned advice that I had heard time and again from one person after another, I was so angry. In being told not to take things so personally, I interpreted the message as a way to blame and shame me for my own experience of life. Others get to be cold, unfeeling, uncaring, and inconsiderate, I thought, but I have to find a way to check out of my experience and stop taking things so personally? I have to condone the bullying behavior of others? Well, blank that! I will do no such thing.
That day, I decided to start taking things personally, and like magic, things started to shift.
As I noticed the tons of little things during the day that I was inclined to take personally, the feelings hung out in my body and then dissipated. After a few days of this, I started to notice that my body began to relax, and curiosity got me wondering about that. Upon exploring it, I noticed that I had been fighting so hard not to take things personally out of some misguided notion of trying to be good that I was stuffing down everything I actually felt. I had been stuffing down tiny, everyday kinds of hard feelings -- a bit of loneliness here, a smidgen of sadness there, maybe even a touch of heartbreak -- and doing it for so long that taking things personally had become a kind of safety blanket. It protected me from more of the slinging arrows of dealing with real, imperfect people in a real, imperfect life. I was able to be kinder to myself. I started to get the sense that all of these things I had taken personally were just part of life. That knowledge didn't necessarily make things easier, or make me like that this is how life goes sometimes, but feeling how I felt and being kind to myself about it made a tremendous difference.
That's not the end of the story, since the end of the story is still to come, but at least I am moving in a direction that makes sense to me. When I start to take things personally now, it is becoming an opportunity to see where I am feeling some kind of pain, and to be compassionate with myself as I give it space to be. This, in turn,allows me to put words to it, to speak up for myself when necessary, to separate myself from a difficult situation, or to accept things as they happen to be and move on. In this, I am starting to glimpse a bit of freedom that wasn't there before.
Blog CPR
Three foolproof steps for resuscitating your blog:
1. Sit your ass down.
2. Write something.
3. Publish it.
Pretty straightforward, isn't it?
1. Sit your ass down.
2. Write something.
3. Publish it.
Pretty straightforward, isn't it?
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