tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59550285468526313352024-03-05T16:07:44.412-08:00Blark NotesI don't expect people to want to know what I think about this, that, or the other. However, I know that some folks might want to peek inside my thoughts from time to time.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-18668968972799502742016-02-01T12:42:00.000-08:002016-02-01T12:42:03.919-08:00About Bran<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I remember that I
was lying right here in my spot on the bed looking out my huge
picture window into the branches of the fir tree right outside, but
instead of Winter sun, low and filtered by slowly rolling, thick
clouds, the golden light of a Summer sun, shining into my window
since about 5am, was starting to warm the room. Wearing an unbuttoned
nightgown for easy nursing and skin-to-skin contact, I did my best to
soak in the moments. I felt incredible, almost euphoric. The
co-sleeper was to my left, extending my nest and forming a hedge to
hold in my pillows. I used 5, I think: 2 behind me, one on either
side of me, and one beneath my knees. It was the time for luxury. My
favorite sheets were on my bed (like they are now.) Out the window,
the peace and beauty of the trees provided calm while the excitement
of siblings buzzed outside and through my bedroom door on the
opposite side of the room.
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Except for the
co-sleeper, the biggest clue that something had changed was the baby
himself. We didn't need a ton of baby stuff. Except for some diapers
and wipes; I was all he needed. I don't think I even clothed him for
a week or so. It is amazing how so small a thing can become a new
gravitational center in the home and for my heart. My heart and
thoughts revolved around him. Our schedule and meals were different
because of him. My other children were in awe and overwhelmed with
love for him in their own ways. The feeling of him being in our house
and lives felt so exactly right. It still does. For me, the beauty of
this fourth child lies in his wanted-ness, and like a little mirror,
even from his earliest days, he reflected back all the peace and joy
I felt at his being here. Anxiety appeared here and there. “Is that
considered a retraction? Does his umbilicus look OK? Is that a little
bit of tongue-tie?” But every question was quickly resolved. He
certainly showed no signs of worry or insecurity. I only 3 times in
the last 6 months have heard even a hint of stress in his cry, and
those came only in the last few weeks, never in the first few. Never.
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My little Bran; my
buttery, new, ruddy pink baby, all wrinkles and tiny bones, fuzzy
head, kissable cheeks. There is simply nothing else like feeling that
velvety body against your chest or in the crook of your arm. The
floppiness is a bit unsettling on the first child you cradle; the
fragility reminds you of the weight of responsibility now resting
upon you. But with Bran, the ginger movements I used with him simply
felt like reminders to pay attention to every soakable moment, to go
slowly on purpose because his life was already moving rocket-fast
enough. Nursing is best done while seated, comfortable, and adoring,
not on-the-go. I understood for the first time the use of the term
“mother-baby.” We were like one thing. It would have felt so
disruptive and even painful to me if I had had to share him and show
him off very much. No, we stayed in our nest, and that felt exactly
right. It was difficult to protect our time, but, having successfully
done it, I will be a mother-baby protection evangelist forever.</div>
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My other children
were permitted to join us regularly and get to know their new
brother, and I had a few moments of feeling like one thing with all
of them and with my husband. Bran's arrival made our invisible bonds
palpable again. I have often heard people say, “I cannot imagine
having any more children because I don't know that I have the
capacity for giving that many kids what they need.” I cannot
imagine it either if I didn't know from experience that growing
throughout pregnancy, like the placenta and baby, is a new store of
love. My mother heart has stretched along with my uterus every time I
have born a child to this family. I picture the Grinch heart bursting
the bounds of the x-ray frame.</div>
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I wish that these
scenes were a part of every baby's experience, of every mother's. But
I know they are not because of injustice, illness, death, and even
pure selfishness and evil. Watching Bran being loved by our family,
loving him myself every moment, I have often cried for babies and
families not having this experience. There are so, so many. I do
think that more families could have this experience if they felt the
permission to slow down and if they were not pressured by families to
“hand over that baby.” I really hate that phrase. While there are
many aspects of my life with Bran so far that have been lovely simply
because 1) he is our fourth child, and 2) I advocated for us as
mother-baby (things that can be enjoyed and utilized by many other
pairs), there are some very precious, Jessica-Bran specific rays of
goodness and beauty that I have to record.
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I was sick when we
decided to try to get pregnant, and there is much evidence that now I
am well. We anticipated, with fear and trembling but also with faith
and hope, that life with a fourth baby may be the hardest thing we
ever had done. We knew we might be asking for a bedridden mother, but
we did it anyway. I took a lot of convincing even though I was also
the one arguing vigorously for us to do it! The beginning stages of
weaning from some medications and wading into the pregnancy were
terrible. I was afraid, and one of the worst nights of my life was
New Year's Eve 2014 when I was suddenly terrified that we had made an
awful mistake. I never, ever want to feel again that a <i>child</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
a real, human, heart-beating baby, could be a mistake. I woke up on
New Year's Day feeling like I had purged a virus. That fear needed to
be expressed so that it could begin to dissipate, but like any flu,
fighting it was painful and left me weak and humbled. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">One
thing I felt very strongly, like I had when I took my pregnancy test,
was that THIS baby was intended to be on the planet. THIS person
already had his or her days appointed by God.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">By
the time we learned that this person was a boy and soon decided was
Bran, I was already feeling much better emotionally and physically.
Selecting his name was a great joy. He is a man named for women as
well as his father. I gave him a “B” name to remind me of some
dear women filled with qualities I hope all my children will display,
mainly bravery, godly boldness, compassion, kindness, and belief in
Jesus. His middle name is Raphael which means “God has healed me.”
I liked it because it is Italian like my husband and me and goes well
with the first name which is Irish (also like my husband and me.) I
hesitated a bit, though, to give him this name that declares God HAS
healed me. It's so emphatic. The word “heal” was important to me,
meaningful. Brendan and I now knew what it meant to long for healing
</span><i>in THIS life.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I did
not want to demand something from God by naming my child such a
thing. As I mulled it over, though, I kept thinking of my greatest
comfort in all my days dealing with POTS, “I am already safe and
healed in Christ. My life is already hidden in Heaven with him.”
The fact was: I was already healed; already, but not yet. So, we
named him Bran Raphael. And all my little Ninja Turtles were
thrilled.</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">At
counseling one day in Summer of 2014, I shared with my therapist that
I was harboring hope that perhaps a pregnancy would somehow reset me,
that the POTS would go as mysteriously as it had come. “That sounds
like magical thinking,” she responded. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">We
had no real reason to think the POTS would disappear. I had been told
by my neurologist that I'd probably have it forever. “But,” she
said after a moment. “Maybe it isn't so magical because we don't
know why it came, so maybe we don't know what might make it go.” I
carried these two thoughts around. I didn't get too excited or hold
hope that pregnancy would definitely cure me, but I allowed myself to
be excited to see what might happen. </span>
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">As
of late in my third trimester, around June of 2015, I was no longer
having POTS symptoms. Doctors attribute this to the increased blood
volume, and that makes sense. Bran is now 6 months old, and with the
exception of occasions during illness or related to gallbladder
attacks when anyone might have heart rate problems, I have still not
experienced symptoms. Some women with POTS report that breastfeeding
seemed to keep their POTS at bay, but this is by no means universally
true. I will soon be speaking with my doctors to discuss a trial of
medication weaning. I never imagined feeling this good. The other day
I had to run up the stairs two extra times because I kept forgetting
things I wanted to bring down. I realized during my second trip that
every step was a huge blessing, and I took two stairs at a time-
gulping the opportunity like a kid offered a sip of soda.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">The
threat of my POTS returning does hang over me like Wile E. Coyote's
anvil. I have cried pretty hard about it a few times, and I ask
regularly for prayer regarding that worry. I try, though, to not get
sucked into that hole. Why go down it when I can be enjoying the days
that it is not here? God HAS healed me. </span>
</div>
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
never pictured my postpartum year with Bran being the healthy, busy
year that it has turned out to be. Bran's joyful, generous smiles
reflect the great gifts our family has been given, a sweet, sweet
baby and a healthy mommy. I am humbled to my core. He will smile at
you and then somehow smile deeper; he crinkles up his little nose and
shakes his little head as if to say, “I know! I can't believe it
either!” He loves to hear music and listens intently when I sing to
him of God who gives generously. I made up a little song that I used
to sing to Hazel for naptime when I was newly pregnant with Bran
based on Psalm 103:</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">He forgives all your sins and then</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">heals your diseases too.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">He satisfies you with good things</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">so that your strength is renewed.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">He redeems your life straight from
the pit</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">and puts upon your head</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">a crown of love and compassion.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.49in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Oh, my soul! Don't ever forget.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">My
sweet Bran and all my dear children, I pray that you will learn these
truths and then, please, don't ever forget. God does great, kind
things. Life is full of difficulties and shocking, terrible troubles,
but our God even has use for those. Not a one of you would mean all
that you do mean to me, and I would not be able to love you as deeply
as I do without having lived through days of darkness and sorrow.
Seek his kingdom! Look for him always, and you will see amazing
things everywhere. </span>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">My
littlest Bran Raphael, sweet, smiling declaration of God's healing
love, I am so glad for all you represent to me, but you will live
your own life. Moving forward your story will be your own, and I will
only be a fraction of what you have to tell about. But, this needed
to be set down for you and for me. We cannot be mother-baby forever,
but I have enjoyed this time immensely. Please don't grow too
quickly. I cannot bear it.</span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Love,
Mommy</div>
Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-71724690763856501892016-01-16T20:59:00.000-08:002016-01-16T21:45:58.882-08:00Belonging Art Show (Including Yours Truly!)<i>I got to talk out loud! It was pretty fun. I learned a lot by preparing for it all, and I hope to find some more mic opportunities in the future. I had some positive feedback including some that began with my favorite words, "I feel that way too..." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I will say that my poop joke didn't go over nearly as well as I thought it would!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>IF you go to Green Lake, I gotta say: you really missed out if you didn't come. And, no. I don't mean you missed out because you didn't hear me speak. Union Gospel Mission's Art Therapy program showed up with tons of great art and fascinating stories and did the hard work of hanging the show. The Bruised Hearts Revue played some swinging, toe tapping, western music filled with beautiful lyrical content. I had a great time as did my family. There were even art supplies provided for the kids to fill their own wall in the gallery. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And now... the script I wrote myself. I memorized the whole thing and was able to speak without notes (a la t<a href="http://themoth.org/radio" target="_blank">he Moth</a>!). Brendan took video that I will try to post. The video taught me that I should stand up straighter! And, please, laugh at my jokes, wouldja? </i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/a1CewSSX_8Y" width="560"></iframe>
<i><br /></i>
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I am so happy to participate in this art night. These events have
been very special to me over my 15 years attending this church. I
helped plan them for many years and ran point for a few. I also have
shared my own artistic efforts. When I was 18 and dancing for Pacific
Northwest Ballet, I danced right there on the subject of Love and
made eyes at my boyfriend whom I married 4 years later. A couple
years after that I showed a painting which was the product of my
self-led art therapy (before I knew art therapy was a thing) to
process and mourn the loss of my first baby to miscarriage. And, now,
I'm here behind a microphone.
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was invited to
participate in the planning of this event and decided that I had too
many other things requiring my attention. 4 of those things have
names, Ezra, Ivo, Hazel Belle, and Bran, my children. As the event
flyers were posted and requests for submissions were going around, I
felt a tug. Art, my desire to produce it and roll in it, has a place
of permanent residence in my heart. But, motherhood, busyness,
illness, etc. have really put a damper on it for the last few years
in particular. And, you should know about me, that by 20, a stage
accident led to a pretty serious injury that suddenly ended my ballet
career. That left me in a very weird, complicated relationship with
Art. Imagine: my whole life I loved Art, believed in it's importance
for all people and in me, and I was surrounded by the ballet world. I
had this perfect way to engage it all. I had intensely trained. Then,
I was dropped down into this other world, the normal world with the
muggles, and I can't do it anymore. So I was forced to struggle with
these questions: Is Art still that important to me? Should I find a
new way to do it? And for 14 years now, I've wrestled with whether
that part of me should be allowed out. And when my mommy years set in
I was able to get busy and distracted enough and love my children
enough to just not think about it or even try to do it as much. This
past year in particular I have been feeling how much that has hurt.
Because I love the storytelling aspect of art. I enjoy looking at the
world through an artistic lens, but what I love the most is saying,
“Hey, look at this.” I love an audience.
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I haven't done
much art, but what I did do during these mommy years was to start
blogging. People began talking to me about “my writing” and
saying things like, “well, you're a writer...” “WHAT? no. I'm
just doing more of that self-led art therapy stuff. I'm just
processing and pontificating from a place of safety behind my
keyboard.” After a while, though, I really started to enjoy writing
more and more and I started to hear a knock. I feel like that after
ballet, that Art relationship became so painful to think about that I
just stuffed that part of me way, way down. I put my artistic self
under a trap door in the floor, locked with a little hook, and rolled
out a big, thick, dusty Persian rug over the whole thing. But, she
knocks. And as my writing started to develop that self was like,
“Hey! I'm still down here! You should let me out! We could totally
use this writing thing! And, maybe, oh, I don't know, just maybe, we
could love on an audience again!”
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I let her out,
and she immediately repossessed the controls, and I became a writing
fiend. Because ballet training doesn't make you very good at
moderation. You know, ballerinas aren't really known for loving
ambiguity. “Oh, let's just create, and just see what happens!”
No. We're like this is how we do ballet and we will be the best
someday. So I immediately came up with this training program filled
with goals, and practices, and on and on. And, mostly, I've loved it.
Because Art fills me up. It inflates me, makes me feel like I'm fully
occupying myself. I feel animated as in alive. And, you know, I'm a
Believer in Jesus, and I know that I'm filled with the Holy Spirit
and that there is no God but God. Back when the ballet stuff fell
apart and even still though less frequently, people would ask me or
imply that maybe I liked ballet too much. Maybe it was becoming an
idol, and maybe that's why God let the ballet thing crash. And, I
gotta tell you, that question buried a deep fear in me that the
artistic desires that I have are selfish, and wrong, idolatrous.
Naturally, that has made trying to engage it all the more
complicated. But, as I get older through years, but also through life
experiences and spiritual gowth, seeing how amazingly loving and huge
God is, I am coming to the conclusion or at least the next landing
pad) that God is honored and praised by my using the love and
creative skills that He gave me, and so I am trying to be less afraid
of being a whole person, of engaging Art. But it is hard.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, back to, I felt
a tug. I emailed Katie, who in addition to being all the wonderful
things she is, is my sister-in-law. And that's good because I
probably would have been to scared to ask anyone else, and I honestly
thought the answer would be “not this time.” The question was
could I maybe have some mic time to do a little storytelling... or
something... And, to my joy and terror, she said “Sounds great!”
Well, then I went like this [BLANK STARE] because I had no stinkin'
clue what I should tell! I sat down at the laptop more than once to
get started. I had stories of backstage excitement and audition
embarrassments from my dancing days. I was really obsessed for some
reason with trying to describe and expound upon my first existential
crisis at age 6... not sure what THAT was all about. And those are
all pretty good stories, but none of it was feeling right. I really
wanted to have a tie-in to this theme of BeLonging, and everything I
wrote just felt a little forced. This whole time I kept saying to
God, if you want me to get up there, if I'm going to try to do this
Art stuff again, I need you to tell me what to say, and I really
believed that he would... or wouldn't and that I could always just
squirrel out!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fast-forward to this
past weekend. By Saturday night, I was terribly sick. My kids go to
three different schools, so we have a diverse influence in our home:
three sets of teachers, three sets of traditions, and three sets...
of viruses and bacteria. Our poor family is like this massive petri
dish accepting donations from ALL over. So I had this bad upper
respiratory thing going on from preschool, then a stomach thing
appeared, I think from 2<sup>nd</sup> grade, and the <i>piece de
resistance: </i><span style="font-style: normal;">friggin strep throat
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">from Kindergarten</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">And let me tell you, strep
throat is my kryptonite. One of the symptoms for me is frequent </span><span style="font-style: normal;">bouts
of </span><span style="font-style: normal;">weeping, and I would
rather (and I know what I'm saying because I did it 4 times) go
through unmedicated childbirth or break an ankle than have friggin
strep throat! All through my three days of bedridden illness I had
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">THIS, the mic</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
moment, in mind, and I thought, “well, there goes that. I'm not
going to have any time to come up with anything, and it's not like
that was going well. So, at least now I have a better excuse to give
Katie.” And with that I think I was mentally attempting to get that
girl back down under the rug.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then,
I woke up on Wednesday morning, and I thought of all the ways my
period of sickness kind of answered my prayers for God to give me
something to share. And, no, I am not here to breathe strep throat
upon you all; my antibiotics took care of that. I thought about how I
could tell some stories about coping with a sick mom in a family of
6, or about the horrible fight that handsome boyfriend now husband
and I had in our sickness and health moment, or the comic tragedy of
taking two children and myself to the doctor's office while suffering
from sudden, uncontrollable... ailments. While I settled back into a
somewhat healthier body, my artsy self quietly settled back in behind
the controls, and I sat back down at the laptop as soon as I could.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So,
what you have just sat through is what </span><span style="font-style: normal;">came
out</span><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">N</span><span style="font-style: normal;">othing
about it has felt forced. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">And
here is the BeLonging tie-in:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No
matter what, I belong to God. Me with a lost ballet career. Me with a
lost baby. Me with friggin strep throat and a family of 6. It all
belongs to God. And the skills, love, desires that he has given to me
belong to me, and no matter how many times I try to hide under a trap
door, I'll always be longing to be let out.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thank
you so much. </div>
Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-4112105244079554832015-12-09T20:40:00.001-08:002015-12-09T20:40:40.419-08:00Stairs Are Not Your Friend<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>A little author's note: This little essay is really just one more version of what I seem to write over and over. So, yes, I know I have said these things. I just can't help it that they keep coming up. And, in case you wonder, everyone written about here had the chance to see it all and approve of it being online.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Recently, I got the worst text I have ever received:
</span></div>
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I need your prayers right now. Coming home from work because Barbara
had to call 911 because David fell. I have no idea any of the details
but I did hear him screaming in the background.
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My dear, dear friend (like, getting-my-children-if-I-die,
basically-named-my-son-after-her “dear”), Brenna, had to write
this. David slipped on the stairs while she was at work, and he was
at home alone with their two girls. A couple of hours later we
learned that he had fractured some ribs and punctured a lung. He
received a chest-tube while awake, and then spent 5 days in the
highest trauma-level hospital in our area feeling constantly
nauseous. Brenna was several weeks pregnant at the time.
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From the moment the text dinged, I was sick with worry. Obviously, my
concern for David was great, and I was afraid of what the stress of
it all could mean for Brenna and her fragile baby. Thankfully, it
didn't take too long for the doctors to conclude that the
pneumothorax was David's only big problem, but I was scared I may
receive another text about some complication. The whole first night,
I barely slept, and when I did I had nightmares involving the word
“pneumothorax” and flashes from old memories.
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Around 4am, I awoke to feed my baby and realized suddenly why this
all was tormenting me so. Beyond all the obvious concerns for my
friends and their children, this accident struck a deep, tender
nerve. It was <i>the stairs</i>. He fell down <i>the stairs. </i>I
shook my husband awake, “Rib, Rib! He fell down the stairs. It
happened to him too! This is all freaking me out so bad because of
the stair thing.” “Yeah,” he answered. “I know. I figured
that was pretty obvious.” “Thanks for filling me in,” I
thought.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
As a child, I was very brave. Very little scared me (except for E.T.,
but...). I could run and leap and try just about anything. Now, as an
adult, I'm afraid of stairs and risk-taking in general. The accident
that ended my ballet life happened on a set of stairs. A mistake was made by someone else, and I fell down scenery stairs. “Off” is more accurate than “down.” My invincible
youth came to a quick close. Vulnerability arrived, or, rather, was
revealed. And then came the pain. Pain that was life-altering,
devastating, and yet uncovered a profound strength that I didn't know
I had.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
As soon as I knew David would be ok, that his injuries were not going
to kill him, I kept thinking over and over, “He's going to be a
much more interesting, rich person now. His compassion and empathy
will expand so much!” “Jealous” is definitely the wrong word,
but a certain wistfulness came over me. A kind of deep longing for
him to have great results, the kind of results that I have received
from all the physical pain I have survived. At the same time, I was
thoroughly sad for him and Brenna. Injury had touched them. It got in
to their lives. New vulnerabilities were exposed, and new needs for
protection would take up places in their minds, their preoccupations.
Yes, Pain can be an insightful instructor. In a heart ruled by God's
love, on guard for bitterness, it can teach essential, enlightening
things. But, the lessons aren't cheap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
I hope and pray that David's pains and fall will not cost him too
much (medical bills aside!). I hope his trip down the stairs proves
to have been only a misdemeanor offense. For me, the fall turned out
to be a shocking robbery. Grand Theft Auto. A homicidal home
invasion. There are things I had before that are gone forever, unless
God chooses to restore them to me in Glory. Sometimes, I really
question whether what I have gained for now is worth all the losses.
But, even the deficiencies teach me.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Even before I fell down the stairs, I had formed some positive
associations with physical pain. I know what dancers, athletes, know
about pain: it can have it's rewards. Muscle aches lead to strength
and flexibility. Blisters lead to callouses. Bruised nails get tough.
Stress fractures make thicker bones. Exhaustion develops endurance.
Practice makes perfect. And, oh! It feels so, so good to be perfect,
to do it how you know it can and should be done! My pains as a dancer
had their purpose, and that purpose was beautiful and gave me
pleasure like I have not know since. If the pain had made me give up,
I would never have lived the joy of the results.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
My senior year of high school, I was accepted to study for the Summer
at the School of American Ballet in New York City. This was a very
big deal for me and for my small ballet company in the middle of
(ballet-related) nowhere. I could not wait to see myself in the
mirrors that so many of my idols had seen themselves in. I would
squeal with delight at the thought of being in “George's School,”
as my friends and I referred to it. I was obsessed with New York City
Ballet. I saw going there to study as THE best thing that could have
happened to me at age 16. I prepared for it like the rite of passage
that it was. I thought everything through, including the fact that I
would have to wear my pointe shoes for every class, for the whole
class. This was new to me. It should not have been, but then my
training had some gaps. On my own, I decided that I HAD to keep my
pointe shoes on, no matter what. Back then, my options for shoes were
limited to what I could afford to try and get my hands on via the
internet. If I ordered something that didn't really work, I usually
wore them anyway because they were all I had. The shoes I finally
settled on, I knew later, did not fit me properly and weren't doing
me any favors. This is part of why they hurt so badly. But, I kept
those boots strapped to my feet as though my life depended on it, and
my dancer life kind of did. I bled through the outside satin more
than once, and I felt so badass it was ridiculous. I got blisters on
top of blisters and bruises in my bruises. But, I did it. My feet did
toughen up, and I learned that I could make it through more than I
had thought. When I got to New York, one of the first things I did
was figure out how to walk to the Freed store, and I, for the first
time had a professional pointe shoe fitter help me find shoes that
worked better than any I had ever tried, and they didn't hurt like
the ones to which I was accustomed. Amazing. My suffering had been
worth it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
My fall, though, had no apparent purpose. Immediately, there was no
result but disaster, undoing. This pain was the bad kind, not a
measured, wisely monitored means to an end. It was a car wreck. It
scared the daylights out of me and kept me scared for a long, long
time. I still do not like stairs, and I frequently ask Brendan to
please walk in front of me and to not touch me while we are on a big
staircase. I know what it is like to have your life changed by a fall
down the stairs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
So, how did I get to a place where I could have the thought of being
strangely excited for David? Not “happy for him” because that's
just screwed up; however, “eager” applies. Surviving pain,
emotional and physical, showed me so many new things about myself.
They are not all good, by any means, but they definitely aren't all
bad either. As for the bad ones, I'm working on them. “You can't
change what you don't know,” and all that. The knowledge of what I
can take, of what can be survived and endured, does encourage me
daily.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
What?! Maybe. Sometimes it leaves you bed-ridden. I did not survive
unscathed, and those wounds, though painful still, turn my attention
outside of myself. They show me the need for others. When I am weak
and bewildered, my family and friends are shown to be strong and
sure. When I am without hope, they hope for me. And when they all
inevitably fail me, God is there. And he is not the failsafe, not the
back-up plan. He is the LORD, and all things are held together in
him. He is the only thing that makes it OK to be in pain and hope for
a lesson. With God, even bed-ridden can be a place of growth and
value.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Whenever I try to sit and write about these things. I inevitably
slant toward these neatly-tied ends. I have a few thoughts about
that; the first, insecure thought being that I am coming off like
some out-of-touch Pollyanna, an idiot in denial. As for how I appear:
I suppose I cannot speak to that. While I don't think I am Pollyanna,
I do acknowledge that I have an aversion to wallowing in bad memories
for too long. I want to get out of the woods, so to speak, so that I
won't be lost. I do not see much use in enduring pain, even the
memory of pain, for the sake of proving I can. No, I've had way too
much evidence in my life as a dancer, former-dancer, mom, and
chronic-illness-sufferer that pain, if it ain't headed somewhere
good, is best avoided! But, if it is thrust upon you, as a believer
in God I can say, better milk it for all it can be worth! I have a
longing to write about my short life as a dancer and what has transpired
since it was taken from me. There are many reasons for this, but I
think these strong beliefs about pain are at the bottom of it all. I
just want it to all be worth as much as possible for anyone who cares
to know!</span></div>
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Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-7731485838299198382015-11-17T20:38:00.000-08:002015-11-17T20:38:11.021-08:00Every Phase is Hard<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">FB,
11/16/2006: <span style="font-size: x-small;">Jessica is not
looking forward to dealing with her MGMT 403 professor</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">FB,
9/16/2013: <span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My
afternoon has basically been a frat party. 3 wild people in various
states of undress are yelling incoherent things and cheering one
another toward new heights of foolishness. They are playing some form
of Limbo (the youngest chanting loudly: "HELLO- Candy-Go").
And a new cold bottle of beer was taken from the fridge, thrown into
the living room, and exploded into a million sticky, little, fizzing
pieces. Party on!!!</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Facebook's
new feature, On This Day, has come along just in time for me to begin
writing these things down. In the isolation of modern motherhood,
Facebook became a way I could reach out for a quick “I hear ya!”
or “me too!” I spent, and still spend, time when I craft the
occasional status update. Not only is it a little moment to be
creative but also a chance to encourage and be encouraged in the
strange land of Stay-at-Home-Parenting. I look forward to my little
set of On This Day memories. The </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">temporally
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">striated posts give me a two-minute look back at my life phases from college through the past
year. One thing is clear: all the phases are hard.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">At
my Bible </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">s</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">tudy
a few weeks ago, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">it was
prayer request time</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">A
new friend</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> had that look
like something big was on her mind but also like she might not </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">want
to say it</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">. I hope I did what
I did in a kind way, but it is always risky to try to draw someone
out of her shell. </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">How
about you? You kinda look like you're sitting on something.” </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">She
answered, “Umm, I'm just really tired and feel like I have no right
to be, but I am.” </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Collective
“mm” sounds and subtle head nods went around. I couldn't leave it
alone, though. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
don't want to force you, but...” </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh,
come on, Jessica. Yes, you do,” a friend interjected. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ha,
well, it just seems like... well... what's that 'Don't deserve to'
piece about?” </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
was sitting there with Bran, and she knows I have the other three. I
don't recall exactly, but I think I was soon to have my gallbladder
surgery. Our hostess had 4 children. Other women had two or three.
She is not a mom yet but works two jobs and had been doing a ton of
weekend traveling for family events. Of course, she had every right
to be tired! But, looking out at the room full of experiences she
hadn't yet had, she felt ashamed of being worn out. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
mean, I don't have anyone to take care of. I don't have a baby,”
she said as she vaguely gestured in my direction. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ya
know, I think every phase has felt hard. The exhaustion I feel now
doesn't feel different to me than the exhaustion I felt before kids.
It may have a different quality, but the effect on me is the same.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The
other ladies chimed in, and we all agreed that tough is tough, no
matter what phase of life you are in. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
absolutely deserved some grace and love for the difficulties she
faces.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This
little moment at Bible study really stuck with me. I think parents
ARE crazy-tired. And it IS different than being tired from work
because sleep-deprivation is just a special kind of torture. I laugh
very hard at all the comedians' bits about how rough it is to have
small children, and I do long for the days when simple pleasures like
grocery shopping and long showers and great indulgences like sleeping
for 8 solid hours were available to me. But, I don't long for hours
behind a desk, dealing with group projects, being stuck in one
building 40 hours a week, etc. Every phase is hard. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">As
parents we turn back and look at the D.I.N.K.S. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
kids </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">with jealousy from our
high horses of Special Knowledge regarding the value of peeing with
the door shut, staying in bed all night, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
pursuing personal interests</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
We wish they knew how good they have it because we think that would
cause the people around us to give us more credit for what we are
going through. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">We feel our
struggle is undervalued. But, I do remember the jealousy I had of
parents, the jealousy I probably would have if I wasn't one. “They
get to have the love of their children. They are doing something
meaningful every moment! She doesn't have to put on day-time clothes.
They are real grown-ups. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for
that.” </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The
truth is: every phase is hard AND comes with unique perks and rich
blessing. We should trade monologues. I should tell myself how
fantastic parenting is more often than I let myself wallow in how
hard it is. People without kids should feel totally free to enjoy
their phase to the hilt! Take long showers! Peruse the grocery aisles
until you really do find the very best mustard! </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Don't
waste any time feeling guilty about not having kids to look after or
being afraid that you won't be good enough once you do.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
got over being bitter towards the d.i.n.k.s. a couple of children
ago, but I started looking ahead with some fear and some jealousy
too. “Oh, to have kids who can all do {</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><u><span style="font-weight: normal;">fill
in the blank</span></u><span style="font-weight: normal;">}. To be
able to X and Y!” But, I see the moms of teenagers look at me with
my baby's head nuzzle</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">d</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
up under my chin. Their eyes tell a story of sweet memories and a new
kind of Special Knowledge. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” they tell
me. “It will go by too quick. Wait til you have teenagers...” I
usually hate it when they say that. It feels so imprecatory! I am
starting to get it, though. It DOES go by way too fast. </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">As
I sit here, the list of stresses in my head include a husband being
away on business for the next 36 hours (who's counting? ME), doing
the dog's walk on my own somehow, dealing with Bran and his umpteenth
snotty cold by myself all night, picking up and dropping off all my
school kids at their 3 different places, and on and on. My phase is
hard! When Ezra was a baby, I would give myself awards for leaving
the house when he was 4 months old. This time? I have no choice! We
have had days of being in and out of the car 9 times! NINE TIMES!
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“But,” I hear, “wait
til you have teenagers!” Well, wait I will. And gladly.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
have to give ourselves the grace we need for the difficulties of our
phase. It really doesn't matter what other people are dealing with;
their mastery of their circumstances doesn't need to make us feel
shame for the measly mastery (or survival?) of our own. Nor does it
matter if anyone really gets how hard you have it. (That one is hard
for me to believe. I am preaching to myself here.) I want my focus to
be on thanksgiving because I have the security of God's love, authorization to do my job well, and approval through his Son. Yes, I will probably be up half the night
cuddling and nursing a little sweetie who doesn't feel well, and I
need grace. I will need to be gentle and not expect too much from
myself for the next couple of days. I also can choose to be so
grateful that I get to love, hold, and raise this baby that I dreamed
of and wanted so intensely </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
that my other babies did indeed grow, sleep through the night, and
are able to get dropped off, and picked up, and dropped off, and
picked up, and...</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">So,
thanks, Facebook, for allowing me to look back at the Jeskies of the
past. Do I chuckle a bit at complaints from my earlier selves? Yeah,
a little, but I give them credit too because I hope that I'll be
gracious to 2015 Jesky </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">someday</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
I am happy for me for every rock show I attended, every paycheck I
received, and every, oh! every long shower. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: none; display: inline-block; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">May it never be said
of me that I missed my chance to enjoy these children during this
brief time that they are young because I was too busy making sure
everyone knows that it's hard, but, Lord, give me the grace to admit when it is!</span></span></span></span></div>
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Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-20341426045505631992015-09-15T14:51:00.001-07:002015-09-15T14:51:03.948-07:00Oh! The Gall of ItLife is just so damn interesting, isn't it? We can get assurances from one another. We can plan. We can imagine and hope, but we just never really know what we're going to get- good and bad.<br />
<br />
Back at <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2014/11/one-of-my-favorite-things-to-do-in-new.html" target="_blank">the beginning</a> of my life with Bran, when he was just a twinkle in MY eye (thank you very much), I knew I would need help. I knew I would need rest. I knew that I only would get by on a little help from my friends (and Riberas). I figured POTS might be a problem after delivery, but I was hoping it would stay away. Thankfully, I have not been symptomatic, and I'm now hoping it will not return. Ever. I planned, somewhat, for my potential neediness through the Summer. Things just never go how we plan, though. Death in the family took all my helpers away during the hardest days of my pregnancy. So much for all the long weekends at Grandma's that I had imagined. Thankfully, just when I thought I had reached the very, very end of my rope, God made a <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2015/07/bran-raphael.html" target="_blank">perfectly-timed delivery</a> of Bran. The next two weeks passed mostly in bliss, and I had all the help I needed.<br />
<br />
Then, I went to the emergency room with a two-and-a-half week old infant. Shortly after dinner one night, I was lying in my daughter's bed with her having a chat when I began to have intense pain in my upper abdomen and chest. This same thing had happened a few days prior, but it started to go away before I really started to freak out. This time, though, it was much worse and continued to worsen instead of fade. As a woman who has delivered four babies with no meds and a chronic pain syndrome, I am familiar with pain and know that I tolerate it well. This pain terrified me, and I started having POTS symptoms too - tachycardia, shortness of breath, tingling, sweating, and upset stomach. Of course, all these symptoms together could mean heart attack. Brendan got the big kids to bed, called a neighbor over, and got me and our crying, hungry infant into the car. I was afraid I would die.<br />
<br />
Saying "chest pain" at the ER is a great way to be quickly given a bed. I don't want to describe the whole visit, all the diagnostic results, and the most embarrassing moment of my life, so I'll just cut to the chase: after tons of blood-work for the next two weeks, a CT scan, and multiple follow-up visits- it all came down to gallstones. Apparently, gallstones are one of the many, many things that baby-having increases your risk for that you don't know about until it happens to you. It took me 3 or 4 weeks to really figure out how to prevent the gallbladder attacks. I still get them, but I haven't had a very bad or long one for a couple of weeks now. I'm having surgery very soon to have my gallbladder removed.<br />
<br />
See what I mean? You just can't plan for this stuff. My POTS hasn't been a problem at all, but I've been side-swiped by this gallbladder stuff and planning for a surgery within the first two months of my baby's life. Of course, this all got bad just as my relatives are returning to work for the school year. Other family stuff has kept us occupied as well. On one hand, we are doing really great when you compare the status of things now to the days of full-blown POTS, and Bran continues to be an easy, sweet baby. But, as my therapist pointed out, I'm not really getting to behave like a woman who just had a baby and needs help and time to rest. I feel like a Jekyll-Hyde mommy. Somedays, I'm so overjoyed with the absence of POTS that everything is roses. Then on the other days...<br />
<br />
The other thing I never imagined is that it would be September 15th, and my children are still not in school. "I just need to make it to September 9th," I would often think. "Then, I'll be able to have quiet time to rest and recover from all this craziness and get some rest before my surgery." I now have zero confidence that any of that will happen. BUT, I do have confidence that God will keep surprising me. Just as I cannot have predicted that I'd have a life-changing gallbladder problem for the first weeks of my new child's life or that I'd still have 4 children home most of the time, I cannot have predicted that my POTS would be so absent. I cannot have predicted that Bran would be born just when I knew I couldn't take it anymore. So, I wait with open hands. I try not to worry about general anesthesia being around the corner. I try to trust that my laparoscopic, day surgery will not be a big deal and that I'll recover quickly and well. I try to trust that Bran will do great on bottles. I trust that my extra days with my boys home will continue to bless me (and challenge me).<br />
<br />
Life is not boring.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-47693672146346504102015-08-19T17:39:00.000-07:002015-08-19T17:43:42.219-07:00First Shopping Trip with 4<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Yesterday I grocery shopped with my four children for the first time. I know that we moms post about this a lot, but I'm doing it again because it really is so frustrating. I live in a city that thinks it's really good at caring about people and giving respect to all people. I must not be a real person because I get blatant dirty looks when I'm in public with my kids. And yesterday, the kids were only operating at like a yellow threat alert level. I hope this is my fear projecting itself, but I feel that people's faces basically say, "well, you asked for it; and now we all get to be irritated, and you're responsible."</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Children used to be considered an asset not a liability. Are they disruptive? Yes. You were too, I bet. Are they inconvenient? Heck yes! You were too; I'm certain. They are immature - at least they have a chronological excuse. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">But they grow. They will invent new technologies. They will find cures. They will love animals and the planet. They will vote and make decisions. They will love each other. IF I teach them. IF I love them and model for them.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">The result of all the bad feelings I get when I go out to non-child-centric places is that I stop going. This is a problem! Sure, Amazon is convenient. So is InstaCart. I don't have to try taking kids to the library because I can request everything online, drive by, and pick up books we want. I love those services, and they are a great help to me. However, we already suck at actually being friendly and connecting with each other here in Seattle. Most of our major publications have published on the subject. The irritation we feel over each other (including my own at being shamed via the use of frowns and eyebrows) drives wedges deeper. And if I only ever take my kids to playgrounds or bouncy houses, they are deprived of the learning contexts that will help them mature into people who, I pray, by God's grace, are not completely inwardly focused and selfish. (So maybe they'll hold the door for those who need help, reach a jar from a high shelf, or help pick up the ten thousand gift cards that were knocked off the rack...)</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">So, my apologies, shoppers. I'm going to keep dragging myself out into the daylight with my brood. I am going to remind myself that I don't really know what others are thinking, and that I don't know why they are being so crabby. I will be ready to nicely, humbly apologize with and for my children when they are actually causing trouble. And I will do my best not to cry when you mumble under your breath. You better hope I don't because I've got a motley crew that don't like it much when people make the queen cry...</span>Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-50188171396155877472015-07-26T16:16:00.000-07:002015-07-26T16:16:38.063-07:00Bran RaphaelThe first thing I'll say is that this is one very delightful baby. He has truly not cried for more than about 10 seconds at a time- and if he goes that long, that's his version of a real fit. Of course, he's only 39 weeks and 5 days, so it's a bit early to make any personality-type predictions, but I have my hopes. He weighed 7lbs 9oz, and was 19.5 inches long when he was born at 6:33pm on Wednesday, July 22nd.<br />
<br />
It's hard to say when my labor with Bran truly began. I did my first nearly full night of early labor contractions on July 11th, and I did harbor some hope that he'd be born safely early on my birthday, the 12th. But, those contractions fizzled away, and we chalked it up to a change in the barometric pressure. About a week later, following acupuncture and Serafina's signature eggplant dish, I had another night like that. Again, fizzle. Now, I had set myself up from the beginning to expect Bran to be late, but these teaser sessions really started to make me long for him to come early- that and the fact that I really needed a break and knew I couldn't get that until he was born! Being so pregnant, with a baby that is so low, is exhausting already. Add the hottest summer on record for Seattle, swelling, and three big kids to entertain, and I was really getting worn out. In spite of those factors, though, I also had lots of nesting energy and in many, many ways felt more "normal" and better than I had throughout the pregnancy (and most of the last 2.5 years). My fear that I had had earlier in the third trimester that I wouldn't be able to manage labor and delivery with the fatigue and pain from POTS faded away as I kept making it pretty safely through very busy days of kid-wrangling and major cleaning projects.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday morning this past week, I took my kids to see a <a href="http://www.regmovies.com/movies/summer-movie-express" target="_blank">$1 movie at the Regal Cinema</a>. You should totally check that out if it's available in your town. As we chuckled at Peabody and Sherman, with my big girl in my lap, I started noticing a lot of what I figured were just Braxton-Hicks. But, they were a little different that the usual. I didn't pay much attention. After the movie, we headed to PCC to grab a few things we needed and pick a lunch. The kids weren't any more crazy than usual (I don't think), but for some reason they really drove me to the brink! I lectured the whole way home about how they need to try on purpose to be more calm and how stress over their disobedience was not going to help me get their brother out! I got ALL worked up as the afternoon wore on and wound up having a major emotional meltdown. I convinced myself once and for all that the stress of not resting and not being at peace with these wild people around all the time was going to surely delay my labor and leave me pregnant until 42+ weeks. Then that thought just made me cry and cry and cry. I cried out loud to my God, "please, help me!"<br />
<br />
Eventually, I calmed down and got busy doing some cleaning and laundry. While I worked, I realized my contractions were seeming consistent again. "Oh, great" I thought. "Another night of teasing to keep me awake is probably coming." Still, I got a little excited and started timing them. 8-10 minutes apart. When Brendan got home and we were having dinner, the got a little closer together. I got very excited and then felt like maybe my big breakdown earlier had been the result of good flood of labor hormones. We went to the playground after dinner, and the kids played with Brendan while I did laps around the park. I enjoyed discovering the paths through the little wood behind our community center and had my first sour-but-almost-there blackberries of the season. My contractions jumped to 4-5 minutes apart, and I let Brenna know that something may be starting. These contractions didn't hurt enough yet. When I got home, we got the kids to bed, and my contractions continued. I took a shower and drank a ton of water, and they just kept coming, but still didn't hurt. At 10, I decided to let my midwives know that they should probably get some sleep. Cindie was out of town, right at the beginning of a 2 day trip, so I would be working with Stephanie. I was sad for Cindie to not get to be with us, but I was also looking forward to having Stephanie as I really like her and have worked with her with my doula clients before. Right after I talked to Stephanie, I had a small gush of amniotic fluid. I let myself get excited. The contractions did feel a bit stronger, but they still didn't hurt. That was bothering me.<br />
<br />
Brenna, Elisabeth and Stephanie all arrived shortly after my little fluid gush. We figured that if my water broke I'd probably have a baby in a few hours. Around that time, something weird happened. I got this flood of fear that felt very physical. My mood went from excited to somber and unsure very quickly, and I started to shiver. Labor hormones can definitely cause shivering, but the fear was strange. I laid down to deal with it. Eventually, the sensation faded, and the shakes lightened up. It left me feeling tired, though, and my contractions spaced out a bit. We decided to all try to get some rest. The three ladies went to chat in my living room for a while and eventually, very adorably, all slept slumber party style on the fluffy rug. I was having too many contractions to get much sleep and kept waking up every 10 or 15 minutes with a flood of confused thoughts. Brendan was supportive, but I eventually quit bothering him as it was late, and I knew he would need the sleep he was able to get.<br />
<br />
At 2:30 in the morning, I got up to pee. While sitting there, I felt what I thought was a big kick from Bran and heard a popping sound. Nothing happened until I stood up to get back in bed, and when I did a lot of fluid came pouring out. I had a lot of bloody show as well. I got excited again! "Ok! Let's do this. Bring on the painful contractions! They'll probably start any minute." Well. They didn't. I finally fell asleep around 5am with the thought that when the sun came up I could eat and start walking and maybe get the labor re-started. I woke up at 6:30, and I was having almost no contractions. I sent everyone home. We had a talk about how most women get into labor within 24 hours of the rupture of membranes and how that would probably happen with me. I felt ok about it all. I was excited that, now, no matter what, I'd be meeting Bran soon. But, I also was tired and discouraged and starting to think through what I would do if my labor didn't start. The thought of winding up at the hospital was depressing.<br />
<br />
After everyone left, I cried for a while to Brendan. The thought that really made me cry most was the concern that I'd done something wrong- like maybe I'd jumped the gun or like I shouldn't have gone walking or shouldn't have had acupuncture 5 days before, or, or, or... Brendan shut all that down for me very quickly, firmly, and kindly which was exactly what I wanted and needed. Texting with my mom helped too (and continued to be helpful to me throughout the day). I knew she was praying along with my friends who knew the situation and our family. The kids and dog got picked up by Brendan's parents, and that was a relief. I was sad, though, that Bran hadn't just come in the night to surprise them first thing in the morning. Oh well. I knew that having them all squared-away would help me to focus and allow Brendan to give me the attention and affection I'd be needing. We slept for a while then.<br />
<br />
I felt better when I woke up. I was ready to get dressed and attempt to go walking and try (for the fourth time now) to get through some (Stupid, frustrating!!!!) early labor on my way to some real-deal labor that I hoped and prayed would come on its own. We did pray often, and I felt every time like God was answering us with new information (like when my water leaked the first time, and then later popped big), with encouragement (like my mom's prayers and texts), and with new strength. We went walking around Matthews beach and then our little Meadowbrook Pond. Contractions did pick up, and I felt somewhat encouraged. I was leaking lots of fluid, and that was not fun (though I did find it funny every time when I told myself that Bran was peeing my pants...) We went to have our non-stress test with Stephanie then.<br />
<br />
I'd never had an NST before, so that was fun and interesting somewhat. I did have one big-ish contraction that made me feel like maybe we were getting closer. Bran's heart rate took some deeper dips during that one, but he bounced back like he should; and everything else looked great. Stephanie did say that she'd like to be with us as soon as the contractions really did get serious so that she could keep good watch on his heart rate.<br />
<br />
When we got home, I ate a good snack and we watched some Jim Gaffigan. Humor is your friend at times like these. My contractions got much stronger, and I finally got really excited. Brenna came back over, and by then I think they were about 5 minutes apart, maybe less, and were increasing in intensity. We called Stephanie to let her know, and I called her again in a 1/2 hour to say I wanted her to come over. I had that thought in my head about keeping Bran safe, which was good because otherwise I may not have had her come so soon. Brenna arrived at 4:30, and Stephanie was there by 5:30. By the time Stephanie arrived, I was needing Brendan to help me deal with the contractions. I alternated between sitting on my ball, kneeling at my bedside over a pillow, and sitting on the toilet. Elisabeth came sometime around all this too and started her photo-documenting.<br />
<br />
I eventually landed backwards on the toilet and was planning to stay there for a while. Stephanie got started on placing my IV port for the saline we planned to deliver after the birth to help give me a boost in dealing with my POTS. She did a fine job, of course, but it's never fun to have that kind of distraction when you are dealing with such intense contractions. At the same time, I could feel that my blood was pooling in my legs a bit from how I was sitting. Once she finished the IV, I announced that I was dizzy, and they helped me get to the bed to lie down. Brenna massaged my leg to get the blood flowing again, and that felt great. Brendan started using a cold rag on my neck and back. The next contraction was officially one of the most painful of my entire childbearing career, and I had the thought, "oh, man. I hope I don't have to deal with these for long!" At nearly the same moment, I realized that I could push a bit, and it felt better! "I'm pushing!"<br />
<br />
I felt Bran move down and out of my uterus. It was a very cool feeling, and I quickly started to feel the stingy, stretchy feeling of a baby's head about to crown. I did not have to push very many times. Everyone was very encouraging. We had planned to try to have me do my own catch, and I felt somewhat able to look down, feel him with my hands, and at least imagine pulling him up on my own. Once his head was visible, I had to actively try to not push him out right away. I panted to try to give myself time to stretch out and think a little bit about how and if I'd be able to get him. Stephanie was wonderful about listening to me and giving encouragement. I kept saying, "help! help!" not in a scared way, but in a "I need you to tell me what to do" way. Once his head was out, I did more panting, and we saw that his cord was around his neck. No big deal usually. It did frustrate my catching plans. Once I pushed his shoulders out she had to get him untangled because the cord was around three times! By the time she got him free (about 2 seconds that felt like forever to me!) I pretty much tore him from her hands! I was ecstatic and screamed, "I did it! I did it! I had another baby!" And I wasn't just referring to the birth, but to our entire journey of deciding to have Bran. I felt so full of confidence in God's love for all of us, and I thanked him. I had very minimal blood loss, and my POTS symptoms have not returned. I'm pretty amazed by it all. <br />
<br />
Bran and I instantly bonded, and I have fully enjoyed him ever since. There could be so much more written into this story about my emotions, prayers, wonderful friends and theological ponderings during these days of his birth. I'd also love to write a bit about what the last few days have been like (chronic illness and learning how to care for myself have done me some big favors!), but I'm down to one hand typing now as I nurse my sweet baby. All of us here love him madly, and I look forward to eventually introducing him. For now, I'm guarding every moment and enjoying him as fully as I can. I want my memories of these days to run long and deep.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-42894322017115421512015-07-11T21:04:00.001-07:002015-07-11T21:04:19.809-07:00What's This Little Boy Made of?Top Ten Cravings<br />
<br />
10. Cucumbers<br />
9. Gummy Bears (Specifically, <a href="http://www.albanesecandy.com/all-gummies/12-flavor-gummi-bears/" target="_blank">THESE</a>)<br />
8. Banana Splits<br />
7. Potato Chips/Tater Tots/Curly Fries<br />
6. Fat Slice of Chocolate Cake, preferably cold<br />
5. Smoked Salmon<br />
4. Bacon<br />
3. Bahn Mi<br />
2. Passion Fruit Slush Boba Tea with Boba and Popping Mango Boba<br />
1. California Roll<br />
<br />
Got to say: The cravings have been pretty fun this time around. I mean, look at that list. 4 of those are desserts! I don't usually love dessert (though, I have always loved gummy bears and chocolate cake). Banana Split?? SO weird. I would never pick that normally. Bubble Tea and California Roll have been the two most consistent desires throughout, hence their placements as #2 and #1. I could go for each of those right now...Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-85208597158582827272015-07-02T12:50:00.000-07:002015-07-02T12:50:46.534-07:00The List ProjectI have an idea.<br />
<br />
For my friends and clients, I usually recommend planning some fun diversions for the last few weeks of pregnancy. It can get so hard to keep waiting on that labor to start when you are so. done. being. pregnant. Especially if you are post-40wks. I am not there yet, but I know that this baby will be here SOON (In the next 4-6 weeks, to be quasi-exact. The way time flies around here, that's not long at all). Unfortunately (or maybe it's a blessing? Hard to tell sometimes...), I don't have much need of planning diversions because as a mother of three in the middle of summer, my calendar is ridiculously full. Day camps, VBS, midwife and doctor appointments, final projects before baby, birthday parties, work BBQs, and on and on. "Take it easy," people say. Whatever. It's not possible. There are too many (very young) people here for me to actually take it easy, but I do try to do my best to rest as I can. Sadly, the haircuts, pedicures, baby-book shopping, beach afternoons, etc, that I usually suggest as fun diversions for my clients aren't really an option around here. When I do get time to try to schedule activities alone, I need to be responsible, lie down, and put my feet up. This isn't a complaint. My job is very difficult right now, but (when I'm not throwing a giant emotional fit) I'm very thankful for my life full of very young people.<br />
<br />
So, my idea: mark the remaining weeks with an easy project I can look forward to doing each week from my bed like making top ten lists (or top five, or two... I get tired, y'all).<br />
<br />
This week I have a pair of lists as I find myself thinking of these things a lot lately.<br />
<br />
<b>Top 6 Things I Love About Not Having A Baby</b><br />
<br />
6. No diaper changing<br />
<br />
5. Everyone dresses themselves.<br />
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<br /></div>
4. No need for naps. This one took me some time to appreciate. At first, I missed having the kids nap, but then it showed itself as a huge plus. We can do whatever we need to do without fear of needing to hurry home before <i>somebody</i> starts to lose it. (Ha! actually, I'm the somebody now...) It's great because places are really pretty empty during naptime, and I'm not such a fan of humans these days. They wear me out.<br />
<br />
3. Everyone knows how to go potty. Do they always do a great job with all the hygiene stuff? Not great every time, but usually they just need reminders.<br />
<br />
2. People can make their own beds, start their own laundry, put away their own laundry, and even prepare and feed themselves simple snacks and breakfasts!<br />
<br />
1. Everyone can use their words. True: they often use them to argue and hurt each other and me. Also True: they make amazing observations, encourage each other and me, express love very, very often to each other and me, display faith and hope, tell me their needs and fears, and explain themselves.<br />
<br />
<b>Top 6 Reasons I Can't Wait to Have a Baby</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
6. He is tiny<br />
<br />
5. He doesn't need to be told to go potty<br />
<br />
4. He needs to take lots of naps<br />
<br />
3. He needs me to dress him every time.<br />
<br />
2. He needs me me to feed him with food that doesn't require any dishes or ingredients from the store, and he (HOPEFULLY) will love it and not complain about the taste or lack of variety!<br />
<br />
1. He doesn't use words, but he can express faith, trust, peacefulness, love, fear, and needs to us through his often adorable, sometimes maddening cries, looks, little baby body language, and nuzzling snuggles.<br />
<br />
Soon I will enjoy the best (and, yeah, yeah, the worst...) of BOTH these lists!<br />
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<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-1389230266296091782015-05-16T17:37:00.000-07:002015-05-16T17:37:48.779-07:00Coping Chronicles: When My Emotions and My Children CollideI remember the day I first really saw my mom cry. I went looking for her and found her in her bathroom still actively crying. I'm not sure, but I think I was probably 12 or so. The first thing I remember thinking and knowing was that she wasn't crying because of me (and she wasn't), and that thought brought the realization that grown-ups are people too. I assumed it probably wasn't the first time that she had cried about something that had nothing to do with me, but I remember feeling pretty special that she had let me see her and that she was willing to say that she was having a hard time. She didn't cover it up, and she didn't try to act like it was none of my business either. Of course, she had, as I have now, every right to cry tears that were none of a child's business, and I'm sure she, as I, did that plenty of times. I remember what it was about, and I remember hugging her and feeling <i>so good</i> that I had the privilege of comforting our family's number one comforter.<br />
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I write often about these childhood moments of crystallization of concepts. I wish I knew more about the science behind them; I would find it fascinating, so if you know something or have an article to link to please post it in the comments! That moment in my mom's suntan tiled bathroom with the dusty rose towels and oak cabinetry was the point at which I decided it's good to be honest with others, especially your family, about your bad days. Of course, that doesn't mean that I began doing that or was good at it from then on (or that I always do that or am good at it now). But, a positive association was formed.<br />
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I remembered the physical sensation of that moment the other morning as my almost 7-year-old hugged me while I cried. I could tell from the way he held my head to his shoulder like a much, much older person that he felt proud and privileged to comfort the number one comforter in our family. This child has got the consoling pat down... well... pat. It's just the right kind of firm but gentle touch that tells you everything is going to be fine. Like scrawny, tween me in my mom's bathroom, he had nothing spectacular to say, but he said nothing so very well.<br />
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These moments of overwhelming emotion happen to me a lot these days. As I keep repeating to my husband, it adds up. Each hat I wear these days belongs to a character prone to fits of strong emotion. The Pregnant Lady. The Sick Lady. The Mother of Three (One of Whom Hit 106 Degrees on the Thermometer This Week). The Sudden Homeschooler. Any one of these people deserves a few moments of exasperated sighing, hysterical laughter, blubbering tears, and even fuming frustration. But... all together... look. out. I'm like a one woman soap opera.<br />
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So, what do I do? What can you do when you are surrounded by people who are looking to you for reassurance and stability, need you to do your job, and aren't even twelve, and you just can't keep it together? There are lots of aspects to this one. I'll start with this: <b>doing everything you can to not be forced past the end of your rope is step 1.</b> This is what you do <i>before</i> we get to meltdown. If you know you can't handle it all, you have to start finding ways to not have to. Please remember: I'm preaching to myself. I probably need more mommy breaks. I probably need to actually set up my <a href="http://www.neighborlyapp.com/" target="_blank">Neighborly</a> account. I probably need to quit committing to things until after (long after) the baby is born. When there is so much going on inside that you cannot control, being intelligent about controlling what you can is essential.<br />
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<b>Next: Take the long view. Then: Pray. Even if it's not feeling magical or focused or even coherent. Finally: Wait together. </b>To illustrate these points, I'd just like to share the story of how I ended up in tears on my son's shoulder this week.<br />
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I woke up feeling terrible every which way. My body was aching, heavy, and exhausted. My mind felt muddled and slow. My heart felt sad, uninspired, and I was just totally dreading the rest of the day. I knew I'd be easily upset and quickly irritated -- not a good way to start a day of homeschooling especially after housebound days with a very sick kid. I proceeded to go through the motions. Sometimes, this is the right thing to do. Routine can be a very good thing and can sometimes get me started when I don't feel like it. Of course, it wasn't long before I ran into a bad attitude from a kid, and my own bad attitude was ready to tango. I escalated a situation that I should have had the judgment to step back from. I should have looked at my mood and told my kid that this was important but that we would need to talk about it later. We can't always do that. Young children need immediate feedback to make connections between their actions and the results, but this was a more philosophical discussion with a kid who is old enough to wait and still benefit from a later discussion.<br />
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But, because I felt afraid of being an ineffective mess all day (notice: decision made out of fear), I decided to track it down and kill it. I decided to start a big, subjective, philosophical debate with a kid looking for a fight. Not smart. Here's the first point at which I should have prayed and taken a longer view. The discussion frustrated me, and I got very short and even unkind. The child then proceeded to tell me over and over, "well, you must just hate me." Of course, that was sad for me and frustrated me even further. Doesn't this kid see that the whole reason I'm trying to talk about this with him is because I love him? (Umm. Probably not. He's a young kid.) Doesn't he know that the only reason I am even upright right now while I feel this way is because I'm trying to make sure his world isn't disrupted in spite of my chaotic body and emotions? (Again. Duh. No.) During the back and forth about whether or not I hated my children and the evidence for and against, I was trying to get them all upstairs so we could get started on our reading for school. The other two were not being helpful, though at this point I can't remember exactly what was happening.<br />
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We sat down at the dining room table where they all divided my breakfast that I hadn't eaten yet among them. This is back to Step 1. I should have eaten long before this moment. Crabby-hungry was no help in this situation at all. Normally I wouldn't have let them take my food, but I was so desperate for their mouths to be full and their bodies to be still so that we could get on with our day somehow. I couldn't though because now my feelings were incredibly hurt by all the "you're acting like you hate us." My eyes got hot, and the catch in my throat became to much to hold back. The pain in my body and heart and all my fear of not making it through the day as a loving, able human being led to tears as I said, "You know, you can't just say these things to me. I'm a person too. I'm not a mommy-bot with no feelings. That stuff goes into my heart. I'm sorry that I got short with you and that the way I was acting made you feel like I might hate you. That is a terrible feeling, but I can tell by the way you are saying it that you don't really think it. Right? You don't actually believe that I hate you, so you shouldn't say that. It doesn't float away into the air; it keeps going straight to my heart." Honesty. Confession. "I'm so sorry," he said. And he got up and hugged me.<br />
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Right then I knew. Right then I realized that I had set out all wrong. Part of coping with bad days (and it was going to be a bad day no matter what because of the things on my plate) is sharing honestly with my family. I had tried to move into the day like I was able to have it go "normally." But it just couldn't. I should have started out with that acknowledgment. I should have taken the long view and remembered that if the risk of our hearts getting shredded was high, I shouldn't worry so much about the shredded appearance of my home or the need to address the dangers of hoarding tendencies. We should have started with prayer for the tough day before Brendan even tried to leave the house.<br />
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So, I decided to try to turn things around. Was my heart suddenly feeling strong? Absolutely not. It was a quivering mess. Was my mind clear and ready to attack the day's tasks? Absolutely not. It was more fuzzy than before. Was my body calm? Of course not. But, I knew we had to pray. I wish I could say that the clouds parted as I spoke bold, believing words to the Lord and that a ray of peace shone down on us all. I wish. Rather, my children were irreverent and took the opportunity (and probably all their nervous energy from the very stressful morning) to try to quietly (no such thing) make jokes to each other from across the table while I murmured something like this through my tears: "Oh God. I need you to fix this morning. This day is feeling really screwed up, and my heart and body are so tired. I can't see this day going well at all. But, you're the one who can fix broken things." I opened my eyes, did the dutiful scolding of the kids for talking during a prayer time, and asked each one to tell God something they needed help with and something for which they were thankful. I read our Bible story for the day. And we waited together. We waited for our bodies and our hearts to calm down.<br />
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Eventually, it did turn around for us. Things calmed down, and we were able to love each other pretty well. Some of my planning ahead (Step 1, people) paid off, and I got to go to acupuncture and counseling- both of which were helpful. It was by no means a great, effective day of schooling, but in the long view, it was probably one of the best mornings of the week. Who knows? Maybe my son had a moment of crystallization. Maybe he will remember how well it works to just hug someone. I think it's a vital skill! A lifelong skill that his friends, spouse, and children will treasure in him as much as I do. Maybe they learned that just telling God what you need is a great way to pray. Maybe they learned that grown-ups are people too.<br />
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Maybe not, but they were still the right things for me to teach. I have no doubt of that. And I learned a lot.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-50553354624577583192015-05-06T17:14:00.003-07:002015-05-06T17:14:35.572-07:00Reality Check and SLIME FEST 2015 <b>Personal and Pregnancy Update </b>(Feel free to skip this part):<br />
So, we had a horrible month that ended about 3 weeks ago. I figured I'd written enough about the crappy times and felt no inspiration to write any further.<br />
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The 3 week window was lovely in spite of adding a major (potential) stressor: homeschooling for the rest of the school year. The "why" of all that is long and complicated, but the short version is that I felt my first grader, our budget, and we would be much better served by a highly personalized, low-stress environment for completing his first grade acquisition of skills. So far, this has turned out to be a fabulous decision, and already Ezra's reading and writing have improved quite a bit. More importantly, though, he is getting control of lots of bad habits and is returning to a more peaceful state... mostly! There is a lot that I love about homeschooling. I do have lots of fun with the kids, and we all get along better the more time we spend together. Go figure. I also have reveled in the opportunity to tailor-make a schedule and curriculum that specifically support and address my child's needs mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It has been fun to have a project to set my mind to and a fresh cause for each day.<br />
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Part of the reason, though, that it all went so well for a few weeks was that my health held steady for the longest stretch of the last several months. What a blessing! Over the past week, a POTS flare has slowly built and is in a full-blown rage now. I also crossed the line into my third trimester! Woohoo! I love this baby like crazy, and just like with the other ones I already like him and enjoy hanging out with him in his little wiggly moments each day. The pregnancy aches, however, are all starting to take a toll as is the third trimester sluggishness. I can't believe how much worse I feel this week compared to last, and it is very discouraging. I needed the <b>reality check</b>, though. I was starting to romanticize the notion of homeschooling for next year. I still kind of am, but it's good that I'm getting a taste of what it would be like if I was feeling symptomatic (and the baby isn't even on the outside yet). Once again, the thought of having the kids away for events and engagement at school sounds attractive. Meanwhile, I'm glad to know that I do actually like homeschooling them, and I may try to get back to doing/being more of my old self when it comes to doing projects with them at home. I also feel re-inspired to keep up on our overall spiritual health as a family. Taking a holistic approach to all that (rather than feeling like I need to have some separate agenda for the kids instruction) is really the best way to go! They learn what I need to learn or read on somedays, and other days I learn or read what they need; in the end, we are all being well-fed everyday.<br />
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And now...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">SLIME FEST 2015!!!! </span></b>(AKA: What the BLEEP was I thinking?!?!)<br />
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I'm just a fun (read: crazy) lady. I just can't help it. I like to eat fun stuff. I like everyday to have some surprises in it. I like to do wacky projects and promote wacky ideas. So, naturally, as my little homeschoolers and I studied space for two weeks (thanks to the stuff I borrowed from homeschool mom EXTRAORDINAIRE, Bethany Robbins), I started to form a pretty Jesky-fied plan for week three:<br />
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ALIENS AND EXTREME IMAGINATION SPACE WEEK- WAHHAAHHAHAHA!!!!<br />
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"It'll be great!" I thought. "We can just have a week to go nuts and learn about all the extreme weirdness in the universe and on our own planet. We'll write our own stories and dream our own dreams about what may yet need to be discovered. I'll inspire them to think big about God and our world and plant all these lovely seeds that can grow into their own hopes and vision of what they may add to society..." and ON and ON. I got very pumped up. I gathered library books for hold via the internet like a BOSS. I cued up alien slime and fluff recipes like a MAD SCIENTIST. I didn't even realize that May the 4th would land on our awesome week, and then did realize it, and then pulled a <i>Star Wars</i> day out of my... hat... like a JEDI. I planned to spend a couple days talking about Antarctica and the deep sea, the most difficult to explore places on Earth. I basically developed enough material to keep us busy for a few weeks (which I am totally going to do...).<br />
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Then reality swooped down like it tends to do. My body reminded me that I'm A: 7 mos pregnant and B: diagnosed with POTS and Chronic Disease Anemia. I pretended these things wouldn't make a difference for as long as possible. Then Monday on May the 4th, our recess plan of having an epic light saber battle turned into an appalling battle over who deserved to use which color of light saber (blue or green. it wasn't even about who should be red! these were good guy colors!) and ended in one child trying to run away from home because the rest of us are "meanies." This then led to me BANNING the use of the term "meany" forever. We were lucky to get anything done due to the amount of spiritual counseling and correcting required for all parties. It was a day with it's own kind of learning, a crucial kind, but it definitely had me wishing I had Darth Vader's power to use The Force...<br />
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On that same day, because I am DUMB, I decided to never say die and continue on my insane quest to inspire and delight. We went to the park (mistake for a POTSy preggo number 1) and went to the store (mistake number 2) to get the things we needed to make <a href="http://earlylearning.momtrusted.com/2013/05/foam-dough-shaving-cream-corn-starch/" target="_blank">Foam Dough</a> (mistake number 3). While we were at it, I figured I'd pick up extra ingredients to maybe try some of the other recipes for fluffy, soft doughs that I had seen before including the flour/oil mix and cornstarch/conditioner mix. The kids were THRILLED that I sat them down with these things. "Aw heck," I thought "I'll just let them go nuts. This is great for them." They mostly had fun, though my kids are way less happy than you'd think to be messy. In the end, we did end up with a few pretty decent balls of soft, fluffy dough. I also ended up with a ridiculous mess. I put the kids in the bathtub and then in front of a screen so that I could clean up. It was awful. Partially, it was awful because I had let Hazel, age 3, add water and flour to her batch... I AM DUMB. I had to be on my hands and knees scrubbing and sweeping. It wore me out terribly. I had to stop halfway through to make dinner (mistake number 4- say it with me, "Dick's Drive-In is your friend.") Then, when I got back to floor-scrubbing, I'm pretty sure I pulled some deep, essential muscle in my belly which now still hurts like crazy if I try to move my right leg at all. Obviously, I kind of need my right leg. Please remember, we are still on MONDAY.<br />
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This was Hazel's spot for making foam dough. I had already cleaned most of the surrounding floor.</div>
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Before the light sabers were taken away, Ezra put on this get-up and called himself "The Ter-knight." Pretty clever.</div>
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I did call Brendan around 5pm (good move number one and only) to let him know that he'd better get packing and head home to catch me. By 6, I was watching the drive-way like a hawk. At 6:12, I got a text that Brendan was just then changing his clothes to ride home. I informed him that he owed me $50 (which, BTW, Honey, I'm dead serious about. And I'm using it however I see fit.) He responded with a photo of an open draw-bridge that he should have been crossing and the number "75." (Again, Brendan, my love: please hand over the cash soon!). He arrived around 7. The night then proceeded to include many more frustrating moments of which we shall not speak. We simply shall not. </div>
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On Tuesday, we did have a better school day, and I had the sense to make our only crazy project be the baking of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. Blessedly, Brendan had planned to work from home for half the day because of contractors coming by in the afternoon, and he doula'd us through a few hard moments in the afternoon. I was feeling pretty terrible for most of the day.<br />
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I was really looking forward to today. REALLY. This was the day I had talked up the most. The day we would make <a href="http://littlebinsforlittlehands.com/liquid-starch-slime-easy-sensory-play-recipe/" target="_blank">this slime. </a> I was prepared. I had a plan for which book to read to get us ready. I had the science connection cued. I had all kinds of neon colors and holographic glitter specially ordered to add to our slime. I let the kids build LEGO space stations that they could attack with the slime. We had to wait until 1 so that my middle boy would be home from preschool and join the fun. By noon, I was crying to Brendan (working from home again for more delivery/appointment reasons) about how terrible I felt and how I would definitely need to crash. This always happens. I fake it, and I fake it, and I fake it, and then my body puts it's foot (or maybe my autonomic nervous system) down and forces me to face facts. Still, I had talked up this slimy moment, and we were going to do it, dang it!!! I roped Brendan into helping, and we gathered all the people, supplies, and ingredients in the bathroom. I thought I was being super slick and prepared this time by doing it in the bathroom/bathtub. This way, clean-up would be a cinch! Right? RIGHT?!?!<br />
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Let me take a moment here to publicly curse all bloggers who lie about how "easy" clean-up is. It ain't.<br />
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The slime mixing was going well at first. I stayed one step ahead of Brendan and the boys doing their batches while working up one with Hazel. We made it so pretty. 3 glitter colors and neon pink liquid watercolor. A real professional looking slime was coming together. I then put Hazel into the bathtub with her bowl of sparkling, beautiful slime filled with glass pearls and crystal hearts to play. Meanwhile, for some reason the neon yellow slimes belonging to each boy sitting next to her in the tub weren't gelling up quite the way my pink one did. While Brendan and I began trouble-shooting by adding more liquid starch, things started to go awry. First, Hazel, naturally, stepped into her bowl of slime. I decided to let that go. Nothing I could really do at the moment anyway because I was covered in still-very-gluey neon yellow slime. "This is the whole point," I thought. "Just let her get messy and go nuts. We were going to all need baths in the end anyway."<br />
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Then, slime started getting in people's hair... and all over my arms... and all over the floor of the bathtub. Then, Ezra decided to stand up and try to get out and realized the tub was now a slimy version of a mini ice rink. So, they all got up. This bathtub is tiny. Ezra then got out, in spite of our screaming, to get his LEGO city from the bathroom counter. He made it back in and poured his whole bowl out over the city, of course. This gave Hazel the idea of putting all of her slime into Ivo's hair. During all this, I requested that Brendan take pictures for the "pinterest fail" style FB post I would definitely have to make. He then started making a Cousteau level documentary of my idiocy. Naturally, the camera was not recording. Then, even though things had now escalated beyond any semblance of control or educational usefulness (ask me if I read a book or gave a science lesson... just try to ask me...), he turned on the camera and made another video. All of this took about 7 minutes total. The next 37 minutes were filled with learning how to remove "EASY Liquid Starch Slime" filled with tiny cornea-lacerating glitter from hair. Ivo was the main victim as the other two completely turned on him and filled his hair and face with slime and the air with their maniacal laughter. NEVER. AGAIN.<br />
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Except...<br />
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I'm thinking about making <a href="http://epicfunforkids.com/bubbling-slime-recipe-sensory-tubs/" target="_blank">this slime</a> on Friday halfway through Brendan's three day, two night trip he will be away on.<br />
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I AM DUMB.<br />
<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-18124285697248170612015-03-31T22:04:00.000-07:002015-03-31T22:15:33.764-07:00What I Learned While My Family Was HurlingI think I already knew this, but I definitely know now that I have a little secret. You know all that hard, "thankless" stuff that comes with being the mom? I love it. I always sort of loved it that I was the only one who could make that one baby stop crying. I had all sorts of techniques worked out for surviving the long, lonely hours in the baby's room in the night. I took pride in loving my child so much that I would comfort them no matter what- even if it meant letting them throw up in my lap. At the time, I didn't love all that stuff so much, but I did know that all that stuff meant that I loved them. It was so tangible. That kind of service and sacrifice was a way of seeing how I loved them. I was willing to give up my own comfort for their sakes.<br />
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***This is an added paragraph*** Upon reading this, I realize that it may sound hard to anyone in the baby crying all night phase. I don't think that you have to do "mommy" the way I do/did it to be really loving to your child. It looks different for everyone. And it really didn't feel like a picnic. Believe me. I just have a different perspective on it now, and I'll never tell you "Oh, love this time... " because it is really hard, and you just can't always love it. *** K, I'm done***<br />
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ENTER CHRONIC ILLNESS<br />
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Suddenly (well, not exactly suddenly...), I wasn't able to do that stuff anymore. I couldn't handle being up 3 times in the night. I couldn't afford to let them cry their snot all over me because I'd be sick for weeks. I couldn't get up the next day and take them to the park or the zoo after a rough night. I couldn't keep breastfeeding. All those exclusive, mommy-only rights started to fall away. I needed more care than they did sometimes! Sometimes, I still feel like the weakest little link. We don't worry so much anymore about overtaxing the kids or skipping their rest time, but we definitely worry about those things for me. I'm basically the baby now, the one whose physical needs can dictate the course of an entire day.<br />
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I HATE that part of being sick the very most. It is everything I never wanted. Instead of feeling like the reliable, go-to comforter, I feel like the one everyone else needs to worry about. There are a lot of deep reasons why this bothers me so much. I'm sure I don't understand all the reasons, but I do see that this concept, being the weakest link, worms it's way into most of my fears. I'm sure a lot of it has to do with growing up in the ballet world where there is always someone waiting to take over the minute you can't hack it. There are other old reasons too. Whatever the reasons the challenge exists, the challenge itself is now to not succumb to the wrong belief that I'm useless because I'm physically fragile.<br />
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<b>"Wow, she just got really deep really quick, and I thought I'd just be reading some funny puke stories..."</b><br />
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But, enough of this deep stuff. Let's talk about the vomiting family. To set the scene for my profound learning, here is a timeline of our last week:<br />
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<b>Monday AM:</b><br />
Learn that my much awaited hematology visit of the previous week revealed exactly what I didn't want: red blood cells die off too quickly giving me low hematocrit which make you feel crappy but really can't be fixed.<br />
<b>Monday PM:</b><br />
Get call from principal's office because son is in trouble for "disrespectful, violent talk." Oy. For SOOOOO many reasons...<br />
<b>Tuesday:</b><br />
Hazel and Ivo: sick with colds<br />
Me: POTS symptoms going crazy from stress and allergies. Terror over "violent talking" son's surgery scheduled for next morning. Lying on floor with rib out due to growing pregnant belly crying into my ears and carpet. Quitting "job" via text message to my "boss."<br />
Brendan aka Boss: Leaving work early to scrape me off the floor, so I can go to counseling where I lay it all out. (A good counselor is THE best)<br />
<b>Wednesday:</b><br />
Surgery for son goes well after sleepless night for mother. Mother, me, gets some time to rest.<br />
<b>Thursday:</b><br />
Things are looking up. Surgery son back at school already. I go on MUCH NEEDED friend date to U.Village with some besties. Get text message (20 minutes after it was sent) that Hazel is vomiting.<br />
<b>Thursday Night:</b><br />
Hazel throws up every 10 or 20 minutes for 6 hours straight before switching over to uncontrollable diarrhea... in her sleep.<br />
<b>Friday:</b><br />
Boys at school. I help Hazel recover and wait to begin vomiting... which never happens.<br />
<b>Saturday AM:</b><br />
Worried about the girl, I take her to urgent care at Children's to rule out things that would need medication. Ezra begins having abdominal pain. I do my best to be in denial about it all so that I can go to the school auction night with my husband because that's about the best we can do for dates these days, and I've been looking forward to it for months. Seriously.<br />
<b>Saturday around 4:00: </b><br />
Ez and Ivo develop fevers. Ivo starts complaining of nausea and crying because he is so scared that he is going to throw-up. I continue pretending I'm going to the bleepin' auction and do my hair. Hazel helps pick out my dress.<br />
<b>Saturday around 4:30:</b><br />
Ivo vomits on me and the nicest chair in my house, that rocker from Land of Nod. I text babysitter that it's a no-go. Repeat (to myself) a NO-GO.<br />
<b>Saturday around 5:00:</b><br />
Ezra's pain becomes so bad that he is crying with each cramp. I get on the phone with doctor who says if a tums doesn't do anything to take him to the ER. Tums makes him vomit. Please note: there are now two vomiters.<br />
<b>Saturday around 7:00:</b><br />
I start getting the people settled for bed. Brendan says he doesn't feel well. I think, "FML."<br />
<b>Saturday after 7:30:</b><br />
I have people put to bed, and I come upstairs. Brendan takes one look at me and immediately runs to toilet to vomit like a fire hydrant. Correlation does not equal causation.<br />
<b>Saturday 8:00:</b><br />
Ivo vomits all over his bed and cries for a while because he "is so stressed out. Just so stressed out."<br />
<b>Saturday around 9: </b><br />
I settle down to get some sleep only to hear someone screaming for me over the monitor. It is Hazel. She is vomiting. Vomiter Count: 4 people<br />
<b>ALL FREAKING NIGHT LONG:</b><br />
Hazel vomits and screams about how she doesn't want to vomit. I develop a soon-to-be-patented method of dealing with this involving a multi-layered towel nest. I commit to aborting plan to downsize our towel volume.<br />
<b>Sunday around 5AM:</b><br />
Hazel finally settles down. Ezra wakes up and comes to wake me up to make sure I know that his tummy still hurts, but he thinks he's done vomiting. Good to know.<br />
<b>Sunday around 7AM:</b><br />
Two boys come up to tell me that they are awake and feel fine. Again, good to know. Kids then played for two hours together downstairs without incident. REPEAT: TWO HOURS WITHOUT INCIDENT (and I don't mean vomit, I mean cruelty and infighting. This is nothing short of a miracle.) I help Hazel with her "poop squirting all over." I also send a desperate text to my mother-in-law to come with supplies.<br />
<b>Sunday 9AM:</b><br />
I tuck Hazel and Brendan in to rest in our bed. Even though they don't smell the best, I note that they are the cutest thing ever. Hazel makes nursing face in her sleep. I go out to see the boys and begin their pedialyte/apple sauce regimen. Ezra suggests hot beads as an activity, and they play while I BLEACH THE WORLD.<br />
<b>Sunday around 10: </b><br />
Mother-in-law comes with color-coded vomit buckets for the kids and more Saltines and applesauce than any mommy ever hoped for. She also brings me breakfast, Lysol, and Clorox Wipes. She is great.<br />
<b>Rest of Sunday:</b><br />
I do laundry, change sheets, rock kids, force fluids, wipe bottoms, sneak food into my mouth after bleaching my hands, take a little nap while Brendan and kids watch some Netflix. We have a pretty fantastic, chill day ending with bowls of white rice.<br />
<b>Sunday PM: </b><br />
My POTS symptoms become extreme. We all go to bed. We all sleep all night.<br />
<b>Monday:</b><br />
Brendan stays home. I sleep a lot. Everyone starts to feel better. I become obsessed with watching <i>Escape to River Cottage. </i>I realize how much I loved taking care of everyone.<br />
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<b>So, here's what I learned while my family was hurling:</b><br />
I still can physically care for the people. God gives me what I need when I need it. They saw me as comforter, and none of them acted surprised. They still see me as Mommy and bearing all the qualities I want to have included in that glorious title. I appreciate the ability to physically serve in a way I never did before. Now that those "thankless" jobs aren't always a given for me, I'm so happy when I'm able to do them! This is a huge encouragement to me because I have been concerned about how I'm going to deal with a newborn. But, there is a part of me that is looking forward to the opportunity to lean on God in new, dramatic ways for that privilege of rocking a baby in the night. I know it will be hard. I KNOW. I know with the knowledge of a lady who had 3 babies in 3.5 years and then got sick with a "probably forever" kind of sickness. But for every degree of difficulty I can fathom, I have knowledge too of what God can do and does do through people who pray and trust in him.<br />
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Thanks to everyone who prayed for us and in any way covered and provided for us over the last couple of weeks! I'm praying for you all to be blessed for your kindness!<br />
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<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-1340536379744636512015-03-25T18:35:00.000-07:002015-03-25T18:35:01.964-07:00Coping Chronicles: Kids and Chronic IllnessI participate in a few POTS groups on FB. There are some awesome conversations happening there. People are forced to ask very personal, difficult questions and share some sad circumstances. For the most part, it's been a great community for me, though I was VERY slow to join in (hard to participate when you'd rather be in denial about being one of those sick people). One of the groups is dedicated entirely to POTS, family life, and pregnancy. Pretty much right in my wheelhouse. Today a young woman asked for help for her and her serious boyfriend as they work through the difficult question of whether or not kids and family could be in their future. The responses were great! I took the time to write these two paragraphs. This is info I've been wanting to write out and share as part of my effort to help other moms figuring this stuff out. Not too fancy, but some practical stuff and a little encouragement:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I have three children all under the age of 6.5, and I chose to get pregnant one last time after my POTS diagnosis to add that fourth kid we had always imagined. I've made a few choices that help. These may not be possible for everyone, of course, but they are good to consider. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">1. We bought a house that has good indoor and outdoor spaces for play b/c I'm not always able to get the kids out for a walk or trip to the park. Big outings like museums/zoo are only possible with another adult. When I do choose to blow my energy on a big outing or family event, I enjoy it fully, but I just plan to pay for it with a few days of recovery. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">2. I have one afternoon of babysitting every week, so the kids can be with someone who is able to be active. I can use that day to crash if I planned/achieved something fun or big earlier in the week.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">3. I force myself to be completely honest with a handful of friends about how hard it really is. That way, they can sort of help spread the word if I'm unavailable or other acquaintances start getting crabby about me not showing up for stuff or not taking on enough volunteer responsibilities at church/school/etc. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">4. I have learned to let go of some cleaning/aesthetic preferences in my home! I basically keep just a couple areas looking good for my own comfort/sanity, but I try to be really flexible about the rest. If I'm not, I just turn into a tyrant! </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">5. I think it's good to spend more money on occasional cleaning/organizing help rather than childcare. Kids will only need this intense, regular attention for a few years (unless you homeschool, but even then it gets less demanding as they get older.). I'd rather lie on the floor doing puzzles or watching them play than bust my chops to get the kids babysat for me to spend my scant energy on less important things like mopping.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Oh and... I have seen some really beautiful character qualities beginning to develop in my young kids because I am a sick mom. They care more about people and experiences than doing everything just so. They are empathetic and perceptive to other people's needs and pain. They know it is ok to need and ask for help. They know that other adults in their lives are great resources of love and wisdom- not just mommy (though they do still love me the best!!) They are learning that a person's worth is not based on how much she can accomplish! I always hoped to be a supermom. I always told myself that I was going to be cheerful and energetic... But, here I am. I'm seeing that my vision of being a good mom and actually choosing each moment to be the best mom I can be are very different things. I and my family are learning tons of great stuff, and I try to take the long view when I get really bummed out or overwhelmed with the immediate difficulties.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I will add here that I 100% get overwhelmed by the immediate difficulties sometimes. There is very real, hard stuff going on here, and this week I've been beaten to tears by all the stress more than once. Without the prayers and love of first my God, then my great husband, and then my family and friends, I do not know that I would climb out of these pits that I sometimes find myself in. My counselor helps a lot too!</span></span>Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-49211794493307940612015-03-23T09:45:00.001-07:002015-03-23T09:45:53.998-07:00The Artist's Challenge<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Perhaps you have noticed the "Artist's Challenge" going around. It's as contagious as the flu. As an artist who met a challenge that was too great to overcome, the whole thing has pretty much made me feel like I have the flu. The symptoms of artistic nostalgia, intense fits of longing, and a heart full of stifled movement cannot be managed by medication. However, gratefulness is an antidote to the bitterness that threatens to develop. I wouldn't have posted this except that I was actually nominated, and I'm grateful. I wish that I had piles of beautiful ballet photos to share, but I don't. I do have a few from my student days, and I'm so happy that I was allowed a taste of living that dream. My dancing days are going on being half my lifetime away from me. It's a weird sensation because I still identify as a dancer on the inside (and still use ballet as my excuse for my ugly feet when the pedicurist rolls her eyes!). My own little "artist's challenge" for years now has been figuring out how to live artistically and express myself without access to the medium In which I was trained.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I have managed to find some ways to do this- mostly through dance partying with my children. But, I also like to cook, garden, work as a doula, write, make jewelry, create terrariums, and (lately) felt. Here's the thing, though: I'm pretty consumed these days with my main job, being a mother. All those other things fill in the gaps, the very few and narrow gaps. I think that what is important is to apply the love and skill I had for dancing to all the other areas of my life. Training to be a professional ballet dancer requires great commitment, sacrifice, risk, and LOVE. You have to love it so much that you are willing to keep going. You have to believe that it is worth pursuing- not just for you, but for the world. So, I try to believe that creative pursuits are worth the trouble. It is easier to live mundanely- MUCH easier. It's less messy, less risky, but less fun. Choosing to do crazy things like covering my kitchen counter in dirt, plants, rocks, and moss for an afternoon of putting terrariums together even though I KNOW my kids are going to get dirt all over my house is my way of being an artist now. Are the results always terrific? No. Does my world feel richer? Yes. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My willingness to live in this manner has been challenged by the development of chronic illness in my body. So far, my life displays a pattern: fall in love with something; become damaged in some new way; try to move on without bitterness. My life is not uniques in this. I think that's just being here and growing up, and we all have to do that. I think the real nugget of goodness in this whole "artist's challenge" business is that it reveals what artsy people know already: it's ok to be proud of what you make. It will feel weird most of the time, and it comes with lots of insecurity. But, artists love what they do so much that they just can't help but do it anyway and hopefully share it with the rest of us. So, I'm writing a blog post that makes me feel insecure. But I love writing, so I'm doing it anyway. And I'm willing to believe that posting it will be worth the risk of exposing myself. And I bought the America's Test Kitchen <i>D.I.Y. Cookbook</i> because even though I can buy pickles, I love them so much that I want to figure it out myself. The pursuit is worth the time to me. My kids will know where pickles come from! And I submitted a terrarium full of hand-felted plants to the school auction because even though it may actually be extremely dorky, I loved making it and want to share it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I don't dance for very many people any more, but I certainly don't love dancing any less. For me, the risk of pursuing an artistic life did not pay off in the way that I hoped. At least, though, I learned that the pursuit itself is worth it to me. Enjoying creativity at the cost of practicality is a challenge I hope to meet everyday- even if I'm doing it from my bed. My children love to talk about and even re-enact (oh, the joy) my ballet accident because even though it makes them sad, they see that moment as the start to their own stories. "Mommy loved ballet so much, but then she got hurt and couldn't do it anymore. So, she had us and now she has a job she loves even better than ballet!" What a great story! The thought of my kids growing up to love something like ballet actually terrifies me because I know how painful it may be if it doesn't work out how they want. But, if I can communicate to them through pursuing my own interests over and over, engaging them in the messy, rewarding processes, that art is for knowing more love and beauty and sharing with others- and not necessarily about "success," then I know they will be blessed by it for a lifetime as I am. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I nominate anyone I know to accept the challenge of doing something you love even if it may be a bit inconvenient. I challenge you to share something with someone else. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Clearly, photography is not one of my gifts!</span>Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-65212263074110320112015-01-17T19:53:00.000-08:002015-01-18T20:12:31.068-08:00Goal-SettingI have felt so homebound lately. It's tough for me because I'm so extroverted and at least was formerly adventurous. Being trapped in my room or bed drives me nuts, but I'm finding new ways to excel and enjoy. In the words of that famous cat, "It's fun to have fun, but you have to know how." Knowing how to have fun within the walls of not just my house but the confines that my limited energy creates is requiring new learning and creativity.<br />
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Here are a few things in which I have invested time and thought:</div>
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1. How to take a perfect bath </div>
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Lock the door if another adult is home. If not, place children in a nearby location with "the babysitter." The babysitter could be books and coloring (if you have <i>those</i> imaginary children), but it's probably Netflix and a show that they think you don't really like for them to watch but actually YOU just don't like to watch. The moment you decide to take a bath, plug the drain and start the water even if it's not a perfect temperature. Too hot will cool when filling the cold tub and too cold is easily fixed once the hot water warms up. Feel good about not wasting any water. Throw in a handful of baking soda. DO NOT FORGET TO BRING IN YOUR UNDERWEAR AND YOUR DRINK BEFORE YOU GET IN. I have worked long to develop the foot dexterity to adjust water temperature and turn water off using only one foot. You too may be able to achieve this with hard work and determination (to not raise your body out of the water.)</div>
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2. How to make a delicious fennel salad</div>
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Order things on AmazonFresh. You need fennel bulb (buy 3, you'll want this a lot), orange, apple, onion, olive oil, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper. Thinly slice the fennel bulb and a few tablespoons of the leaves. Thinly slice half an apple. Finely chop about a tablespoon of onion. Peel and chop up about half an orange and save any juice that runs out on the cutting board. Throw all this in a bowl. Stir together. Add a drizzle of olive oil and more apple cider vinegar than you think. Generously salt and pepper it all. Allow salad to change your tongue's life.</div>
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3. How to watch Project Runway with a 3 year old girl</div>
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Get snacks. We recommend <a href="http://www.albanesecandy.com/all-gummies/12-flavor-gummi-bears/" target="_blank">these gummy bears</a> and pretzels. Turn on the subtitles so that you can see the word "bitch" coming. They use it a lot. Cough on cue to cover the offense. Encourage 3 year old girl to decide whose team she is on. She will probably pick a color. Think she is adorable. Give her more candy.</div>
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4. How to cheer up</div>
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Use music.</div>
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5. How to not ruin the rest you got during your long stay in your room</div>
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Pretend you are a kid home from school on a sick day for at least 2 days. Enjoy activities with your kids. They like quieter activities just fine when you are doing them too (unlike when you are trying to force them to do them when you need to get some work done). Puzzles, drawing, beads, play dough are all good choices. Watch movies, but make it an event and snuggle together without scrolling through your phone the whole time. Eat simple meals. Resist the urge to freak out over the disaster that is all around- Mt. Rainier sized laundry pile, Mt. St. Helen's sized pile of dishes, Oregon's dunes' worth of dust on the floor. This step requires at least 20 rounds of bed confinement requiring recovery time to achieve. </div>
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With time and effort, you too can begin to lower your expectations beyond what you ever imagined, and fennel salad, a bath, and a glow in the dark T-Rex puzzle can be your week's greatest achievements too!</div>
Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-30938975216471175732015-01-08T20:38:00.001-08:002015-01-08T20:40:00.304-08:00Feeling Better and Seeing BabyThis month I learned the importance of always knowing your own TSH number. That may mean nothing to you, and I actually hope it means nothing; that would imply that you maybe have a thyroid that works. My thyroid, however, is a dead crusty thing that no longer does its job. I've known this for a long time, and have been on replacement thyroid hormones for about 7 years (Dang! I'm getting older!). When that TSH is high, it's bad news. My first pregnancy measurements showed that my TSH was super high and that I needed more medication. Long story short (and some alarming, insensitive comments from an endocrinologist about my baby omitted), it took me awhile to get on the proper dose. The 7 day half-life of the medication means that it takes about a week after beginning a new dose to feel its effects. MORAL: know my number and get the right medicine quickly.<br />
<br />
Because...<br />
<br />
I feel so much better!! POTS still sucks, and I do have experiences of it even on good days, but I have mostly functioned like a semi-normal person (or at least a normal pregnant person) for 4 whole days! Cue the singing princess and the chirping little bluebirds! I went to the store even! I don't know how long this will last, but I'm hoping I may be sliding into the 2nd trimester and the hope that POTS symptoms will improve. I also can tell that I'm on the proper thyroid doses, and that is a very good thing (just ask my endocrinologist).<br />
<br />
I had a visit with my midwife today that I was very much looking forward to. For one thing, I love her, and she is a dear friend to me. Secondly, I was pretty worried about my baby, and I really needed to hear that heartbeat. Hypothyroidism is connected to miscarriage. I also have only lost weight (which is not that unusual but is not reassuring). I also just worry about that stuff because of my history, my family history, and too many bad things happening to good friends. Well, we couldn't find the heartbeat with the doppler, and I was thinking, "oh no, so this is how it goes." Thankfully, my midwife now has an ultrasound machine and ultrasound training, and she pulled it out immediately. Right away, as if already displaying the family traits, there was my baby doing a crazy dance as if he or she was aware of being on stage. PRAISE GOD! Baby looked great! 4 limbs and a heart beat- I'll take it! I will be 12 weeks on Tuesday (not that I'm counting...)<br />
<br />
Today's technological visit with my baby was such a comfort to me and just made me fall that much more in love with the child. I can't wait to meet him or her and can already sense the joy that is in store for us. Just telling the boys about the ultrasound made them giggle and smile. The fact that they can't wait to have this kid in our family too makes the whole thing just that much more fun. I really do love kids. And I mean all kids, but I also mean MY kids.<br />
<br />
(Of course, as I write that, my daughter is downstairs throwing an epic fit about bedtime to St. Brendan, and one of my sons has left a duplo mine field around my bed. Still- I love my kids!)<br />
<br />
I'm grateful tonight for celebratory frozen chocolate cheesecakes from Trader Joe's, ultrasound technology, a fantastic midwife, and the bravery required to undertake this pregnancy. All of these have been opportunities for me to see God's love. It is always there, and I wish I was ALWAYS looking for it. I can even be grateful for the terrible few weeks in a row I suffered because they help me to keep my eyes open.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-7535366682067120782015-01-04T12:38:00.000-08:002015-01-04T12:38:10.913-08:00I think this one is really just for me<i>So, I wrote all this out, and I'm glad that I did. But, I'm really hesitant to post it. Sharing these parts of it all is really hard. It feels like people are left with such a one-dimensional impression of who I am. And, honestly, a post like this inspires pity, and I hate pity even though I do need it! Alright, conclusion of meta-post.</i><br />
<br />
I spent the last three days in bed. I knew I'd be crashing at some point, but it doesn't usually take me this long to recover. Of course, given all the medical facts of the moment, I shouldn't be so surprised. I think the baby has increased my requirements for recovery time.<br />
<br />
So, what am I recovering from? Not entirely sure, but I think I'm paying for my New Year's Eve activities. I went to the park with my family, and even though I just sat in a blanket with Hazel the whole time, it was the most significant outing I've done for a while. It felt good to get some fresh, cold air in my lungs and sunshine on my face, even if it was only 38 degrees. I should have stopped there, but I had already decided to pretend I wasn't sick and enjoy some NYE festivities. I REALLY should have thrown in the towel. In fact, the whole time I was struggling through putting a dress on I was saying to Brendan, "I should not do this. I do not want to do this." First stop was dinner at a Chinese restaurant with the extended family. Normally, this would have been fun, but I was trying not to vomit (POTS, not preg-related, I think...). And given my state, dealing with the very exuberant child to my left who shall remain nameless was extremely taxing. I took our first opportunity to get out of there just to be done worrying that they were going to rip the tablecloth off the table or upset the lazy susan because it was raising my heart rate by the minute. Brendan and I left our kids in the kind and capable hands of their aunt and uncle and departed for one of my favorite events of the year and the reason I was so committed to the fact that Denial is a river in Egypt. The all-adult dress-up party was lovely as always. Sadly I couldn't enjoy it. I perked up a little bit being around my friends, but I quickly began to flag. My brain fog became ridiculous as did my headache and heart-rate, and I wound up standing on the porch just to be away from everyone while I waited for Brendan to come out and take me home.<br />
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I started out angry, but wound up crying my brains out for the next hour or so about my deepest fears and disappointments (no biggie) and going to bed where I have pretty much stayed since.<br />
<br />
So, why was I telling you all this? Ah, yes, this morning. Because I've been trapped here for so long, I was determined to turn the denial back on and get my butt to church this morning. Mostly, I wanted to be able to teach my Sunday School class, but I also really get so much rejuvenation from worship. I'm definitely needing some rejuvenation. When things get really tough like this, I just sort of go into this shallow-thinking mode where I kind of disassociate from what's happening. I try to keep myself on a steady diet of non-demanding Netflix watching and snuggling with whatever child comes in to see me. I braided Hazel's hair about 20 times. Giving yourself a day like that is probably fine, but three is way too many. All the real feels that are trapped inside just really start banging on the walls and driving me crazy. It's hard for me to want to engage with God when I'm like this. I KNOW that it just takes me breaking the ice by cracking open my Bible or even finding a song to listen to, but I get very lazy and resistant. Coming to God means being honest about my need, and that doesn't mix well with shallow-thinking denial. So, anyway, I was looking forward to church because I knew that would help snap me out of my awful funk and give me some new hope.<br />
<br />
But, I woke up feeling dizzy. Not good. Waking up means I'm still horizontal. After whisper screaming some expletives to myself, I dragged on my BP monitor. Super low blood pressure. This was no surprise to me since I had been up late dealing with chest pain. It's a POTS thing that no one really understands. Comforting, right? I stood up to see what the damage was. (For those just joining us, POTS stands for POSTURAL orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, so the real test for how symptomatic I am comes with checking my heart during postural changes) The first time I started the monitor it was flashing at me that I was arrhythmic, and I think my pressure was so low that it couldn't get a reading and displayed an error. So, I tried to start it again but had to sit down because I blacked out and my ears filled with cotton and clanging. DARN IT. No church for me.<br />
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The Holy Spirit convinced me to do my own little horizontal worship time. I followed the regular order of liturgy and used music from <a href="http://greenlakepc.org/#/audio/music" target="_blank">my church websit</a>e and <a href="http://partainwordsandmusic.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">the site of another musician I lov</a>e, and <a href="http://www.redeemindy.org/worship/music" target="_blank">his church's website</a> as well. I called myself to worship with these words of Moses and God from Exodus 33: "'If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways, so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.' The Lord replied, "My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.'" I listened to songs and tried my best to sing along as they were choking me up. Confession flowed easily as I knew full well I'd tried hiding from God for three days. I was going to find a sermon to listen to, but I decided that I was preaching to myself already. And, really, that's what I pulled open the blog to try to write through, but I guess just narrating the last several days was what needed to happen first.<br />
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Maybe all this is the offering portion of my worship. "Here's what I have, Lord. This is what I'm working with. You might as well take it because only you can make good of stuff like this. And I love you." These thoughts are taken from the speaker we enjoyed on our church's women's retreat. She presented the concept of just giving God what I have, even if it feels unworthy, like the widow's mite or a kid with a fistful of dandelions, because God will receive with love and acceptance. What a relief!<br />
<br />
My ears are still ringing. My heart pounds if I get up. But, my deepest health need, the need for spiritual comfort has been relieved some now. God, give me strength for tomorrow and the week to come! But help me to give all to you so that you can make good from what is happening whether I like it or not.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-37307320109041667992014-12-27T21:39:00.003-08:002014-12-27T21:39:42.862-08:001st Trimester Report: FOGBoy, this 1st trimester is bad.<br />
HOW BAD IS IT?<br />
It's so bad that I can't recommend anyone TRY MESSIN' with it.<br />
BA DUMP CHHHHH!!!!<br />
<br />
But, seriously, folks: this pregnancy has not been romantic. I can write pretty stories about it all, true stories, even, but it has not been pretty. By now, you've read of my nausea in other posts. I've never experienced anything like it. Still, everyone has had stomach virus, and many have had much worse. I could never be glad that Brendan suffered from <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/cyclic-vomiting-syndrome/basics/definition/con-20028160" target="_blank">CVS</a> during highschool and college, but it definitely has made him empathetic. Actually, knowing that my episodes were causing him flashbacks helped me to be a little braver about the whole thing! He's full of helpful, normalizing information like: "Oh, yeah, coughing up a little blood for a while after is the worst." And, "Believe me: throwing up something is better than throwing up nothing." My poor baby. I wish he didn't know these things. (I say that, but I have had to repent of all the times that I wish he DID know how POTS feels.)<br />
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I'm not glad that I finally got a rough 1st trimester on what will likely be my last pregnancy, but I am glad to know a bit more fully why so many women hate pregnancy. I have to admit: I realize now that I felt pretty judgy in the past about women who would complain about pregnancy. I think beginning my child-bearing career with a miscarriage set me on a path of never wanting to utter a negative word about pregnancy because "at least my baby is alive." That's a tough standard. I was truly thankful and willing to put up with a lot, but I see now that it's not a very generous position to take. Of course, with each subsequent pregnancy and the increasing discomforts that accompanied them, I became a little more empathetic. I suppose the trend continues.<br />
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Because I believe so strongly that children are blessings worth bending over backwards for, it's difficult to admit that I have frequently asked myself over the last weeks "What is wrong with me???? Why did I just <i>have to have</i> another one of these people?! Where do I get these ideas!?" It's a good thing <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2014/11/one-of-my-favorite-things-to-do-in-new.html" target="_blank">I wrote down my pretty story about wanting this baby</a> because I definitely have had to go back and read it a few times. I've not wished the pregnancy away; I've just needed a lot of reminders of the Why. This rough trimester reminds me of being in Seattle summer morning fog. You go to bed with all these hopes for the predicted sunny day. Then, when the day actually begins, you look out and WAH-wah: gray clouds. You can't see from your place down in the city that it IS a beautiful day; there's just a marine layer. It's easy to get discouraged and wonder why you ever were dumb enough to make sunbathing plans when you KNOW you live in SEATTLE! You have to keep hope and remember that, as any seasoned Seattleite will undoubtedly say, "this will burn off." So, yes, I decided to take the risk of getting pregnant with POTS and the OB's words that the first trimester would be bad. We decided to try to do it anyway because with a long-term perspective it's easy to sign-up for 3 (or even 9, or even 30) rough months because ANOTHER PERSON!! A wonderful blessing! The three we have are incredible, so why not do it again? But then... you wake up on that cloudy morning, and it's inevitable to wonder for at least a moment, "What were we thinking exactly?"<br />
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After the fog does indeed burn off, the summer days in Seattle are incredible. There's nothing like a perfect Seattle day, and I think they are a little bit better because of all the suspense of that dang morning fog. Am I trying to pump myself up? You betcha. I need all the encouragement I can get- even if I do just write it myself. Being a pregnant POTSie is really hard so far. My blood pressure has been very uncomfortably low and has seriously exacerbated my POTS symptoms- particularly the racing heart and dizziness in upright positions, digestive troubles, fatigue, and weakness. BUT, I do take some solace from the fact that I was told this would happen. I'm hoping and praying that this fog will burn off as I get into my second trimester in a couple of weeks. The increased blood volume of the latter stages of pregnancy has, for some, even given the feeling of curing their POTS for a few months. I look forward to reporting on the subject.<br />
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There is one thing of which I'm sure: God will love me whether I feel better or not, and I will be looking for that love to shine through no matter how long the fog lasts. I'm so grateful to my family for being the number-one source of God's love to me. My children have empathetic abilities beyond their years, and it's no wonder to me that my husband bears the name of a saint. I don't know how this story will end. It could go badly; and though I do not dwell on that, I know enough to prepare myself to accept it as a possibility. I can only survive this if I keep my eyes fixed on things above because down here I feel like I'm gonna barf or maybe pass out.<br />
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But it is fun to think of baby names.<br />
<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-24433257179887527392014-12-17T12:20:00.001-08:002014-12-17T12:20:39.450-08:00What It's Like Today<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">In the interest of being more honest about what chronic illness is like for me, here's a confession: I'm really sad today that I'm sick. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">By God's grace, I'm a fairly positive, hopeful person that looks for the beauty in my life more than the dark, but every now and then I get emotionally exhausted. Every moment of every day some part of my heart and my mind is distracted, plagued by thinking about how my body feels. Sometimes, my pain, dizziness, shortness of breath, or pounding, arrhythmic heart is ALL I can think about. Other times, I'm just so tired that I can't get through a full idea or sentence without stopping. I can't remember the last time that there wasn't some little part of me being forced to direct attention to self-preservation. You know the feeling: you're sick with a cold, and there's just this little bit of you that has a running script of, "dang, my head hurts. Uggh, this congestion. When should I take another Tylenol? I hope this person isnt grossed out by me. I wonder if they can tell how sick I am." Or, when you have something really awful like strep-throat or stomach flu, and it just hurts so badly that it is ALL you can think about. Well, that's how it is for me ALL the time, and it's been this way for 2 years now. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Maybe it's the "2 years" part that has me newly depressed and discouraged. My bizzare symptoms began 2 years ago, the week of Hazel Belle's first birthday. Anniversaries do things to me, and my little, emotional self seems to begin groaning before my mind realizes that there is a seasonal reason for my funk. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I can't have a conversation, or rest in my bed, or do an errand without constantly having to evaluate how much more I can take. I HATE IT. I'm sick of being sick! It is so, so draining. I feel like I have adjusted somewhat to the constant physical drain. I just know now what I can and can't do. I usually know the point at which I am officially spending too much energy and WILL be forced to pay the price later. I have to decide all the time what activities are worth X amount of cost. Mostly, I choose to spend what I have on people- mostly my family and making memories with them. I could spend more time resting, but for what? A lifetime (doctor's predict) of memories of missing out? No thanks. I'd rather flash and fizzle over and over than just be a tiny little flame in pajamas that's not really shining for anyone. All that to say, I'm adjusting to the physical limitations. The emotional drain? Not so much. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I miss using my full heart and full mind to focus on what's in front of me, and this week I'm just so, so sad about it. I want to use my energy for more than just being able to pick up kids from school and <i>maybe </i>take a shower. I'm glad that I've been able to make it out for a few holiday events- office parties, etc., and I have enjoyed them. I'm glad that my family understands that being together at church for a few hours or picking out a Christmas tree means that I'll need to spend the rest of the day in my bed. I'm also hopeful that once this baby is born (about a billion years from now...) I can get back on all my medications and feel a little bit more energetic- even if it is a strange, manufactured feeling. I know that I won't feel this sad every day, but I do want to share more often when it feels this bad.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I'm feeling pretty angry today too. I'm pissed at POTS. I'm frustrated that the medical community does not understand why this happens to people- young, strong people in the prime of life. I feel like I have to stay at least a little bit mad about it, or I will lose my willingness to fight back. I don't want my children to get this crap. I don't want this to swoop down and do to my daughter what it has done to me right when she most wishes she could be healthy and strong for her family. I don't want my grandchildren to have to worry about their mom fainting. So, I have to stay a little bit mad. I need to be a squeaky wheel... if only I could figure out who it is I should squeak to! If you're a passionate, medical researcher looking for a cause, you give me a call! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Advent is a good time for groaning with dissatisfaction, I think. "Long lay the world in sin and error pining." "O, come, O, come, Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear!" I feel the pining! I feel the captivity! To modernize a bit: "My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love." I don't want things to stay this way, and I'm SO glad that things will be new someday. I need the Incarnation to be the truest of true. For today, I'm crying.</span>Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-1443832847610239852014-12-14T20:32:00.001-08:002014-12-14T20:32:43.399-08:00Nutcracker- Part IIIWe did it. We went to <i>Nutcracker</i><a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2014/11/nutcracker-part-ii.html" target="_blank"> thanks to my amazing church</a> family. We sat in what I felt were the best seats in the house, and I cried once.<br />
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Getting out the door to drive down to the opera house, park, and make sure everyone had eaten something before the 5:30 show was definitely a challenge. That week was probably the low point of my <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2013/09/hello-im-jessica-i-am-sick-person.html" target="_blank">POTSy</a>, nauseated pregnancy so far. I was genuinely concerned that I might need to vomit during the performance. Thankfully, I have years of training under my belt in the "show must go on" category, so I sucked it up and faked wellness. In a way, it was a good distraction- not too much attention left for getting myself in an emotional tizzy over what we were headed to do.<br />
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The kids were really pretty golden. They were appreciative and in their own, age-appropriate ways understood the emotional gravity of the experience for me. They had been given the carrots of choosing 2014 ornaments from the gift shop and eating overpriced cookies ($30 for 3 cookies, an 8oz cold egg nog, and a small bottle of San Pellegrino!!!) at intermission if they behaved. They achieved both! They were very interested in understanding the story fully and asked lots of intelligent questions beforehand. Hazel asked insightful little questions that felt like those from a future dancer's mind (if I do say so...) like, "Why her shoes so noisy?" and "How does he do that spin?" The boys wanted mostly to know, "Is that a real sword!?!" every time a sword appeared on stage. By the middle of Act II, Hazel, almost 3 years old, was just trying to survive sitting still for another minute. My favorite thing Ezra, 6.5, did was hum along to all the songs... that he didn't really know. I kept telling him to cut it out, and he finally asked, "Why won't you let me sing?" "Because everyone here paid a lot of money to hear that orchestra... not you." He understood; Ez definitely can appreciate wanting to get one's money's worth. Ivo, 4.5, was considerably more emotional about the whole thing than the other two. He wanted to be close to me, and I think he was feeling sad for me. He kept asking me if I knew the different parts he was seeing and was adamant that I point out the exact moment in the show that I had been injured. I think Tchaikovsky's very emotional score got to him too as he is easily affected by melody and timber. He wasn't alone.<br />
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The overture had me holding my breath and my heart beating fast just like it did when I was 7 years old and waiting to be the first little girl on the stage and when I was 19 and a bit panic stricken that I would fall (and then did.) I think, though, that I successfully held both those emotional extremes in my heart and tried to let them have their effect. I was really sad and really wistfully happy at the same time.<br />
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My overwhelming feeling in the party scene was that it was about as boring to watch as it was to do. It felt like it took forever, just like it always did on the other side of the orchestra pit. Too, it made me proud of the work we did at Lone Star Ballet. Our small city show was every bit as engaging; and, honestly, I think the Amarillo kids gave much better face and were more together... at least back in my day. These Seattle children don't get enough sunshine. I enjoyed watching the fight scene, though, and thought that all the little soldiers were adorable. I was never a soldier, nor did I ever want to be one. But, they sure added a lot to the scene.<br />
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The crying came during the first <i>pas de deux</i>. Different productions use the music for different things, but usually it's some kind of <i>pas </i>for Clara or a Snow Queen. I cried because I had danced to it and because the memory of dancing to it was so, so sweet. What a blessing all those years at Lone Star Ballet dancing lead roles were! I would not have nearly the body of work in my memory had I not been given those opportunities. The dancers were beautiful too, and I appreciated seeing such talent. The dancer who performed as the Nutcracker Prince that night was a friend of mine (acquaintance?), and many nice stories of fun times with him and my other friends came to mind too. He danced with such cheery, generosity- just like he is in real life. I had fun later relating to the kids my story about him teaching me about arnica gel and giving me the last of his tube of it for a stress fracture in my metatarsal.<br />
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During the snow scene, my favorite to watch and to dance, I was so pleasantly surprised to see how very visible my spot felt. I realized that people really had seen me dance. TONS of people saw me dance. When you are dancing in the corps, it can feel like you are a bit hidden, and like your job is very secondary to the the principal and solo roles. But, I loved watching the corps dance, and no one was hidden. Almost certainly, people watched and appreciated the work I did, and that felt so nice to realize.<br />
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At intermission, I was SHOCKED by how insane the house was. SO MANY people go to this show! As a dancer, I don't think I ever realized just how willing people are to inconvenience themselves for this production. Nothing about it was convenient or cheap. I wish I had appreciated a bit more back then what a privilege it was to have that many people make that great an effort to watch us dance. What a pleasure to know that I added to so many people's holiday joy.<br />
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Second act went by quickly, for me not the kids, and I loved watching Flowers. I was happy again to see that it did matter that the girl dancing my old spot was there. I clapped long and hard at the end after mentally dancing every step of the finale- classic Stowell <i>Nutcracker</i> hip-wiggle and all. I had a teeny bit of sadness that the hip wiggle is going away, but I also felt really glad that PNB is doing a new production next year. It's time.<br />
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In the harried departure from the theater and then 40 minute wait to get out of the garage, my ability to fake wellness seriously flagged. I felt like crap the whole way home and was pretty miserable from overdoing it for a few days afterward. But, I felt so glad that we had made the effort and had been given such a special opportunity. I felt like a grown-up. I felt like I had done some maturing, and I'm thankful that bitterness had lifted. Am I eager to start a new <i>Nutcracker</i> watching tradition? Not at all. But, I'm glad I said hello to it as an audience member for the first time, and I'm glad my children got to see it too.<br />
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<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-78858594867778771152014-11-30T15:10:00.001-08:002014-11-30T15:10:19.790-08:00Nutcracker, Part III JUST wrote about how great a storyteller God is, and here I am already with another piece of story to share. You cannot make these things up (well, actually, I totally could, but I'm glad I didn't!).<br />
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The story starts a long time ago. I wrote a bit about it in <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2014/10/nutcracker.html">this</a> post about how I feel about <i>The Nutcracker</i>. Obviously, God is doing some major housekeeping in this heart. My feelings about ballet have been a jumbled mess: bitterness cobwebs, boxes of joy buried deep in the crawlspace, righteous anger stuffed behind rubbermaid tubs full of a dancer's grin-and-bear-it decorum, wells of sadness. Yesterday after reposting <a href="http://jeskybera.blogspot.com/2012/11/10-years-today.html">my commemorative post on my life changing accident</a>, I said to Brendan, "Do I seem like I'm just hung-up on old news? Am I obsessing over something that I just need to get over?" "NO! Not at all!" he answered. "Well, it seems that way to me..." But, here's the thing: that life change happened 12 years ago, and I'm pretty sure I spent the first 6 years just trying to survive it. The next 3 or 4 were spent trying to tell myself it was time to be over it without ever having explored how to grieve. It took 10 years for me to be able to start really looking at the whole thing, and it is only through regular counseling sessions (that I began to attend for help dealing with the current disruption of my illness) that I am finding how greatly effected I am by it all- as in <i>daily</i> effected. I use this analogy a lot because I think it is so true: ballet and me as ballet dancer were like a major influential person in my life- like a special aunt, teacher, or sister, and losing ballet was like experiencing the death of that person. I struggle to give myself credit for that loss because it wasn't <i>really</i> a person, and I guess I behave as though only some kinds of losses deserve compassion. But, I need compassion. The moment my body hit the floor, I knew I needed compassion, but I began steeling myself against that need. Deciding not to be needy works for lots of people. It worked fine for me for a long time. Of course, "works" should be in those quotation marks because I don't think I was able to be fully myself. I worked some things out here and there (ALWAYS in connection with spiritual growth through the work of the Holy Spirit through his Word and his people), but I did not try to engage the work of healing. Rather, I tried to tell myself that healing wasn't required.<br />
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I know this all too well now: you never quite know how sick you were until you start to feel better. I remember being in the third grade and having a cold that I was trying to fake my way through during the holidays (probably so that I wouldn't have to miss any <i>Nutcracker </i>rehearsals). I had a bad, scratchy cough and was in the back line of my little Christian school choir performing some songs for an elderly bunch at a nursing home. I was miserable, and I recall thinking, "What was it like to feel well?" I looked at all the other kids who were managing to sing while I tried not to gag-cough all over the row in front of me, and I just couldn't picture what they were feeling like. I think this memory stands out to me because it was one of those times as a kid that you realize something that you know you need to carry along with you. I wanted, when I was well, to really be glad that I was well. Having been sick now for a few years, I don't remember what well really, really feels like. I see it on other people and it conjures memories, but I can't remember it viscerally. But, I had a couple of weeks during the summer when my symptoms improved and my beloved methylphenidate was supplying some clarity and energy, and I realized then, "Wow, I have been really sick." Thus with the ballet stuff: once I started admitting that healing was required and started unpacking everything I saw that I have been a mess!<br />
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Writing out my feelings, about <i>Nutcracker</i> revealed to me how much I really love it. I honestly didn't know. I didn't know that I had more love and joy over it than depression and animosity. Just expressing through writing my conflicted heart was like cleaning out that closet. A wealth of joy was hidden behind just a few, though large and intimidating, boxes of pain. And today I learned that people are willing to help me with my boxes! (I should have known...)<br />
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So, here's the story:<br />
A few days ago I posted a mini-version of all this sentiment about <i>The Nutcracker </i>on Facebook and confessed that I actually would truly love to go enjoy it. I only could enjoy it fully, I feel, with my children in tow. My children are my lenses through whom I see things afresh, and that is what I need: to see the Nutcracker like I did when I was a kid. So, I started looking for tickets for my family of 5 to attend the show only to discover that there is NO WAY we can afford to go- especially during the holidays. I followed up my mushy post with a somewhat defeated post about how pricey it all is (we're talking $500+ for my family to sit in good seats). Here's a confession: I was really, really hoping that some PNB contact of mine would see my plight and be able to help somehow. But, after a few days and no bites, I just told God that if he wanted me to go, if he had business for me in that theater at that show with my family, that he would give me tickets. I felt total peace in surrendering my heart to the Lord. I was excited to see what he might do, and I was relieved to know that if I shouldn't go for some reason that I was being prevented. God did not work a miracle; he used his people. Sometimes he does work miracles when they will help his story, but mostly he just uses us. More than one person who loves the Lord decided to love Him and to love me by pooling money for our family to go to the show. And we are sitting in the ROLLS ROYCE of seats! All these people are incredible.<br />
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Here's my favorite part in this story: Today was the first Sunday of Advent. So, what did we learn and talk about today? The Light. My pastor preached about our opportunity and privilege to live in the Light- to be a community that chooses to bring each other into the Light and genuinely love each other. What a joy for me, a doer, to be a receiver today! Not to say that I'm not given much, but just to say that I'm more likely to be bending over backwards to help than I am to be asking for or accepting help. I feel the Light, people! And I had a week of fighting darkness. This pregnancy is doing a number on me so far, and I have been battling physical weakness and pain as well as spiritual distress and fear. A dose of kindness goes SO FAR.<br />
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Even more than the tickets and the opportunity to begin my life as a joyful ( I hope!) ballet patron rather than participator, as extremely meaningful as that is, the great prize to me in all this is knowing more of God's love and feeling that love through his people. God. loves. his. people, people! And so do I. Today I learned that a lovely woman (this is your shout-out, Elizabeth) whom I really just barely know, has been loving and blessed by my writing here to the point that she reacted in love to my plight. What a joy to me to have this outlet of writing when I feel locked up in so many other ways! I can't be the hostess I once was. Heck, I can't even carry on a very long conversation anymore! BUT, once again, God has his own ways of writing the story. I have spent time feeling guilty at not being able to reach out hospitably to this very woman, and yet God was allowing us to get to know each other anyway. She, and so many others, are doing exactly what we heard about today in worship and are bringing me to the Light. Thank you to all of you who are sacrificing some extra holiday cash to help me! I need your compassion, and I'm so grateful for your responsiveness to the Lord. I love you very much.<br />
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You KNOW there will be a follow-up post...<br />
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And one last thing, Bethany Robbins. This TOTALLY reminds me of you coming into town for my 6th Day Dance performance. What wonderful people God's people can be when they walk in the Light.<br />
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I hope Advent is filled with hope for all who wait on Jesus, and I pray that you would see him for the first time if you have not yet. This is a story you want to be in!Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-33950514885428176092014-11-26T20:42:00.000-08:002014-11-26T21:48:19.567-08:00Happy Thanksgiving<div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><i>Below are some words I wrote to share for my Thanksgiving Eve service at church. I have a good story to add:</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><i>Our pastor had emailed 4 of us who were asked to share beforehand with the order of worship for the evening, so I knew the point at which I was expected to step up. This blessed pregnancy of mine has been making me very sick these days. I'm not usually very nauseated during my pregnancies, but it has been pretty bad! On top of that, my OB's predictions are proving true, and my POTS symptoms have been terrible; it almost feels like my meds are not working at all. I'm halfway through the 1st trimester and am hoping that the other predictions of low symptoms in the 2nd and 3rd come true too! Today I felt AWFUL. As I sat there in the service waiting for my turn, I went into full-blown POTS mode- shortness of breath, tachycardia, dizziness, painful, heavy limbs, etc. I was struggling with what I should do! I knew that if I tried to stand up there I would pass out. There was not a graceful way to pull out a chair or something, so I thought I'd just sit on the front pew and try to lean over into the aisle or something. But even with that plan, I was afraid that my breathing would be too ragged for me to manage reading my little story. I had written it down because my brain hasn't been too reliable lately thanks to my brain fog- another POTS symptom. I was praying, praying, praying for God to make a way for me to share! I was trying to decide if I needed to just give it to Brendan to read for me when the pastor accidentally skipped over me. I thought they may just skip me altogether, and I prayed that if God wanted for people to hear what I had written that they would bring it up later in the service. I also prayed that God would not allow Satan to keep my words from people if God wanted them to have them. While I sat and rested, the POTS episode passed. After the homily, the pastor called me up. Although my tremulousness was pretty bad and I did feel pretty weak and short of breath, I was able to stand through my whole reading and my heart beat normally. Even in sharing about God using me in his own ways during my times of weakness, I experienced him using me in his own way in my time of weakness!</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times;">When
I was invited to be up here tonight, I was very excited because I
love public storytelling- especially telling stories of God's
faithfulness, and we got to see God do a lot of amazing, kind work in
the past year. But, as I tried to choose which story to share, I
decided that I couldn't do any of them justice in three minutes. I'm
going a level up to share the overarching view, and you can just
trust me that the supporting details are there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times;">So,
my big thank you to my God for this year is for HIS amazing
storytelling. The closer I look at Scripture, the more romance and
beauty I see. I see the art in going through Levitcus and now Hebrews
in our sermon series. There are so many overwhelmingly beautiful
analogies, characters, foreshadowing, and intertwining,
generation-spanning plot lines that I stand in awe. If you spot a
theological hole in this next point, you can set me straight after,
but I like to behave like we are living in Book Three- like God is
writing a trilogy. There's the history in the OT, and then the NT,
and then here we are living in the last installment leading up to the
grand finale of Christ coming to establish the New Kingdom. We all
get to be God's characters in his story. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times;">18
months ago, my character's storyline took a twist. I was diagnosed
with a mysterious, currently incurable, chronic illness, and my
family and I did not like what was happening to our story! My illness
came with life-changing levels of exhaustion, pain, and weakness. It
leaves me faint. I was afraid that I was
being written off to the sidelines of the Story, but, of course,
that's not how God treats people who love him- he's never going to
drop me. And, you know, a great writer spends time on character
development. I know that I have become richer, and I hope for his
sake, more compelling, because now I can appreciate promises like
these from his story: "He heals all your diseases... he
satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed
like the eagle's." And this from Isaiah 40: "Even youths
grow tired and weary and young men stumble and fall; but those who
hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings
like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not
grow faint." God has me praying for and looking for this kind of
work to happen in my life. And, funny, the more you pray the more you
see. One way that he has renewed my youth and strength is by giving
me desire for and then blessing us with another baby- one we are
expecting in late July and who at this moment is making want to
throw-up. He renews my spiritual strength every day through his Word
and increases my faith by using some of my worst days to encourage
others. He even has used me to bring people here to Green Lake. So
tonight, I am thankful that I get to be in this story and thankful
that I get to be in it with you. I give all glory to The God Who
Sees, The God Who Heals- my most beautiful, romantic storyteller.</span></span></div>
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Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-37722333507495197512014-11-16T18:55:00.000-08:002014-11-16T18:57:29.129-08:00The BeginningOne of my favorite things to do in a new house is to see what kind of plants grow in the yards through the first year. There are always surprises, but usually not much. Although I am a novice, I enjoy gardening, and I love plants. I like to know what they are all called and at least the first thing or two about them. Here at our new house, not many things have grown. However, in late Spring I was doing some weeding and hesitated to pull a little guy growing right by my front steps. It just looked like something special that deserved to live compared to all the oxalis and dandelions that I was ripping out by the roots. Over the next few weeks the little plant got bigger, and I was glad that I had left it. I wasn't sure, yet, if it was something I should have left, but I was still curious and willing to let the little bit of nature take its course.<br />
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During that time in May, when the dogwood trees are in bloom, I love to celebrate the birth of my second son who was born on the twelfth. It was such a lovely birth, and the beautiful dogwoods always remind me of walking the blocks in my old neighborhood with my husband and then my friend while I was in labor with him. I started to be a little sad that I wasn't walking those blocks since we were at our new house. I think it was then that I felt my first little pangs that none of my babies were born in the house we now "owned" (with our good friend, BANK).<br />
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If you look back at the posts on this blog from the Spring and Summer, you'll see that most of them address self-care and my simple pleasures. I was finally feeling like I was having a break in the shallow end rather than desperately treading shark infested waters! I had started taking a medication that was really helping my fatigue and brain fog, symptoms of my POTS and autoimmune disease that were still really keeping me miserable and struggling even though some of the other more debilitating things were already controlled by other meds. I had reached a great new place in which I felt some hope that I could still have good days, even some great ones! In that new place, I looked up, finally, at the state of things. I had a baby girl who was no longer a baby, a beautiful guest room and master suite that were just begging for a baby and a birth, and sons who were wondering when we'd ever have another kid in our family. I could not believe I was thinking this way! My switch just suddenly flipped. I was completely happy to NOT have a baby each time I helped at a delivery or saw my breastfeeding or pregnant friends, but now... Oh, man, I was in trouble.<br />
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I was afraid this little growing idea in my heart was a weed, and I didn't say it aloud to anyone for a while. But I did start asking God to rip it out if it was a weed. I was afraid that this was a little seed of discontent. Things were feeling so much better; I was basking in my blessings, and here I was wishing for more and starting to be sad that I didn't have, probably couldn't have another baby. My endocrinologist had been pretty clear when I began seeing him that I should probably cool it on the childbearing since reproductive stress (you can say that again!) is a strain on the thyroid. I was afraid that it was just silly and selfish for me to want another kid, and I kept imagining all the doctors (and everyone else) shaking their heads at me and thinking, "Leave well-enough alone, lady! You already have THREE!!! You even already have both sexes!" Friends, those thoughts were the weeds, and they almost choked out that other little plant. It took more effort to control those thoughts than it takes to control these dang northwest dandelions. The first time I floated the idea to my husband, he was very surprised, but agreed that having another one of these crazy people would be awesome. When I talked to my counselor about it, I walked out feeling for the first time since I'd noticed the thought like it was OK for me to have it. So, I decided to protect it. I decided not to try to root it out. I prayed about it everyday and watched it grow. I could see that it probably wasn't a weed, but I wasn't sure if it would be OK to keep it forever.<br />
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I wasn't sure that I could keep it forever because I was still so, so afraid that I was being selfish. I knew that a pregnancy would make me needy, potentially VERY needy. I do not like to be needy, and I was terrified that I would just be burdening our family and all the people we love by adding another person. My family already feels unwieldy, and here I was thinking about making it even more so. I'm sad for myself now that these fears were so big, but I'm grateful that they did make their way through my heart and mind. I needed to see how much I still needed to grow in my willingness to just be loved. I decided that I wanted to start talking about it with my friends and the family members it would most immediately effect if we did it.<br />
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While this idea began to grow so big that I had to decide to make room for it, the little plant by my front steps was doing the same thing. I moved a couple of other things I'd planted out front because obviously this little guy was meant to be there and loving the spot. In August, just before our big church camping trip, the plant made a very interesting little head of buds. It was about to show itself! I would go out and check it first thing each morning. As we packed up the van, I decided to talk to my friends and brothers and sisters-in-law to get a read on whether my fears had any place. The whole drive there, I was running baby names past Brendan. On our last day, sitting in the sun on the grass near the beach, I finally broke down and cried and shared all that I was terrified by. I was received with love and more tears by people who were willing to encourage me and give me the outright declarations of love and loyalty that I was really, really needing to hear- not because they ever gave me reason to doubt it, but because I struggle to believe that I'm worth any trouble. I was relieved and excited to keep giving harbor to my little growing idea. And when we got home, my plant had bloomed with a beautiful cluster of pink, peachy little precious flowers. I did a little investigation: it was a Verbena.<br />
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I didn't yet know what this baby idea was yet. Was it the first steps towards having someone new in my body and in our lives? Was it the prompting I needed to start saving for an adoption? Or, was it the beginning of my need to grieve the loss of my ability to have more babies? I was so scared that the last option was the case that I didn't do the google search that I knew could answer most of my questions and would be Step 1. Through prayer, I finally arrived at a day when I felt ready to enter the words "POTS pregnancy." Lo and behold, there was a recent study showing that POTS symptoms improved during pregnancy and that it posed no additional risk to mother or baby. Well, that was the boost I needed. I emailed my neurologist who, very kindly, called me to say that he thought it was a definite possibility, but that I'd need to see a high-risk OB to make sure things would be OK with my meds.<br />
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By the time I saw the OB, I was not nervous. I had read the research on everything and figured I just needed her approval and agreement to all the conclusions I'd come to on my own. It was the very best doctor visit of my life. She was a lovely person, and everything went as well as it possibly could have. Compared to the visits I had had over the past two years that were so full of fear and confusion, this visit was such a joy. I knew what I was talking about, and the room was so full of hope. She said we could start trying whenever we wanted and that there was "no reason you can't have a baby." Even the meds I was on were the exactly right choices for a POTS pregnancy. I had anticipated that this would be my moment of truth. That moment when you've ordered the chicken only to suddenly and clearly realize that you wanted the beef. I figured that once all the other barriers were cleared Brendan and I would know if we really were brave enough, willing and excited enough, to accept the reproductive stress. We both immediately reacted with a resounding, "YAYYYY!!!!!"<br />
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Two weeks ago, though, off my med that was finally giving me energy (the only med not cool for pregnancy) and at the end of a week of me and three children being quite sick, I was exhausted and second-guessing the whole thing. "I can't do this!" I cried to Brendan. "At the end of the day, it all comes down to whether or not I can handle this, and I'm scared that I can't. I'm afraid of being an inconvenience! I'm afraid of being alone in the difficulties. I'm afraid it will take too long, or maybe I won't get pregnant at all." We just kept praying, and I prayed that if God wanted me to do this baby thing, that he would make it quick. Well, he answered that prayer, and he answered it quickly, kind, gracious, generous God that he is. We only found out on Friday, but I'm telling everyone and their mother. I find it a kindness of God that I got a positive test the morning before our church's women's retreat. I got to go with so many of my fears already relieved. And just like I needed to be with God's people on that camping trip to share my fears and think things through, it was great to be with God's people to share the joy. It's a break from the social norm, but I'm telling you I'm pregnant at only 4 weeks (probably) along. I know how it feels to lose a baby, and it does suck to tell everyone. BUT, your knowing means that maybe you will remember to pray, and I want to enjoy every possible moment of this child's life with us. Already, in only three days, he or she has brought joy and healing to me.<br />
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Around the time my Verbena starts to get buds, I will, hopefully, be giving birth. Praise be to God who "satisfies your desires with good things, so your youth is renewed like the eagle's." POTS has made me feel old, but this baby makes me feel young!<br />
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PRAY!<br />
<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-47872538991994386332014-11-06T12:45:00.001-08:002014-11-06T12:45:37.958-08:00Leaning into AffectionI have the privilege of attending births as a doula. A doula is an educated perinatal professional who specializes in comfort measures and labor techniques. I don't deliver babies or assist in deliveries like a nurse or midwife does. I do try my best to be a cheerful, calming, encouraging, creative presence before, during, and after a woman's labor and delivery while staying focused on protecting and considering the mother's (and partner's) psychological experience of the process. I am not at a birth to promote any kind of agenda or revolutionize the way birth is handled in this country (though I support those efforts by doulas and other birth professionals and advocates when they are not serving the needs of a client). That means: if you want an epidural, I want an epidural for you. If you want a homebirth in the water, I want a homebirth in the water for you; but, if at any time I begin to see that choices need to change to protect your heart, body, or mind, then I am gently encouraging you to make decisions that make you feel most safe and in charge. I love being in this role for women and their growing families. It is a job that requires a lot of my favorite parts of myself, and when I say it is a <i>privilege</i>, I mean it! I get to see babies being born! I get to see women and their partners being the most amazing, vulnerable, selfless they may ever be. I watch people turn into mothers and fathers. I have a store of precious images in my mind, little snapshots of what true love, true grit, true trust, true power look like, and I indulge in recalling them when I need them for myself or for the encouragement of others (though identities are protected!). Because I don't have to be focused on charting or medical details, I really can be fully engaged in the emotions of the whole thing.<br />
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Through watching these emotional experiences so closely and somewhat regularly this year, surprise, surprise, I've learned something- or at least, I'm sensing a pattern. Better, much more experienced professionals than I have observed the same thing, but I love that my own experience is adding to the body of evidence in this concept's support. Love and affection are powerful, powerful tools. Before I get into this, I should first share a word for those who haven't, or maybe can't, experience what I will describe. Some people hate being touched, and there are probably reasons for that. Some people have been trained by experience to only rely on themselves. Others are easily overstimulated (especially during times of intense stress) and can really only feel at peace by going to a deep, quiet place inside. So, as I discuss this, know that I do not think you are doing things "wrong" if you don't agree or jive with what I propose. My proposal is this: If you let people hug you and show you affection, you will feel your burdens lighten. I see this in L&D situations, and I definitely saw it in my own births. The harder the contraction, the more I would tightly cling to my husband (he may argue that it was a little TOO tight at times...). The more discouraged I got, the more I would force myself to ask for some encouragement. "Am I going to be ok? Is this going ok?" "Yes! Yes!" they cry. "You're doing so well!" It's amazing what a simple pat on the back, foot rub between contractions, eye contact, stroke of the forehead with a cool rag, or hug (oh! the power of hugs!) can do. I've used all these and more for myself and my clients. Because of the usefulness of these "tools," I do all I can to establish trust before the labor. I've seen some nurses very quickly establish themselves as safe people to receive touch and intimate encouragement from, and I have done my best to learn and steal their tricks. I went to a birth very last minute as a backup doula for clients whom I had never met. It was a challenge to do my very intimate job well without any history, but I find that just doing what I know is right usually works (as long as I'm watching very closely and am sure to back off when I get "Back-off!" cues).<br />
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The context of birth has been a great lab in which I have worked with this theory. Birth is SO hard and SO challenging emotionally, mentally, and physically that people are easy to observe. Their real feelings are much easier to suss out because there isn't a lot of time or mental space for concern over social norms (like not hugging strangers and not saying directly what you want or need). It is incredible, though, how strong those norms are! Women still worry about things like their house being pretty enough, or their (MY) very strong desire to not inconvenience anyone. Thankfully, I have not been to a single birth in which there wasn't at least one moment in which I saw all those fears fall away. That is usually the moment that ends up on my shelf of memories worth keeping. I feel strongly that most of us are at our best when we are inviting others into our struggles. It may feel like a huge risk, and it can certainly BE a huge risk! That is a lot of why I'm a doula! Too many birth professionals pay no attention to any of these emotional nuances and railroad over moments that could be formative for a new mom. Am I right? Isn't it nice, or at least, <i>wouldn't </i>it be nice to be able to look up for love, help, support and get it? Doesn't that help you look up for help the next time? Instead, sadly, many people are left looking for help, finding nothing and concluding that either they don't deserve it or it's not worth asking for. This is tragic.<br />
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I've been thinking about this whole thing a lot. In labor, I am at my best because that is one context in which I have, thankfully, seen and believed that other people are truly THERE for me. So, I am able to let go, be vulnerable, and enjoy the strength of the people I've invited to be around me. (Another great reason to hire a doula, by the way, is that she was invited by YOU and is there for YOU). I now am able to return that strength and affection to others when I am at their births. At least that's when I do it as a doula. I hope, though, that I'm trying to do it all the time. Even more difficult for me, though, than giving strength and love, is receiving it. I want to be enough for myself all the time. When I feel vulnerable, I don't want to lean into the hugs that are offered. I get spiny and hard instead. Those ideas in my head about how I want to be or should be perceived are too strong. I think I'm afraid to lean into the affection and support that is offered because that would imply that I needed it! But, boy, do we ALL need it.<br />
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There is a scientific explanation for affection and it's efficacy in labor. The hormone that dilates the cervix, oxytocin, is found in higher levels in people who are feeling loved and supported. So, the more love and support that a woman is experiencing, the more relaxed she will be, and the more oxytocin is available and effective for getting the job done. This is not a perfect explanation, but I'm confident that the core point is accurate. Stress hormones, like adrenaline, slow down labor and keep us feeling uptight- tight is no good in labor. Oxytocin makes you feel good. Adrenaline makes you feel bad. So, like I said, I've been thinking about this. When I'm "in labor" in my regular life, when I'm struggling to overcome a challenge or fear, isn't it best to lean into the affection? Wouldn't that help in the same way it does in labor? That oxytocin is in all of us, not just laboring women. You know the feeling, that feeling of relief that comes from letting yourself hang in a good hug. The release of letting out the tears. I've got to work on this. It's so obvious to me when I see a laboring woman mentally or emotionally running away from relief, and I think it's just as obvious when I'm doing it in my day to day life.<br />
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Sadly, there are reasons why we run away from the hug, just like there are reasons some laboring women don't want to be touched. There have been times for all of us when we let ourselves be vulnerable and looked up for some support and found none- or, worse, got some kind of smack-down for even looking. I'm so, so sorry those things have happened, and I will offer no trite phrases for the pain. I just think we have to make ourselves try to learn that sometimes we will get the help we're looking for. This brings me back to the idea of who we invite to be around us in our stress. I know that the people I invite to my births are there for good reason and have proven themselves to be my loving friends and supporters. I don't expect people to willy-nilly cast about for love and affection. I think we all know that can have some disastrous results. But, I do think we, or at least I, need to be quicker to seek love and affection from the people we have purposely included in our lives and have invited into our stresses. Maybe it starts with just "hiring the doula," with making sure someone is around who cares to watch over the heart. I, for one, think I've made progress in sharing the struggle and letting people "be there" to see it. But, sometimes I'm like a writhing person in labor who just won't let anyone come in to help!<br />
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I may be pushing the analogy too far, but bear with me. When these women, when I, lean into the available support and affection at birth, a baby is born. A good, good thing results. And in addition to a new life, a new story is added to the volumes of that family's life- a birth story. Maybe we are having such a moment of cultural obsession with birth stories because it's one of the few situations left in which we allow ourselves such high hopes and become vulnerable. This is why couples go into their births clutching a birth plan! We know that we want a good birth story, and we know that we don't want to walk out of there with a story filled with regret and painful memories of mistreatment. The specifics of the struggle, the method of delivery, the hours of labor, do matter in the story, but no matter how rough the details are, the story can be, WILL be, a good one if the owners of that story felt loved and empowered on their way through it all. They will walk away with some stats ("oh, my babies are big; my labors are long/fast/stop-start/etc.; I had x number of stitches; I pushed for x hours"), but those aren't the parts of the story that will visit them for the rest of their days when they least expect it. They will remember things like this: "my husband loved me so well; my doula could tell that I was afraid, and I was able to talk about why; when I looked at my baby, the product of all my struggle, I knew that the struggle was worth it."<br />
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So, that's what I'm going to start going for the next time I'm "in labor." I'm going to try to sink into my husband's hugs. I'm going to call that friend for some encouragement because maybe on the other side of the struggle, I'll have more to my story than just the facts, and maybe I won't come out feeling quite so battered.Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5955028546852631335.post-24749589724541729052014-11-02T15:58:00.002-08:002014-11-02T15:58:51.366-08:00The Sleeping BeautyWhen I was a little girl, my mom and dad would sometimes let me rent a movie at Video Warehouse. We would occasionally go for <i>Follow that Bird</i>, but I didn't actually like that one. Ms. Finch really freaked me out because she wanted to take Big Bird from his peeps on The Street. She misunderstood his situation entirely. I still hate when things are misunderstood. Most of the time, though, I wanted to watch another movie full of danger: Disney's <i>Sleeping Beauty. </i>When it became available on Blueray several years ago, Brendan bought it for me. Watching it recently a LOT with another little girl who claims <i>SB</i> as favorite film, I've recalled loving it so, so much. And now I appreciate so much I never saw before. It is a beautiful movie. I love the look of all the characters and scenery. The trees look like those in medieval paintings. Understanding what I do now about childhood influences and experiences and their future effects, I see that the story of <i>The Sleeping Beauty</i> has been an informing narrative, and score, in my life.<br />
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I think as a little girl I liked <i>SB</i> the best because Aurora was my favorite princess. But, watching it as an adult I realize that the music, all adapted from Tchaikovsky's ballet version of the tale, and the fairies were really what I loved. And Philip. I loved Philip. My romantic dreams somewhat developed based on Philip (and Mighty Mouse, ahem... but that's a different post...). Here was this prince who did two things that I still find attractive: 1) He asserted himself, showing confidence and bravery, and 2) He sang and danced. I loved dancing even as a tiny little thing, so a prince who knew how to just walk right up and join in your dance seemed like a great thing. He also cared more about "love" (I do NOT want to have a discussion about whether the instant-infatuation model of early Disney was good for kids or not) than position. After all, as he pointed out, it was the 14th century. Later on in the movie, Philip is a real-deal hero. He has to slay the dragon, Maleficent, who employs "all the powers of Hell." He uses a "sword of truth" to do it. Christ-type, much? Of course I was attracted to him. I want a hero who will slay all the powers of Hell for my sake.<br />
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Then there are those empathetic, celebration-loving, gift-giving, thoughtfully planning, sacrificial, virtuosic fairies, Flora, Fauna and Merryweather. Greatest names ever. I realize now that those fairies were who I really patterned after. And they are there in the fight against evil with Philip- turning arrows to bubbles and boiling oil (how very 14th century!) to rainbow archways. I wanted to be Aurora in my play because she was the star, of course, but I think deep-down I wanted to be those fairies! My little list of adjectives for them became my own character goals for myself. I was never much of a romantic, princess type. I was never the Beauty among my peers. There were other girls to play that part (a fact I was regularly reminded of every time some boy that I liked would come to ask me if some friend or another of mine was into him!). But, I was the fairies. I was a mastermind, a mascot, a planner, a little eccentric, a lover of Flora and Fauna. And I sure did love to flit about.<br />
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And when I would flit as a young, young thing, I would hold Tchaikovsky's themes in my head and heart. One day, the Royal Ballet's <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> was shown on PBS. OH. SNAP. You mean this is a BALLET?!?! You mean that music is BALLET music!?!? I was deleriously happy! The choreography I saw on the screen gelled in my head before I even knew I was trying to learn it. My dramatic heart loved the scenes with Carabosse (Maleficent) casting her curses and Aurora's death-throes dance around the stage, but who did I love the most? The fairies. SO MANY FAIRIES, all with adorable choreography and music. If there was any part of me left that didn't want to be a ballerina, it gave in completely upon sight of <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>. A few years later, at Summer intensives around the country, I learned lots of solos from the ballet, and I still know them all. I especially loved the giant <i>envelopes</i> for Bluebird.<br />
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My dreams continued coming true when I arrived for year-round intensive ballet instruction and perfomance at the Pacific Northwest Ballet School. The first ballet I was cast in was, you guessed it, <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>. <a href="http://www.pnb.org/AboutPNB/Repertory/SleepingBeauty.aspx">It was the first time PNB would present the work</a>, and Ronald Hynd and Annette Page came from England to stage it. They had both been dancers in the Royal Ballet. I read that Hynd had a similar experience to mine- falling in love with <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> as a young, hopeful dancer in the 1940s. Of course, I had very small bit parts, but I got to be on stage while that wonderful music played and add to the scenes my little smile and body and was therefore in Heaven. I was on stage for all the fairies' variations. I loved every minute. I also got to learn the part of nymph, a baby fairy in the corps de ballet. I laid on stage as a sleeping nobelwoman while the awaited kiss was planted, and I sometimes got to harass the Prince with a rubber snake in the much-coveted, flattering role, Hag #1. That Spring, for our student production, girls were cast to do the fairy variations. I understudied the Fairy of Beauty and struggled with the pointe work but always nailed the pirouettes at the end. I never danced it on stage, but at least I got to rehearse it.<br />
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Three years later, after my injury, I was struggling to make it through what I was slowly realizing were my final weeks as a ballet dancer. What was the last ballet of the season? <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>, of course. One of the better, older dancers in the Professional Division by that point, I was cast to learn and even perform some much more respectable roles than wet nurse and hag. I was learning Lilac Fairy Attendent- a tutu and wing wearing part that I loved. I would dance a lot during that beautiful prologue with all those fairies. But, one terrible day at my doctor's office, he let me know that my injury was clearly not healing and that, yes, that pain was dangerous. I discussed with him that this part I had that I loved so much was hurting me and that it was probably a better long-term decision to let it go. I had to go to the Ballet Mistress' office and confess that I couldn't hang. I was afraid that I'd hurt myself or make too many mistakes because of pain. Boy do I kick myself for that decision now. I don't know that there really was an alternative, but I wish I had just pushed myself to do it anyway. Instead of dancing my way through my favorite ballet scene of all time for my last performance, I stood on stage as a member of the court in a hideous gown and wig and watched everyone else dance everything I had ever hoped for. I hated every moment and would silently cry through the whole thing. I didn't even try to hide it, but of course, no one ever noticed because no one was watching me.<br />
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Last year, a friend of mine gave me some free tickets to see that same production. I knew enough to bring along a best friend and our husbands. It was a lovely evening, and the pain of watching it all was somewhat mitigated by time, my own progress, and being able to at least use my knowledge to fill my girlfriend's ear with top-notch, insider commentary! I don't think I even cried. I might have later at home. I was surprised that I didn't get upset while we were there, but I think there are a lot of reasons for that. First, I'm Flora-Fauna-Merryweather type. I want it to be fine for everyone else, and I'm excited, truly excited, to have my experiences, even the really, really crappy ones, make things better or more interesting for others. Also, I have stuffed that ballet pain down with an iron tamp, and it only comes out in very extreme circumstances or when I want it too (although, even then it's hard sometimes). At any rate, I enjoyed the night with my friends and was reminded how much I still love <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>, even if now I have some really painful memories of it that I really could do without. I see the art in my story. I love the running <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> theme. I see the artistic intention in <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> being the first and last ballet I ever danced professionally. Do I understand it? No, I really don't. Or I didn't, but I'm starting to see it.<br />
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I was inspired to dredge all this up while watching the Disney <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> with my daughter a couple of weeks ago. All the tears I should have cried that night at the ballet with my friends came pouring quietly out during the movie. I cannot watch it without dancing all the parts I hear and feeling all the hopes of my childhood come raring up. My sweet little daughter dances along to the movie, and she doesn't even know my history with the whole thing. I watch the fairies now with more identification than ever as they play the role of little mommies to Briar Rose. I see my husband and my God in Philip and am more in love than ever with them both. I cried when I felt the pain of the King and Queen as they hear their daughter being cursed, watch her taken away as a baby, and wait for her safe return, "never knowing." I don't think I would get so much out of the movie if I wasn't watching it with a heart that is so inflamed by the music. I don't think I'd look at my daughter and marvel over the fact that she is here and that I have the stories I have to pass to her and for her to use. People ask me all the time if I'm going to put Hazel in ballet and my heart leaps every time. "Why would I do that to her?" is always the first thought that races through, but it is followed up with all my sweet memories of dreaming and hoping, of waltzing and spinning. I do hope Hazel will find something she loves as much as I loved dancing, as much as I love <i>The Sleeping Beauty</i>. Maybe it will be something horrible like basketball. I shudder to think! But I do hope that I will be a good little Flora to her and plan and help on her behalf as she uncovers whatever it is that she loves. I hope that she will have the Sword of Truth. I hope that she will plunge headlong after her dreams and stay in the story. I can't wait to see how <i>Sleeping Beauty</i> continues to come up. I am sure that it will.<br />
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My Blurry Little Dancer</div>
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My Princess Aurora</div>
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See? Hideous.</div>
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Cutey Peasants (and my friend in the nymph costume)</div>
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<br />Jesky 'Berahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11095288225230922326noreply@blogger.com0