30 months

I started this blog roughly 30 months ago.  It was intended as a means to communicate with our friends and family that hated facebook.  We were pregnant with Maddie and full of joy and hope for our future.

A lot has changed in 30 months. Today my goal is to share what I've learned over these past 30 months and also provide a quick "where we are now"

What I've learned
1. Tragedy brings out the worse in everyone.  Prolonged tragedy (like having a chronically sick child) can make you a horrible person.  I was my worse self the year after Maddie's death.  I was selfish, depressed, angry, tired and just generally pissed off.  I had no compassion, generiousity, grace or energy to give. I've seen others take up drugs and drinking in this same time frame.  Still others became abusive and cruel.  It won't last forever (probably) but if you aren't careful, your worse self can drive away everyone you love before you "find yourself" again.

2. Life is hard.  Really freaking hard.  But so worth it.  As we grow in our relationships, we do better when we remember that life is hard enough on it's own - don't create drama. Don't fight someone with the expectation that nagging and bickering will change them. You cannot browbeat someone into bettering themselves. Just love each other, even when it freaking sucks. Even when your love is their worse self.

3. When you say you love someone, know what it means to them.  For me, love means accepting me as I am. I am a hyprocrite in this area - I find it so hard to love others when they are at their worse and struggling to rise again.

4. Have some grace.  Allow others to make honest mistakes, even huge ones without diminishing their love stock. 

5. If being right means hurting someone else, be wrong.  If being right means isolating someone else when they need you, be wrong. If being right means endless drama, a lack of grace or a lack of love, be wrong.

6. Create an environment in which your love can be completely vulnerable.  Help them feel safe enough that they can come to you and say "Help.  I'm hurt and I'm broken and I'm sad.  Inside, I'm a little child and I need you to parent me.  Tomorrow, I'll be myself again but today I need you."

7. Even if your love is their worse self, when they make life hard, when they don't show love or grace, even when they hurt you, find a way to maintain your self.  Don't forget your intrigrity, your core values or your strengths. Once lost, even for a moment, there will be those who spend the rest of their lives reminding you of your mistakes.

8. Say thank you and I'm sorry.  Hug each other.  Really long and really hard even when you know it won't lead to sexy time.  Do this always.

Where we are now:
- Dillan is four and a half.  He's an amazing little man getting ready to start pre-K.  His favorite super hero is spider man, he is the pickest vegetarian (his choice - we constantly try to get him to eat bacon), and he loves animals.  He asks me about death or Maddie almost every day and sobs if we read a sad story.  He loves to paint his nails as much as he loves to kill imaginary bad guys with his amazing ninja kicks.

- Luke got a job teaching math full time at our local community college.  He just completed another century.  He maintains a great apartment and is looking to buy a home in the area.

- Lisa (that's me) is still teaching part-time. I start at Cal State Monterey Bay this fall to get a master's degree in Instructional Science and Technology.  In about 18 months, I hope to switch careers and become an instructional designer or curriculum manager for an online school. 

- The Madelyn Spence Foundation is a real thing.  But it is completely dormant.  I hope to revitalize it within the next 6 months but I do not yet have any firm plans about what comes next.

- Our families and friends are amazing and loving and supportive. I thank God for them every day.

We are all happy.  CDH and grief have all affected us differently, but we are moving forward, one baby step at a time.

Adapt and Overcome

At work today, our campus president called an impromptu meeting. Unfortunately, he invaded my classroom just before the start of class. My students freaked out (slightly) while I went to find an empty classroom. As I ushered them into our temporary classroom, I found myself saying “No big deal. Adapt and Overcome.”

Then I went to the bathroom. And in my moment of quiet, it occurred to me that this may be the most important lesson I learned in the military. It may be the most important lesson I can teach my son and my students. Adapt and overcome.

Although I openly share my fears, my lows and my moments of desperation, I am never hopeless. I believe that all problems, no matter how daunting, have solutions. I believe that hard work and perseverance are always necessary to find the solution. I believe failure is an opportunity to learn and improve. I believe that we must survive before we can thrive.

Life can explode on us without warning. It can turn our whole world upside down. But the human will to survive is astounding. Our capacity to delivery empathy in the midst of our troubles is humbling. Never become fixated on a problem without realizing that a solution exists.

This blog is not where I write to vent or bitch or process. This is where I write in an effort to give others hope. Something from this horrible, convoluted journey has to help someone at some point. And if it’s not you right now, that’s cool. Check back in during your next tragedy or after my next success – maybe something I have written will help you adapt and overcome.

(editor’s note: if solutions are hard to come by, I recommend acupuncture and copious amounts of ice cream)

Giving Up

It’s been just over 18 months since Madelyn was born.  Today marks 17 months since the date of her death.  And I want to give up.

It is commonly accepted among mothers of dead children that there is a hierarchy to our horror. A miscarriage and stillborn, while tragic, rate slightly lower on the scale of horror than the death of an infant. And the death of a child is the absolute worse, although the death of an adult child is preferable to the death of a young child. I’m not 100% sure who wrote these rules, but if you say anything to challenge these rules within the grief community, you will be promptly and thoroughly corrected.

Mary Todd Lincoln had 4 sons.  One died in 1850 at the age of 6, one died in 1862 at the age of 12, one died in 1871 at the age of 18. Her husband, Abraham, was shot and killed in front of her in 1865. I read tonight that she was not allowed to be present at his deathbed because she was so overcome with grief.

It is rumored that Mary spent many years “resting” in bed with the help of opiates. I’ve read that she often claimed her dead sons would come and sit with her, gently holding her hand, during these times of rest.  She had no less than 3 suicide attempts, one extended stay in a mental institution and several incidents of “erratic” behavior that publically embarrassed her surviving son, leading to their eventual estrangement.

Read about the mothers of Ray Charles and J. M. Barrie.  While the specifics of their stories differ, the theme is same. The grief was too much and they quit life.

I’ve decided that isn’t an option for me.  So far, I’ve had two nervous breakdowns (my mom calls them breaks with reality.) One resulted in a suicide attempt and a 5 week intense outpatient program.  The other break resulted in the end of my marriage. I do not know what lies ahead, but I recognize more trauma, depression and hardship may still lie ahead.

I imagine that there are people whose child can die in their arms and they somehow walk through their grief without medication, counseling, and the struggles that Mary and I have shared. And God love them.

Grief is palpable. It has weight and it has mass and it is 3-dimensional. When it overcomes you, it sits heavy in the air, steals your breath and short-circuits your brain.  For me, allowing grief into the room takes over everything else and leaves me completely incapacitated and drained.

I have a choice to make every day.  I can ignore grief, but it will only grow.  I can be overcome by grief, but I will never grow.  Or I can deal with it little by little, as one would eat an elephant. I cannot rush while eating an elephant, but you go on ahead.