On May

Alex and I in the damp dark of a lava tube at Volcanos National Park in Kona, Hawaii, April 2016

It’s May and my Facebook news feed is littered with pictures of graduation and prom, college acceptance letters and mission calls. It’s May and my friends are scrambling to plan parties, organize last family vacations and make it through the final push of school. I know they are frantically scouring their tubs and buying extra paper towels and paper plates to accommodate the crush of visitors driving to their house right now, crunching sunflowers seeds to stay awake. It’s May 2016, which means I’ve been a mother for eighteen years.  It’s May and when I went to pick up bread from Costco, I walked past two metal carts stacked high with tray after tray of graduation cakes, the thick buttercream “congratulations graduate” words were written yesterday and have started bleeding red into the white frosting backdrop.

It’s May, and the house on the corner has a bunch of bright golden daffodils that are still stubbornly turning their faces to the sun, even though their leaves are yellow and drooping. It’s May, and Logan needs lunch money and I forgot my purse, so I have to circle back again and go inside to find him. It’s May. Wretched May. And yesterday while I waited by the school curb for Spencer to come out of rehearsal, I ran my finger along the smooth glass of my phone, and smiled at the pictures of happy families in their Sunday best, and paused to look in the faces of children I’ve known since they were toddlers. Kids who used to come to my house and leave their half-eaten otter pops to melt on my couch while they searched through the frozen box for a better flavor than blue.

It’s May and I wish it was June. Five more days.

 It’s May, and I have no prom pictures to take up memory on my phone and Alex is not graduating yet. You can measure his frustration to the beat of his sleepless nights, and regular, (like a metronome –I click my tongue to hear the sound-) outbursts. It’s May and I tell myself the same thing I told myself in April, and December, and last July, “You have to measure Alex against Alex. Is he making progress when measured against himself? Yes. He is. So simmer down.” And then I count like blessings the ways he’s growing up, the moments of success, his sweet face and the flecks of gold I catch in his baby blues when he will look me in the eye.

It’s May and all month heavy rain has kept the temperatures down, cancelled swim practices and turned our back yard into a jungle. It felt like spring, so it was easy to ignore the approach of summer. But the last few days the weather patterns have shifted, the days have grown warmer and the oppressive humidity of Texas has settled like unshed tears; the dew point today was so high, that as I walked from the school to my car the thin sheen of grief shined like diamonds on my arms.

Life In A Holding Pattern; How I met my K1 Visa Fiance

Please note the glazed over look I'm sporting, it's a look I've perfected and am thinking about patenting and something I wear frequently when traveling with my kids ... love these boys on some early morning flight in 2014

A few years back I was seated next to a very nice gentleman visiting America from Jamaica. He had a broad, bright smile, warm eyes and a habit of spreading his hands easily in front of him every time he spoke. He chatted with me in his native tongue of Jamaican Patois; a mix of English, French, Spanish and various West African languages. Admittedly, the language barrier meant I only understood about every sixteenth word he spoke. But he was so nice, that I smiled encouragingly and nodded in agreement mumbling “uh huh” whenever there was a pause in the conversation. His accent hypnotic, his words shafts of wind that gently lulled me into a contented state. I’d close my eyes and feel the waves of sound wash into me, swaying me gently on a hammock of nouns and adjectives. He’d pause and I’d open my eyes, offer him a bag of pretzels mumble “Mmmm hmmm: and possible agree to queries I didn’t understand, “Would you please deposit $78,677.00 into my back account in small bills?” “Uh huh.” “I have a small herd of goats, would you be willing to house them in your backyard?” “Mm hmmm.” Luckily I was spared from agreeing to donate a kidney to his sister when we were jolted from our lazy conversation by severe turbulence. While approaching the runway, our aircraft was caught in an intense wind shear which literally flipped our plane temporarily on its side. *At this point it’s worth noting a miracle occurred, and the words flowing out of my new friend’s mouth made perfect sense to me!  I could understand Jamaican Patois!!! The words sounded just like English. They were repetitive, perfectly enunciated and they all started with the letter F.

Needless to say, it took four different approaches and four different “feel better bags” I had scrounged  for my friend -and by friend I mean K1 Visa fiancé: the rough flight had bound us together and I consented… (Sorry Russ) ”mmmm-hhmmm” before we successfully landed. As we taxied to the gate, I confessed the flight had shaken me up, but one look at (the love of my life obviously if you ask the immigrant officer) my friend, and I could tell this had been more than just a bump in the road to him. He raised his head from the cradle of his hands, looked mournfully at me and asked in stilted, aching English, “How will I ever fly again?”

Alex and I on our way to Kona, Hawaii to celebrate his 18th birthday with friends

I’ve thought back to this day often and the haunting query, “How will I ever fly again?”

The other day I overheard another anxious traveler say to her son, “If only we didn’t have to land I wouldn’t mind flying.” The little boy replied, “If we don’t land Mama, we’ll never make it to Disneyland.” The problem with never landing is that life stuck in a holding pattern is no life. Believe me, I know. A holding pattern is a course flown by an aircraft while waiting for permission to land. In essence it’s a place of waiting. Being in a place of waiting, or as we sometimes call it, “being stuck” keeps us from making progress, moving forward, deplaning and buying an overpriced churro. For the autistic, being stuck sometimes manifests itself through “perseverating” (repeating or prolonging an action thought or utterance) like the hours of operation at National Parks or why you should sue the Special Olympics or how Spencer has ruined your life.  It can also manifest itself through “stimming” (self-stimulatory behavior; repetition of physical movement or sounds) like opening and closing a sliding door, 5,988,000 times in a row.

Holding patterns are not just for the autistic, it seems I’m constantly getting caught in the clouds, waiting to descend. The thing is, I have a flight plan. I have a destination. I WANT some chocolate dipped mickey ears danggit!! So, what keeps me from landing? (Well….how much time do you have? Is there a couch handy I can lay down on?) In my decent *while listening to the four year old tell his mother the rides he wanted to go on first,  I came up with a few ideas of why I get caught in holding patterns.

Okay sometimes a holding pattern isn't always bad :)

BUT this was actually descending into Jackson 2014

Holding patterns are soothing and safe. For me, the number one reason why I don’t land and deplane is fear. All caps please. F-E-A-R. Like my Jamaican fiancé, (and everyone else on this planet) I have experienced some moments of severe turbulence, which has led to avoidance. (I’ll just circle for a bit…because I DON”T want to go through that again!).

My boys boarding; sweet Logan waving goodbye. Summer 2015

*This is the part where I talk about a moment of severe turbulence ;) Just last week I was in Arches National Park with Alex and my parents. We took a quick break from driving so I could climb to the top of an arch. I’d made the hike before, it was a fairly fast and steep climb. I told Alex he could stay with his grandparents, come with me to the top, or come part way and wait for me in the middle. He said he’d go with me. We started hiking up, it was steep, it was hot, he was hungry and it was sensorial overwhelming. We got to the middle and Alex asked if we could turn around. I explained he could go back, or wait for me, but I was going to top as I’d mentioned previously. (Please note. Alex finds it WILDLY insulting if you ‘accuse” him of misunderstanding or ever use the phrase “mentioned previously.” Are you calling him a liar?!!! HE CAN HEAR FINE THANK YOU VERY MUCH! ARE YOU SAYING HES STUPID? HE DOESN’T MISUNDERSTAND! EVER! Basically flexibility would be his best skill). He determined we were going back because I had lied to him (obviously). *This is the part where it’s a bit like going to war with a tired, hungry irrational toddler; (who happens to be the size of a college linebacker). This is the part where I grit my teeth because I think it’s important to –whenever humanly possible- do what I say I’m going to do and not cave to his demands. No means no.  I restated his choices and told him I was going to continue. He said I was forcing him to come along because he hated waiting for me worse that he hated hiking after me. And so I continued up the trail, with Alex a few paces behind me shouting, “You are a LIAR!” and “You’re ruining what should have been a nice day.” And variations of the many, MANY ways I suck. I got to the top of the arch before him, where some lovely senior citizen was calmly perched on a rock, having a moment of peaceful reflection as she took in the stunning scenery (poor, poor lovely senior citizen). She could hear Alex groaning and thought she’d offer some kind words of encouragement (poor, poor, poor lovely senior citizen). Let’s just say you can see where this is going…. I’ll just type the words “fetal-ball” and we will all move on. F-E-T-A-L (curl in tightly now, you don’t want to come untucked) B-A-L-L.

Please note my angry 18 year old in the background; and the curiously empty arch :)

Just about to Moab, Utah May 2016

Life in a holding pattern is a state or period where no progress or change is made or planned. It’s being apathetic, it’s just getting through it. Which in all honesty there are periods of time when that is ALL you can do; weeks 36-40 of pregnancy. After having twins. The loss of a loved one. Helping your kid with their Algebra homework. But avoiding a goal, a destination, or growth because of fear of landing is no life.  Anxiety gums up the gears because turbulence bites! Because traumatizing nice reflective senior citizens IS traumatizing. So, when that happens (which I’m sorry to say is frequently the case) I tend to slip back into the ruts of routine because it’s comfortable, and getting out of a holding pattern often takes a catalyst of crisis for movement to happen (and I’m exhausted with crisis). Take for instance how Eagles learn to fly (we watch a lot of nature documentaries in our house). First, the mother presses the eagles to the edge of the nest, then she will fly around in front of the eaglet (who is fearfully tottering on the edge flapping her wings) giving both the example and inspiration of flying, if this doesn’t inspire the eaglet to fly, don’t worry, the mother will just shove the bird out of the nest (naturally). Crisis can be a strong motivator.

I love this photo I shot when landing in Jackson, forest fires made the air smoky and the sunset just sang.
Please note the mountains reflected in the plane.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming, summer 2014

I’ve wondered what specific fears or reservations have kept me in a holding pattern, flapping nervously at the edge of the nest. Here is a raw, unflinching look at what I believe keeps me from forward movement.

I love the moutains at sunrise; seriously open the shade 2015

I put off personal goals/aspirations to deal with day to day stuff (like feeding my children –they are so needy three times a day are you kidding me?- or cleaning the bathroom –does anyone even try to aim? Or dealing with a melt down on aisle five) therefore important things (*please note, I do believe mothering is the most important thing I do so simmer) get put on hold for another day, and another day becomes another week and another month and another year.

I trip on fear; it keeps me focused on the past and worried about the future, even if for the moment we are ok. For example, we might be having a lovely flight to California, the boys happily munching on pretzels and sipping sprite, meanwhile my mind is racing about the last time I tried to go to Disneyland and Alex attempted to decapitate his brother with his light saber when he didn’t get picked for Jedi training camp while yelling, “Disneyland; where all your nightmares come true!!” And I never even made it within a five mile radius of the churro stand.

I am scared to leave the safety of the nest. “Will these wings work? Can’t someone just bring some take-out-worms or something, I’ve got chop sticks hidden next to that piece of red yarn?” I am afraid of letting go of the familiar; I know how to deal with a melt down on aisle five but aisle six? Ugh, next to the Ragu jars? DISASTER! The rut of routine is a cushioning curve I dig into. Fear of the unknown can trip me up, even though I know if I keep looking back I’ll never move forward (but it burns!). Fear of change is a big reason I keep circling in the air and goes hand in hand with fear of being inadequate or unprepared.

I love landing with this kid;

early morning in California just as the sun was rising; break out the shades! 2015

Fear of failure; if I embrace change and fail. Then what? I equate failure with embarrassment, even though history is filled with examples of the best results that come as people walk through failure and in the process of recovery learn the biggest lessons and make the greatest leaps forward. *Now is the part where a lightbulb (both metaphorically and physically) can go off over your head and maybe you’ll want to google the story of Thomas Edison.

Fear of disapproval; rejection or being alone; there is something in me that is constantly looking outward for validation. Tell me I’m good please!! (Which don’t try to get that from reflective senior citizens or you will be disappointed every time wink wink).

Fear does have its place; is raw emotion; it’s unfiltered anxiety and can potentially protect us from painful fatal situation. I am afraid of walking in front of a bus, putting my finger in the fan, drinking Clorox or telling my son to put on deodorant because I know the outcome of such behavior. Rational fear is good fear it protects us. On the other hand we have experiences that create irrational fears; painful past memories or situations cause us to anticipate a similar negative experience (which is why I may break out in hives when approaching Alex’s middle school) irrational fears keep us circling, waiting for dispatch to tell us (again) that it’s safe to land.

The trick is, if I’ve learned ANYTHING in my past 41 years; I’ve learned you have to land. You have to. You can’t keep circling or you’ll never make any progress, which leads to frustration and depression and binge buying self-help books on Amazon and missing IEP meetings because you were engrossed in yet another Ted talk. You have to drop the wheels, descend gradually and taxi to the gate and deplane because Disneyland is magical. The top of the Arch spectacular (even with your 18 year old kicking rocks in your general direction which is saying a lot) and the wind ruffling your feathers as you accomplish a goal soul filling.

And so my mantra has become: I will let faith replace my fears. I will descend gradually and cautiously, but I WILL descend. I will follow my flight plan. I will not give in to the damp musty grip of fear that tries to choke the breath right out of my lungs. I will eat a damn churro and I will remember that hope is buoyant and bright. And no matter how dark of a night I am stuck in, hope is the sunrise I’m waiting for, and the sun ALWAYS rises.

And then as my second chute, if my mantra fails I will remember that if I never land I’m never going to meet my future in-laws, (and my mother-in-law promised to braid my hair and I’m pretty sure my K-1 fiancé said he was going to buy me a rock the size of Texas, that or, he’d like me to brand his heard of cows.

Traditional I survived the trail jumping shot in front of the arch. Just try to keep me down!! (A fetal ball is surprisingly easy to spring back from) BOOM! Moab Utah, 2016

The Weight of Love

 

Love Locks, Pont des Arts bridge, Paris, France. February 2015

Paris is effortlessly enchanting; the setting surreal. When I visited last February, It appeared I’d climbed off a plane and stumbled onto a movie lot. I stammered through the set, feeling hideously underdressed and under-classed; a poor peasant, gawking apologetically at the beauty, (trying not to look like the obvious star struck outsider I was -not even fit to be cast as an extra). Every detail was impeccable: the lighting a warm caress, the irresistible chinks of cobblestones clicking against my boots as I walked. The River Siene lapped the edge of the city while sail boats swayed seductively on the waves. The wafting aroma of fresh pastry seemed to melt into the canvas backdrop –It must be a painting? I’d reasoned, and worried croissant crumbs would leave a greasy mark. The bookstands, the structures, the texture of culture and heritage and history settled in my soul a mystery to be unwound. But the story would have to wait to be absorbed, because I was distracted by a (make-your-womb-hurt) little girl; a red scarf tied smartly around her neck, who was holding a crepe to her mouth, a trail of sugar and butter dripped like bread crumbs as she walked. “Lick ever last drop!” I’d thought “Don’t be ashamed to suck the sugar spot on your sweater.  You don’t want to miss anything!”

 

It was SO cold...I had on a pair of leggings, jeans, a wool undershirt,

a shirt a sweater and two coats. But I LOVED every minute!

Paris SCREAMS romance; a siren call for lovers. A batman beacon in the sky. Everywhere you turned couples were tucked into each other, their fingers intertwined, and their every step in sync. As I walked across the Regal Pont des Arts Bridge, I stopped to watch young sweethearts secure locks onto the bridge frame and throw the keys into the river. The padlocks winked in the sunlight, sharpie initials scribbled haphazardly on the links, a tangible token of couples from around the world who desired to be (wait for it) locked in love forever. I thought it was romantic and was amazed by the sheer number of metal hooks hanging from the iron bridge. But I learned the future of this ritual was doomed, because as the number of locks had surged past 700 000, the weight of love had grown heavy enough to bend the beams of iron, and break down the walls.

 

Seriously, that's a lot of love. Locks were fastened to other locks in order to secure a spot. 2015

Currently, it’s estimated each metal panel carries more than 1,100 pounds of extra weight, which is more than four times the maximum weight allowed. City workers circulate nightly, wire cutters in hand to break the locks off the bridge, but their efforts seem to be in vain, because almost immediately another lock is anchored in its place.

Eating birthday gelato with my birthday boy. It must have been good because Alex
indulged me with a birthday selfie AND birthday smile. March 30, 2015, Texas.

And this is the image I was (admittedly wistfully) remembering the other night, when hour three of four of Operation “Get Alex Unstuck” had started (I NEVER remember to wear my camo). Getting “stuck” is something Alex is exceptionally good at. Classic overachiever. A more scientific term for “stuck” would be “perseverate” and is something a lot of individuals with autism struggle with. It’s responding in the same way repetitively and can include behaviors like stemming, echolalia, obsessions and routines. Perseveration involves actions, thoughts, words, phrases and emotions. For Alex, his perseverating takes on the form of specialized interests. If the boy is into something he is INTO something. Go ahead and ask him to name all the national parks, and he can tell you their location, park hours, distinguishing features, the history of construction, how many people died there, what President made it a National Park… I could go on all day. It has been suggested that a lot of the groundwork for the computers we have today was laid by individuals who perseverated on computer chips. Perseveration has its upside, but on the flip side, it can also be a burden. For Alex, the challenge arrives in repetitive negative thought patterns that prevent him from getting past perceived wrongs and moving forward. His frustrations viewed through the prism of autism might seem illogical to everyone BUT Alex (who sees it as perfectly rational).

The history and beauty of Paris was almost my undoing. I only had my phone to take pictures with and I filled the memory. Paris, France 2015

For example, when Alex broke his arm and the doctor took off the cast, his arm still hurt and Alex was certain it was still broken. The doctor showed him the X-ray where the bone was healed, but Alex fixated on the empty space in between bones, concluding the doctor was lying, ergo all doctors are liars. This fixation lasted for YEARS. No amount of arguing, explaining, documenting, apologizing, scientific facting, OR electrical shock thereapying (kidding….too expensive wink wink) could persuade him otherwise. This road bump got tricky, because we deal with doctors a lot. AND we are friends with doctors. Yes, at my front door a Doctor and his family coming for dinner was told, “My mom is making apple pie. It smells amazing. Sorry, liars aren’t allowed in this house.” (Que door slamming). Or there was the time Alex had pneumonia complicated by asthma and refused breathing treatments (like we can trust their judgment!). There is no fixing it, when he gets stuck in a cycle of perseveration, (BELIEVE ME I’VE TRIED) and sadly, some of the issues he struggles with have become massive roadblocks in his life, preventing him from further movement. Think landslide size roadblocks, and the more you move dirt from point A to point B, thinking you are making progress, you realize he’s just been moving it back from point B to point A the whole time, and all your effort has been in vain. Furthermore, and probably the most frustrating and hardest thing to juggle, is how his landslides affect the movement of his brothers and his parents. We have all slid off the road, time and time again, mud filing our shoes as we slide, the grit of dirt slow to wash off.



Gargoyle's view: From the top of Notre Dame...just call me a hunch back! 2015

On this night, I had my feet propped up against Alex’s legs as he sunk deeper in defeat into the couch. My 6’4 bred to be a linebacker son, reminded me of a toddler who had exhausted himself after throwing a tantrum. His fists were still clenched in unresolved frustration, tears stained his face, the burden of anxiety, depression and autism, settled like concrete in his frame. He was undone. This was the third night in a row we had played this game, with no declared winner, and I was so bone weary tired of folding, of being dealt a losing hand and shuffling the cards. Finally, silence settled in the room. We sat catatonic, listening to the fan churning the air, and my mind drifted back to that bridge and the weight of love.

The River Seine was deep, and dark and beautiful. Paris, France 2015

I confess, in that midnight moment, the weight of love was not poetic, or velvety like rose petals. It was not something to be pined over. The burden of love felt crushing and for just a moment I closed my eyes and sunk into the black angst of despair. I lamented that this was not the way I envisioned love! Or motherhood, or my life. Love felt like a rock I was chained to pulling me down into an ocean of hopelessness. Love was rubbing me raw.

But. Then I blinked and looked up. I saw my son as he dipped his head and peered at me cautiously from under the shadow fringe of bangs, and love buoyed me up, pulled me to the surface, and became a lifeboat.

I want my parenting to be like this statue; the soldier who is saving the baby
(buck naked of course because how else would one save a child's life?) And
there are moments of this (only usually with clothing). Louvre, Paris, France 2015

 

But honestly mostly my parenting experiences are like this (and, usually without clothing as well...wink wink)
Louvre, Paris, France 2015

I know I’m not alone when I say this was not the life I thought I would have.  Every human has experienced that aha moment. Motherhood is so much work! I had no idea when I put that wheel in motion that IT NEVER STOPS. But, oh how grateful I am to be a mother. Because being a parent has grounded me.  I have been strengthened by love, refined and balanced by the ballast as I’ve learned to shift the density of attachment. In that moment of nighttime calm, I accepted the weight again. I remembered I didn’t want to be unchained and released; glad the key to our lock was resting against the smooth flesh of river rocks.



A break from France (geez who wants to deal with THAT all the time!!!) to another favorite place: The Tetons
Summer 2015 with my favorite boys; Alex, Logan and Spencer 

The truth is, my carpal tunnel fingers ache to type that as the sun started to rise, pink clouds stretched in gauzy strips across the horizon, that Alex miraculously took up his bed and walked. But he did not. The game was a draw. Again. I folded. Again. Dropped my cards, cried “Uncle” and asked, “Do you think you can sleep now?” Again.

I’ve repeatedly wondered if all the talking, listening, reasoning and reassuring makes even a chink in the armor of autism, let alone a dent in the shield. But, my ace up my sleeve is knowing I can perseverate too. In fact, love compels me to “repeat something intently or redundantly, usually to an exceptional degree or beyond a desired point.” I have to believe that the weight of love will be decisive.

The force is strong in this one.... Spencer and Logan throwing the weight of love around.
A FREEZING -29 degrees, hurts to breath, day in Jackson. December 2014

The gravity of devotion is cumulative; snowflakes melting like sugar in your hand while you puzzle over how one tiny flake can make any difference? (*Try a winter in Wyoming and you will see). I believe by small and simple means are great things brought to pass.  And all the times I wiped noses, wiped butts, buckled boys in car seats, (stopped on the side of the road every other mile to REBUCKLE them in car seats). All the hours enduring the stomach flu, cracked nipples, ER visits and bouts of biting. All the landforms formed, PE clothes washed, forgotten lunches delivered. All the binkies found, Halloween costumes created, knees bandaged, apples peeled. All the books read, boundaries set, chores enforced. All the sleepless nights stumbled through, lullabies sung, long lines tolerated and parent teacher conference scolding’s absorbed. All the laundry washed, pancakes flipped, tempers held and crusts removed, it all counts.

The Eiffel Tower in the background on a rainy afternoon in Paris, 2015

The weight of love can always be felt and sparkles with the light of a thousand diamonds when it banks against your window and you put your palm up to the pane, wanting to cup the miracle; overcome by the biting beauty.

And this morning, still yawning from my late night poker session with Alex, I was driving to the Middle School (Kenny Roger’s lyrics “you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em” running through my head) to drop off forgotten gym clothes to Logan for football practice. Again. And coming up on a rise in the road I was overcome by how the electrical pillar looked just like the Eifel Tower.

Taking a boat tour on the River Seine @ night.
My smile was literally frozen in place (but I looked that way in
the warmth of the hotel room too...) Ahh, Paris. 2015

 

And as a PS: This is why I'm not even qualified to work as an extra on the set of Paris, France, because I do classy things like drop my glove in the toilet at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Elegant as always, (and sadly...cold). 

 

Uh, yes. That is the bathroom at the top of the Eifel Tower.
Yes, the one where I dropped my glove in the toilet.

 

 

 

 

+

What About Now?

Uncle Jake takes one for the team as Spencer plows a pie into his face on Pie Day 3.14.15

When I was 27 weeks pregnant with Logan, I slipped on the ice and tore the ACL in my right knee. Well, needless to say, I was never graceful to start out with (obviously) so crutches took some extra effort, then add to the mix a gravity defying pregnant belly, a 15 month old Spencer, a 3 year old Alex, and an absentee husband (Russ was working for the SLC Olympics DURING the Olympics) and you get a REAL party (like it’s 1999 baby)!

During this time of (cough cough) “healing” I found myself propped up in a leather-lazy-boy recliner, a bag of ice resting on my knee, while I attempted to maintain the routine of “rocking” (oops) Spencer before sleepy time, while Russ put Alex to bed. Eventually Spence finished his bottle and settled like a cuddly little tree monkey against my shoulder and conked out. I remember smelling his just washed hair and sighing contentedly, just before he (wait for it) arched his back and threw up ALL OVER ME (uh…remember he was cuddled on my shoulder….so the direct target would be….? )

While calling for help (no response), I pulled off Spencer’s pajamas, and used his blanket to hastily wipe off my face. I handed him his binky and shifted him to my other side where he INEXPLICABLY went back to sleep. At first my continued cries for backup were like soft kitten mewing sounds, because I didn’t want to wake up Spencer…but as time marched on, and the melted ice dripped down my leg, the dead weight of Spencey cut off my blood flow, the need to pee became the sole thought thumping like a heart beat in my brain and, oh wait! -I was COVERED IN VOMIT and couldn’t move- my pleas got increasingly louder. I could hear Russ snoring in Alex’s room, (he was exhausted) and was SHOCKED when my full out eventual RANTING didn’t rouse him (or Spencer). As impatience, frustration and even panic begin setting in (all while I starred numbly at a Mighty Bullet infomercial … did I forget to mention I’d dropped the remote?) I may have whispered pathetically into the dark, “Someone will find your body eventually. There will be a proper burial. Lassie will go for help!”  I knew I’d be okay, but in those heavy, moments waiting for the sunrise, I remember thinking, “But how do I get through now?”


This photo was taken on a freezing morning one week before Logan was born at a Torch Light Parade
During the 2002 Winter Games in SLC. (As a side not since Logan was born during the Olympics,
Russ told the nurse as a joke that we were naming him Olympius Thor.
Don't worry. We had to change the birth certificate). 


My childhood friend’s mother is dying of cancer and she feels swallowed up by anxiety as she watches powerlessly. She wants to stall the creeping death and give her mother hope, but feels like she keeps falling short of the mark. She’s caught in a collapsed blanket hut of grief, and the stiches are tight with no weak spots in the seams. I watch her searching for a hole in the fabric so she can poke out a finger and let somebody know she’s there (I see you).

“What about now?” I imagine her saying. “How do we get through now?”

Another friend is courageously facing postpartum depression.

A family I love is working to absorb the tragic death of their daughter.

And my oldest son faces daily debilitating depression and despair (and he will also tell you if you ask, “Murderous rage” but the alliteration with the d words is a much nicer fit right?).

Sunset in Jackson .... would like to get through a few more of these (What about NOW? Yes please!) 2015

What about now?

We lost our first baby 23 weeks into my pregnancy, it happened so fast. Within a matter of hours life slipped seamlessly from me, like a ghost disappearing, smoke dissipating, and I was left bereft, 22 and barely able to wrap my mind around what had just happened. I remember laying on the floor of the bedroom that would have been our child’s nursery and feeling crushed by the weight of remorse, every breath I tried to find seemed lost in some black empty place that used to hold my heart. I hated that I couldn’t escape. I hated the feeling of waking up and remembering my life had derailed, and I was making my way through carnage. I was just a girl, barely older than a toddler and I thought I could cheat grief; so I got pregnant with Alex (against medical advice) six weeks after losing out first son. I was so young. I didn’t know grief was patient. That it bided it’s time. That it waits like a hungry panther; white teeth shining in the shadows.

Now that I’m barely older than a school girl, I’ve learned we all have moments of angst. No one escapes this life without being ravaged a time or two. We all have days (Months…years…eek!!!) When Lassie gets distracted by the hot Pug around the corner and never makes it back to the well with help. We have all spent time underwater, wondering if we will ever feel the earth beneath our feet again.

So what about now?

What about when you wave your white flag; your muscles fail, when you have no words but no one accepts your offer of defeat? The rhino charges anyway?



This picture I took after I had spend the ENTIRE night bawling pathetically
(Day 28 with a VENGENCE coupled with a long drive, no sleep, a walk into a wall -literally- and a fever) 
but in the morning I got up, and went for a long run in the misty mountain tops.
It reminds me of the Psalm, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
When I look at this picture I feel resilient.  2014



How do we get through? Well one thing I’ve learned is that’s just it… you have to get through it, there is no skulking around it, and even if you try, even if you think you’ve cheated grief/anger/resentment/heartache it will just rear its ugly head again. You have to wade through your Red Sea one baby step at a time.

And HOW, you want to know, do you wade from the fetal position? (Have you heard of the front crawl?) Well, this is a blog, not (alas) a dissertation. But here are some things that have helped me:

Stay positive, which is admittedly, easier said than done. Being positive includes being grateful for what you have. I love moments when the prism through which I see life shifts and everything changes. I vividly remember having just come home from the hospital where I’d had yet another IV rehydrating session because I was unexpectedly expecting Logan, and couldn’t keep ANYTHING down. I was feeling lower than low and certainly justified in my self-pity. I got home just in time to attend a women’s meeting. I entered the building rubbing the sore spot on my hand where the student nurse had tried eight times to get an IV started, and stopped by the bathroom on the way in to throw up what? Saline solution?!! Part of the meeting included a video on Humanitarian Aid, and in the footage there was a refugee woman who was trying to feed her dehydrated child. He was too weak to suck, so she cupped gruel in her empty hand and tried to pour it into his open mouth. I looked at this mother sitting in the dirt, a dusty rag tied around her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she tried to save the life of her child. Watching this changed me.  Gratitude for all I had split me apart. My whole perspective shifted, and even though my pregnancy with Logan continued to miserable right up until delivery, I felt grateful to have access to so much care and support. Gratitude became an island in my sea of sorrow.
 

Um, hanging at the Ocean with my friend is something I can feel positive about.
(That and not breaking my ankle when I landed made me feel even better) 2015

 

Learn to laugh, this has been hands down the saving grace in my life. I live in a world of black and white thinkers, Alex especially is very literal and he struggles with being happy. The other morning I greeted him as he padded down the stairs saying, “Good morning Alex, how are you feeling today?” He answered, “I’m really struggling with feelings of murderous rage right now.” “Well, remind me not to stand by the kitchen knives!” I replied. “Why?” Alex wanted to know. And so began the daily ritual we’ve been doing since he was a little boy, it’s a game called, “It’s a little bit funny and here’s why” where we try to teach him how to infuse hues of color into his world colored midnight.  Humor is infectious, when laughter is shared it binds people together. Laughter has been scientifically proven to strengthen your immune system, boost your energy, diminish pain and protect you from the damaging effects of stress. So go to a comedy club, watch a funny show, read the comics, hangout with your kids, because it turns out laughter really is the best medicine.

Take a pause. Step back and look at the big picture. (Observe the situation as an outsider). Focus on what’s working and set small achievable goals (today I will shower :) and only eat ONE tub of ice cream). Recognize how far you’ve come (Yesterday I showered too :). I tend to default to how far we have to go, instead of celebrating the mileage we’ve covered and believe me -especially when it comes to Autism- mileage covered is hard earned and SHOULD be celebrated! Like confetti guns and blow horns celebrated! (Um, scratch that, too stimulating! Brownies alone in the closet works too!). Take a moment in your ocean of anguish to dog paddle, to float on your back so you can take stock of the situation. Make a plan. Decide on an escape route. Get your bearings, take a deep breath, tighten your life jacket, and then dig into to the waves.



Sometimes denial tastes like a waffle from the BKK airport.... mmmmm sugar! 2014

 

Denial. I am a fan of denial. Now simmer down, this isn’t to say you should just ignore a problem, but sometimes you can get so absorbed in the grieving of grief (the action of it, grief as a verb) that you are rendered catatonic. I remember when Alex was first diagnosed with autism I spent HOURS and HOURS and HOURS researching cures and behavior modification, causes, IEPs and websites for adults with autism. I was overwhelmed by the amount of information I had to digest, so much so that I choked. I had to detach to be able to function on a guttural level. To be able to do laundry and make sack lunches and read bedtime stories and work. Now, did my spending the afternoon getting a pedicure and reading in the parking lot instead of going into the lecture on “Social Stories for Beginners” ruin anything? No. But ignoring the elephant in the room, for just a few glorious moments, allowed me enough time to gather some more straw (because elephants eat A LOT duh!). Denial goes along with thinking in small sips, because when you are in a crisis situation you can’t gulp or you’ll choke. You must sip like a fine lady, pinkies out. I also like to lie to myself, for example, every morning when I’m dragging myself out of bed I think, “Don’t worry. You can take a nap later.” Of course I never do, (and I even know when I think it that I won’t) but that white lie never fails to get me on my feet.

Learn from the past. This one takes some doing, (and it can be a bit painful) but it’s huge. Until we can improve on yesterday we really are just spinning our wheels and not making any forward progress.  Sadly, you can’t change a situation you don’t take responsibility for. Now there are plenty of situations that you did not cause, but of no fault of your own, becomes a problem you’re left to deal with. For example, in the airline industry, a passenger might come to me with trouble checking in for their flight and looking at their computer record I realize their whole itinerary has been mistakenly cancelled. Did I cause the problem? Nope. But is it my problem to fix? Yep. Will ranting that I didn’t cause the problem help anybody? Nope. Especially because the person standing in front of me didn’t cause the problem either. NOW, I have learned to (sometimes begrudgingly) recognize my part of the dysfunction in issues that occur closer to home. For example: No. I don’t have autism.  Alex is the one melting down on aisle five. Yes. This is HIS behavior not mine.  But I might be the one adding too many things to Alex’s plate. I might have been distracted by the lipsticks on clearance and missed his low moans signaling we needed to high tail it out of the store.  I’ve had to learn once the dust settles to dissect the tornado and recognize the signs of impending storms. I’ve had to change my behavior in conjunction with his behavior even though I have never had a problem with, for instance, screaming, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT FREAKING PIE DAY!!” at the sample lady in Costco (As a side note something helpful I have learned from Alex is how to avoid eye contact. This skill has served me well).  Another part of learning from the past is looking for patterns. We all have soothing rituals of behavior (comfort zone) we want to slip back into when experiencing uncomfortable situations or change. I’m not a huge fan of confrontation or feeling like someone is upset with me, so I have a default setting of undoing all the good I’ve done by being honest and setting boundaries (no, I’m too busy to host the PTA bake off) by then jumping back on the phone and offering to run the book sale instead. I know this about myself, which is why I have to give my phone to Logan and tell him he can play Minecraft until the battery dies after I tell someone no. Avoiding eye contact also works well in conjunction with PTA presidents :) which I’ve been one so simmer down!

The boys jumping in the waves of Mission Beach in San Diego over spring break. Alex rarely made it off the ground
but offered his brothers a stabilizing force as they caught air. 2015

 

Take action. If you are in a particularly bad place you must prioritize self-care. You can’t be dealing with the tip of the Maslow’s pyramid of needs when you base is crumbling. (Or help anyone with any of their needs for that matter either). Things that have helped me? Get outside. Go for a walk, a hike a drive.  Attempt to create balance (I know, I know, insert maniacal laughter). And if you are feeling particularly brave, choose to embrace the thing you fear, and you might be surprised to realize that while you might be David with your puny sling shot facing the Goliath in your life,  that giants can be taken down with even the smallest of well-aimed stones. Forward movement always feels better after a period of being stagnant.

Forgive. Be kind to yourself and recognizing that some days your best effort and the most courageous thing you will do is to get out of bed (let your kids out of the locked closet), and continue breathing out. Forgive others.  Martin Luther King said, “We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this we are less prone to hate our enemies.”  I know especially when we have been hurt deeply, it’s a hard task to accomplish, but in my own life, I’ve found when I don’t forgive, it’s like I’ve downed three vials of poison and thought the other person would die. Mark Twain said, (and as a side note the poetic nerd in me loves this) “Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

 

My parents are some of my favorite (sorry) people to ask for (plead beg) help! 2015
 

Ask for help. As a rule I suck at this. I would 1000 times rather help than be helped. BUT I have been blessed (1000 times over!) with some good to their marrow souls in my life who I’ve been able to share my story with, who have lifted, supported and carried me –I know! I know! It burns! (This topic deserves a whole blog post, or perhaps a dissertation). I love the quote, “I’ll lift thee, and you lift me, and we’ll ascend together.”

Being Willing This is something I learned from watching my mother. You have to be willing to believe you can do what you think you cannot. My mother’s favorite catch phrase is, “How hard can it be?” She taught me when times were tough, you must be tougher, that mindset is half the battle and pain is part of life and helps you grow. From her I learned you can let a situation strengthen and define you or destroy you.  Being willing means you try, but with all of your heart, try.  It’s digging in, it’s going full throttle. Being willing to me, is when you look at the marathon runner who’s standing next to you in a race your friends signed you up for as an April Fool’s day joke and even though you know you are wearing heels and haven’t ran since you chased your toddler across Chick-Fila (because, duh, he was spilling all your fries) in 2004. BUT, you look Jesse Owen’s in the eye anyway, take in the length of the track, assume the position and say to him, “I’ll see you at the finish line!”    

 

The strongest most capable woman I know. (That's A LOT of pressure mom!) 2015

Faith. To me, this is the most important thing to have in your bag of tricks when wondering, “How do I get through now.”  Hope that at some point the sun will rise (it always does) the tide will recede (laws of nature) and as unimaginable as it may seem when darkness seems to stretch like thick wool across everything you hold dear, that you will be ok. Birds sing in the pre-dawn dark because they aren’t burdened down by fear. They know the light will come. Plants grow through concrete. And husband’s eventually roll off of race car toddler beds, and prove their worth by not complaining when you press your vomit crusted hair into their chest, or confess between sobs that you ordered five Mighty Bullets while he carries you (light as a feather) to the tub. 

 

Spencer wears triumph well! 2015