Throughout my life, I've had to deal with a lot of issues that require strength so I suppose it's true, but a part of me always found a way to negate it. I was the younger of two kids most of my childhood, my older brother being retarded. Not the "Oh my gosh he is such a re-tard" kind retarded, but the he was born premature being the sole survivor of a set of twins retarded. I learned early on that kids teased kids like my brother and that I had to protect him. It wasn't something I thought about a lot, it was just was I was suppose to do. I never thought of it as being strong or noble...for me, it was part of the norm.
When I was 12 I was shocked to learned my mother was going to have a baby. My whole life I had begged for an older sister - hey, I was a *kid*...how was I suppose to know how it really worked?!. I was thrilled, until that faithful morning when my grandfather woke me up to take a call from my parents who had gone to the hospital in the middle of the night. I was breathless as I asked my dad "Is it a boy or a girl?" I had so wanted a sister! I was then shocked again at the quiet weeping I heard at the other end. And then I knew. Melissa had died.
I don't see myself as strong because all I really remember from that time is my desperate sobbing down the isle of that long church as they carried that little white coffin. I remembered thinking, I should be strong for my mom - she's the one that need comforting. But I was over come, I wasn't strong. And I couldn't let go of the three white roses I couldn't drop on her little white coffin. I held onto those roses for years until one day, I drove to the cemetery and finally left her roses by her grave. To this day, white roses make me think of my sister and who she might have been.
Fast forward to H.S. I've made no secret that my mother was always ill. For me, H.S. was all about wondering when the next ambulance would pull up to the house for my mom. I remember once waking to the commotion - my mom was delirious, throwing up all over herself and incredibly week. (In addition to diabetes, my mother had developed Chrohn's disease - this was before the heart issues and RA) i remember my dad shouting "take your mother while I call 911!" No sooner did he leave than over she went. I had no choice but to catch her, then try and clean the vomit off her before the paramedics arrive. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? I stayed with the baby (yes, my mom was able to go on and have another when I was almost 14) and take care of my big brother.
That became the norm. I remember often getting up in the night to change diapers when my parents didn't hear A. crying. I would cook what simple meals I could, and take care of the house during my mom's "episodes." By the time I was 16, I had a steady boyfriend that was sweet enough to take me on dates....with my 4 year sister tagging along. He's still one of the best people I know, and one of my biggest advocate that I was strong. I always told him he was crazy. I was just doing what needed doing. Really, I didn't have a choice.
In college, life presented more challenges. My parents paid the first year and half, and then I was on my own. I worked many jobs to pay my rent, food, tuition and books. I taught after school private lessons, worked retail, worked in the school admissions office...Anything I could find that was paying, and took out student loans. I remember times when I was hungry and I did without. But I knew to make a life for myself, I needed that degree, so I plugged on. In 5 years, I had my degree and a new fiancé.
Speaking of which, said fiance became ex-husband 5 years later. It was a foolish choice on my part. It shows how badly I felt about myself to choose the kind of man that I did. Who marries a man that screams at you that you are worthless? Strong people? If I was strong, why did I do that? But I was strong enough to get out, even if it meant giving up all rights to our house in exchange for my freedom. So I paid off any debt we had with out savings, and walked out with a suitcase, my car and whatever money was in my purse.
So "strongly", I started out on my own. I met two girls who had a 4 bedroom apartment...They would gladly let me share. I was happy to move in after staying with my parents for a few months. I did have a decent job and was starting to build up some bank account. That first week, I slept on the floor, with borrowed pillow from one of my new roomies. I soon went to IKEA, bought a bedroom set, and started to buy other necessities like towels and linens. It was a hard climb, mostly because I did not want to be a 27 year old divorcee. I knew I had to leave, but I was still sad and depressed. Who would want to marry me when I was divorced? Who does that? But I had made my IKEA bed, now it was time to lay in it.
I learned a lot about myself in those years though, and maybe found out I am tougher, and smarter than I thought. I knew to leave a life that was becoming dangerous for me. I knew that while my heart was broken for awhile, I could survive. And the most important lesson I learned was that I had worth simply because I was God's child. I did not need another person (man) to complete me, I was able and OK being just me. And I healed.
Meeting my husband almost 5 years later (yes, it took me that long to heal) was one of the best things to ever happen to me. I learned that real married life meant not being afraid, and that every little argument would not end in him threatening to divorce me. While we have taken some hits over the years, I am still grateful for what I think is wonderful life (cue the Jimmy stewart music....)
But those hits have taken their toll. Sure losing some jobs and having to move, and coming up with $25K to adopt our daughter was tough, but still very doable. And the adoption process - well, you need to have nerves of steel to go through that, but we did it together. Dealing with the loss of our unborn children and my fertility has been.....challenging. Once again, those old demons come out to haunt me. I picture that little white coffin from all those years ago and realize I have lost *my* children this time, and it batters my soul, like a hurricane batters a small ship on the ocean. I wonder what my children are like in heaven. Will they be children when I eventually meet them, or the adults they were meant to be? Time does dull the pain, but I beg to differ. Contrary to popular belief, time does not heal all wounds. Some wounds will always be tender when poked at.
I never knew how much one person could love another until I had my first child. His being born opened up an entirely new world for me. I would literally do anything to protect my children, even if it meant giving up my own life. I've had to fight for them in so many ways, and I never thought twice about it. Fight for Josh at his school, fight for insurance and equal medical care for adopted Katelyn, fight Noah's life threatening allergies that we keep finding the hard way... But all worth the fight, and never something I ever think twice about.
I don't ask myself in those situations if I am strong, I just do it, because that's what needs to be done. When Noah was a newborn in the hospital, and attached to halter monitor with wires hanging off him, I never ever considered not nursing him. I wondered how to do it for a split second then went to work. It wasn't even a consideration to give up. It's not even a consideration to not protect them. That's my job in life, and I do it better than anyone else can, because I love them more than anyone else can (save my husband of course).
I think we are all stronger than we know. In college, I remember crying because I was so hungry...but I survived (after some really bad cheap cans of tomato soup) and I am here today. After my divorce, I thought my life was over, but I am here with a better life than I could have imagined. I did that. In the hospital with Noah, sure I called my husband crying every 6 hours when they changed the prognosis from heart failure, to twisted intestines and so on and so on... But I spent every moment with I'm in the special care nursery, nursed him, fought for him side by side with my strong husband.
I. did. that.
I almost deleted this whole blog last week. I wanted to write the entry "I was a fool for even thinking I could make this work" and then delete it all. Just give up. The sad and alone part of me just wants to write of my grief and pain....but I can't. You see, there's this little part of me that has the slightest foothold, like a crack of light shining into a dark room. The "what if" in me that just can't make me let go, the part that pushes me out of bed in the morning to go feed my kids. A part of me that says "you are strong, you can *do* this."
Maybe, just maybe, that old friend was right.
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