Raising Char

Dear Char, this story is really about you. I pray we’ll always be close friends.

I had a flash back of Shep’s drowning a month or so ago at church. The sermon was about the royal official who sought out Jesus to save his dying son. Jesus’ first response is not exactly encouraging. So, the man presses further, desperate. “Jesus, come down before my child dies.” he pleaded. (John 4:46-50.)

In his sermon, our pastor used the words “Jesus save my son” to describe the scene. I could feel it coming when he began the story but this was the instant the memories rushed back and the movie reel behind my eyes kicked on.

Shep is laid out on the floor of my parents’ dining room, eyes half open, paramedics kneeling over his small, limp body. His skin is the wrong color. We stood on the edge of the room, watching and frozen. I want to be on the ground next to him but the logical part of my brain keeps me rooted to my spot, I know better than to interfere with their work. A hand, I think maybe a neighbor who’d heard the screams, is placed on my shoulder, I’m assuming she’s helping ensure I stay put as well.

And that phrase, “Jesus, save my son” escapes my lips, without my consent.

Over and over, I say the words. No one else is talking except for the low murmur of medical jargon from one paramedic to another. But I can’t stop. My words are quiet, but deliberate. “Jesus, save my son.” It was not my mind, but my soul crying out for mercy. My mouth is just relaying the message.

Well.

After three minutes of squirming in my seat in the church atrium, I surrendered. I shot Erron a look (he could see what was happening) then made a quick exit to the bathroom, Charlotte trailing a half step behind me. My shadow. I steered us to the nearest bathroom and made a beeline for the big stall at the end. Locked the door and put my hands over my face, no longer able to hold back the tears. Charlotte, momentarily stunned, moved to put her arms around me. “Mommy, are you feeling ok?” she asked, concerned that my crying was caused by the illness that had run though our family that week. “Yes, baby. I’m ok.” I took a breath, “That story reminded me of Shepherd’s accident and it hurts. Even though I know he’s fine, he’s great. But it still hurts sometimes.”

Char solemnly nodded.

Then she gently reminded me of the trick we had created together last spring during an unusual season of negative thoughts that plagued her daily.

She brought her small fists to her forehead, drew out the thought and broke it in two, as if it were a twig. Then she opened her hands, releasing it into the air. I silently copied her movements, moving my hands to my head and breaking my terrible memory in half. She rolled her eyes, I had obviously done it wrong, and when she giggled, I smiled. The moment was over.

But in that minute, hiding in the bathroom stall with Charlotte, I experienced what it was really like to have her as a friend. On the escape walk there, I’d knew I was going to have to explain my drama to Char once we got inside the bathroom and the tears started rolling. But I didn’t really need to, she already got it… and she empathized. Her presence in my moment of weakness was a sweet blessing. “I’m glad you were here Char.” I told her before we left the stall. “You made me feel better.” And I meant it; she was the perfect friend to have in that moment.

I’m a girls’ girl but I’m not a natural girl mom. My instinct in frustrating situations is to deflect and throw sarcasm out like a shield, or a weapon, depending on the situation. This works all right with Shep, but it does not sit well with Char. In the last few months she’s called me on it and reveled some sharp edges I need to soften in order to love her well. Raising Char provides the friction I need to wear down my rough responses. She is relentless in her fight to get what she wants, be it more tech time or another playdate. She persists, until you want to loose your mind. But she is tenderhearted, (and young) and my reaction to her has to be measured, or else she’s crushed before I even know what happened. I fight a constant undercurrent of insecurity raising Charlotte. I’m worried I’ll ruin our relationship with my quick words and lack of sensitivity, but that day in the bathroom I had a moment of clarity. I can just let her in, and the older she gets, the more opportunities I’ll have to do it. As she grows I can grow too; Charlotte is worth it to examine my responses and see some of them for what they really are, defense mechanisms and insecurities. All my kids make me a better person, but Char makes me kinder. She draws out my vulnerability and reminds me how heavy words can feel.

This last year I watched Char become a little momma to baby Shel. She tends to his needs as well as I do, it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to care for him. He lights up for her. The same persistence that makes me want to rip my hair out is the same grit that is still carrying Char through a tough school year where she has to work harder than most to learn how to read. Char will do 1000 round-offs for her coach without being asked; the girl just knows how to work hard. She is a close observer of right and wrong and considers it her duty to inform you if the scales of fairness have been tipped in any way. Almost seven, Charlotte still crawls into my bed at night, then wraps herself around me. We’ve bribed her and taken away her favorite things trying to get her to stop. It doesn’t work. She comes no matter what. Perseverance, she has in spades.

Charlotte has always been my girl, and I don’t know how I got so lucky. I only pray I can love her back as well as she loves me. It’s like being loved by a firecracker. Intense, sparkly, overwhelming, and beautiful all at once.

Happy 7th birthday Char. You are one to watch. I love you more than I can say.

Anxiety: A confession

5 / 6 / 165 / 6 / 16

Did you know May is mental health awareness month? I had no idea until it crossed my screen the other day, on Instagram or Facebook. I scrolled by it so quickly, barely acknowledging it at the time. But then it got me thinking. I’ve avoided writing this post for months, afraid to be this transparent. But as usual, if it takes up real estate in my head for too long, it’s at high risk for getting written out, and I think it’s important. So, I have a confession:

A few months ago, over Valentine’s weekend, Erron and I had a ‘Come to Jesus’ conversation that had been boiling over for weeks. We were driving back from a weekend getaway with friends where we spent the majority of the weekend separated; guys fished, girls talked. It was probably for the best because Erron and I had been treading on thin ice anyway. I was totally exhausted. Like, turn on a show for the kids, napping in the middle of the day kind of tired. (I never nap.) Work wasn’t busy but I could barely keep up with the house. Thinking about cooking dinner made me want to cry. (The daily responsibility of feeding my people can still have this unfortunate affect on me;) Around that same time I wrote this post, documenting my memories of Shep’s accident making a fierce comeback and reeking all kinds of havoc. The point is, Erron’s words on the drive home from Valentine’s Day confirmed what I already knew. As much as I wanted to be, as much progress as I had made… I hadn’t really recovered.

And I was sinking.

Since Shepherd’s drowning, I’d filled my life with positive distractions, a new career, new community group, volunteering, this blog….and sometimes that worked….But I had to fess up to the truth, things were not going so well. I was defensive, agitated, and mostly, I was just So. Freaking. Tired.

I knew I had anxiety. I knew it. But I kept wanting to label it as temporary, conditional. I continued to blame my exhaustion on Char’s terrible sleep habits, when the truth is I was out running hard and pushing a double Bob stroller full of kids only 8 weeks after having Charlotte. She certainly wasn’t sleeping through the night then either. It wasn’t adding up. And when I REALLY took stock, critically looking back over my adult life, it was glaringly obvious that I’d always danced with Anxiety. The tempo just ebbed and flowed depending on circumstances. I took Anxiety to work with me on my first job, fighting panic in the middle of classroom when things where moving sideways on me. I thought if I changed jobs I could leave it behind. But I unknowingly packed Anxiety up and brought it with me to my second job in Highland Park. Anxiety followed me around like a shadow dressed as Standardized Tests and intimidating standards. After a rocky initiation into motherhood with Shepherd’s extra early arrival, I was over it. I made it one more year, then ran out of the classroom as fast as I could, vowing I would only feel that anxious over my own kids from that day forward.

And for a while Anxiety took a vacy. Then I had Char, and 9 months later, I found myself back at the doctor running all my labs, checking my thyroid desperately trying to figure out why I was so tired all the time. My levels came back fine, and my doctor looked into my eyes and asked me straight out “Could you be anxious, or depressed?” I fought back my tears and shrugged my shoulders. I had NO reason to feel anxious, or depressed. But something wasn’t working. After weeks of hearing me doubt my mothering skills, my Dallas community group asked me the same question. Still, I wasn’t ready to own it. Soon after, we got distracted by Erron’s new job, and moving to Oklahoma. Then Shep happened.

Flash forward to the Valentine’s Weekend drive home with Erron. It was messy. And painful. I was going down and Erron was going down with me. He was at a loss. I’d known I was running out of options before the weekend even started so I’d already scheduled an appointment with the same doc I’d seen right after Shep’s accident. I’d tried medicine for anxiety then too, (I had felt justified in taking it to combat the awful memories) but the prescription put me in a fog and I‘d quickly bailed, preferring to talk it out with our counselor. That helped, SO much. Yet it was clear Anxiety had made a massive comeback and was pulling out new tricks I hadn’t seen. I was finally at a point where I was ready to not only own it, but hit it with the big guns. So I sat in the doctor’s office and laid it all out. “It’s like I’m spending every second of the day, capturing a thought Anxiety is feeding me, then having to pin it down and say, “You’re not true.” Or, “That won’t happen.” And I think it’s wearing me out.” He agreed, if you’re doing that all day, no wonder you’re tired. We decided to try something new.

About 10 day’s later, I finally felt a shift when I realized I wasn’t SO tired for the first time in a long time. I made it back to the gym for the first time in a year and half. When work picked up and I had to negotiate deals and write contracts for the first time, it became clear that a glass wall had been put up between me and Anxiety. I could see my anxiety through the glass, buzzing like a hornet trying to sting, but this time, I could choose whether or not to engage with it.

Game Changer.

There are a lot of opinions on this, especially in the Christian community. I know the verses, trust me…I’ve said them to myself over and over when I fight off images of Shep poolside, blue, still, and staring. I pray them at night when I’m stressing out about Shep ever learning to read, or us having enough money to pay for private school long enough to get him reading. I pray them with my littles before they go to bed. There is power in those verses, God is big enough to take my anxiety. Jesus swallowed Anxiety up whole when I should have been tucked into a ball on the hospital room floor. But that doesn’t mean that the daily battle with anxiety, or depression isn’t legit, or that it sometimes doesn’t take some help to push through. Sometimes, it does. And I did. And it’s working. Hallelujah.

The Loaded Question

2 / 7 / 16

Last week Shepherd asked me what the word drowning meant.

We were walking up to school, juggling coats, backpacks and lunch boxes and as casually as someone would ask for the time, Shep looks up at me and says, “What does drown mean?” I was struck dumb. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I tried to form an answer a second time…. but images, instead of words clouded my head.

For the first time with Shepherd, I dodged the question.

Instead, I looked back towards Charlotte, feigned a new interest in helping her walk faster, and I changed the subject. How could I tell my son what it meant to drown, when he’d done it? How do you explain a lack of oxygen, not being able to take in a breath, only water, to a child who’s gone through that experience, but just doesn’t seem to remember? It makes me want to scream just typing the words down. Memories of Shep’s accident have resurfaced. The baby-faced ambulance driver, the initial conversation with the doctor. He laid out our most likely outcome with thoughtful but direct sentences. Words that hit my brain like a hammer, shattering my world and caused my body to double over the coffee table in the waiting room.

Maybe it was Shep’s loaded question, his neurology appointment, or maybe it’s the decision Erron, his teachers and I recently made to hold Shep back from Kindergarten… the triggers can be illusive, but I can feel my anxiety ramping up, and I’ve spent a lot more time on my phone before bed than I used to, dulling my senses before closing my eyes.

I want, more than anything, to believe my son is fully restored, and that his brain and emotions were untouched and protected from the horrible experience he endured. And no, I honestly don’t think he remembers falling in the pool. But it happened, and I remember enough for the both of us.

We go through cycles with Sheppy, like all parents do with their kids, but as my mom describes it, Shep’s cycles can feel amplified. Shep has seemed worried in the last few months, a little anxious himself, and he’s picked up a new tic to replace the old one that had faded away. Fortunately, at school he seems to keep it together just fine-he’s a normal 5 year-old boy who loves to play and hates to write. But at home, it feels like tug of war, always calculating my tone when I speak to him, making ever-conscious decisions about when to remain calm and neutral and when it’s appropriate to let him know he’s on thin ice, and Momma’s about to crack, so he’d better figure it out quick.

To add insult to injury I feel guilty for worrying, we’ve been given so much medical information to rejoice over. We walked out of Children’s Hospital sixteen days after coming in. I’ve hugged mommas and prayed over precious toddlers who lived for months in step-down rehab facilities, re-learning how to walk, swallow, and form words they already knew. I’ve cried on the phone with a stranger who’s little nephew never made it out of the hospital this side of Heaven. All because of that one dirty word Shep wanted me to define.

Who am I to be ungrateful for the miracle we received? Is it not enough for me to kiss my boy goodnight, drive him to school, fuss at him when he’s picking on his sister? Yet, I’m told children who experience trauma can take months, even years to manifest symptoms of anxiety from their experience… but isn’t it just as possible his anxiety is a by-product of mine? I’ve heard and internalized every suggestion out there: Medication, play therapy, essential oils, PANDAS/PANS, food allergies. I’ve also seriously considered the possibility that God gave Shep a sensitive soul, anxiety is in his genes, so the best course of action might just be more family time and a glass of wine (or something even stronger) for me. The last thing I want to do is breed new issues and stigmas for Shep when time and maturity might shake it all out eventually.

But I am struggling. Shep’s emotions are simmering beneath the surface, and so are mine. I keep thinking someday the intensity will wear off for good, I’m so curious to hear from other mommas further down the road if it ever does. Does it? I thought the sting would be gone by now, but it isn’t. Not entirely.

I think it’s the guilt that drives the fear. There’s a very good chance we’d be wrestling with the same issues we are now even without his drowning history. But the preventability of Shep’s scenario add a layer of insanity to every decision making process. It’s what haunts me at night and drives me to my knees in prayer in the weakest moments. No doctor can offer up concrete answers as to what our future will look like, the crystal ball remains cloudy.

I may have lost my composure at Sunday school today after being up all night stressing over Shep’s future. On the way home, I told Erron how embarrassed I felt over the tears that failed to stay put as our teacher discussed how God continued making provisions for Moses and His people even though that process took a lot longer than they ever would have thought or preferred . Shep piped up from the back seat, “Mom, maybe you need to get under the covers and watch your favorite show!” Noted. Shep is going to be fine, we are going to be fine. We have been and will continue to be provided for. Whatever that looks like, I believe it is true. One day at a time. But for now, it’s Netflix under the covers.

Back in the Saddle

8 / 19 / 158 / 19 / 15

Sheppy has pneumonia. And we have landed ourselves back in the hospital. Erron was working, so I was flying solo with Shep and crazy Char when the decision was made to admit us. Sister did great…. until she didn’t, and became punch-drunk on lack of sleep and sugar. I was so thankful for my mom who drove up from Tulsa to collect her.

Admitting Shep was tough on the heart. The familiarity of it all was hard to swallow. Chest X-rays, respiratory therapy… all the same things we endured last summer. I felt the tears stinging my eyes while speaking with Shep’s nurse upon arrival, but quickly shut them down. They would have only made things worse for Shep who was already not pleased with the situation. I just kept repeating, “This is different.” over and over in my head. Then night came, and Erron went home. Shep’s O2 sats where dipping, (the same number on the monitor that we were obsessed with last summer) so they put him on light oxygen. Shep had finally crashed and completely panicked when they woke him to put the canola on. I decided to sleep in bed with him to make sure he didn’t rip it off out in his sleep. Around midnight, he wet the bed… I didn’t escape in time. I stripped off wet yoga pants, put back on the skinny jeans and decided I could cry if I wanted to.

In reality, once we hit the one-year mark, the really painful images and memories stopped haunting me for no reason, but certain situations naturally stir them up. I’ve talked to a few family members of drowning victims this summer and occasionally, I’ve wandered back into crazy town after up-close and personal reminders of what happened to Shep. Little-man was once running a fever at the same time another child, also named Shepherd, was fighting a loosing battle in the hospital. I just about came undone that night. Erron and I pulled Shep into bed with us and we both shed tears, for our Shepherd and theirs. Another time, I met a momma friend at the ER after her boy had fallen in the pool. She was still dressed in her swimsuit and cover up. Just seeing her brought tears to my eyes, knowing how panicked she’d been. I was wearing the same thing when we’d come in. I’d ripped the seams throwing on a cover-up with shaking hands right before EMSA arrived. It was a new cover up, I’d just bought it, but I threw it and the swimsuit in the trash of Shep’s hospital room, knowing I’d never want to see it again.

This time really is different, however…and for that I’m so grateful. I think about our experience much less frequently and can talk about it freely, without getting emotional. It has proven to be a blessing, as I’ve had to discuss it more that I thought I would this summer.

For now, Shep and I will spend the day watching the Disney channel and playing Legos. Doctor came by earlier, Shep seems to have turned a corner and it looks like we may bust out of here tomorrow….just in time for Meet the Teacher.

The comeback

1 / 14 / 156 / 29 / 15

For whatever reason, my first memories of Shep’s drowning have made a resurgence these last few days. It’s unexpected and seems unprompted but still they’ve come, late at night or even in broad day. This Sunday I sat next to Erron in church listening to worship music but in my head I was walking into Shep’s hospital room for the first time. It was loud, from the oscillating ventilator that was pushing air in and out of his water logged lungs at 200 breaths per minute. It made his whole chest vibrate. The room was filled with staff. I remember a nurse walking me in then immediately guiding me to a chair just inside the doorway. Later, I learned she sat me down because my legs were giving out. I never even noticed. What I do remember is asking for a bag and dry heaving into it as I tried to wrap my head around what was happening.

The other night, when the memories wouldn’t relent, I suck out of bed and crawled into Shep’s, wrapping my arms around his breathing body while I begged God to make the movie reel stop. I’m beginning to wonder if I am going to have to write the memories all out. I wasn’t ready to take that on yet. It will wreck me.

But maybe it could heal me also? Writing about the guilt over Shep’s accident was certainly a game changer for my aching heart.

I think the shock of it all was, (and still is) the hardest part. I was just so unprepared, so oblivious to the fact that losing Shepherd could even be in the realm of possibility for my life. Yes, I had definitely felt that fear when he was born much too early….but nothing like the day he fell in. That very day, I’d sat by the pool with my parents and told them about the secondary drowning article that was circulating the internet last summer. I described the symptoms…just so we all knew. What I didn’t know, was that an hour later I’d be back at the pool’s edge, scrambling to reach for my beautiful boy as my mom struggled to drag his body to the stairs. His perfect skin blue, his unusually large eyes cloudy and fixed…staring. I was certain we were too late. That he was gone. I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t ready.

I don’t want this blog to forever focus solely on what happened to Shepherd. I don’t want to forever focus it on it. There is so much other life to write about, the beautiful parts, and the parts that are funny, the hard, the fun, and the pretty, so much more life then those terrifying moments. And I’ve learned I love to write about all of it here. But Shepherd’s accident, his miraculous recovery, and God’s peace in the midst of our pain and panic will forever be a part of our family’s story. So… to move on without really telling it may not work for me.

But it’s going to hurt to like hell to write and I’m still not convinced this is the best medium for it. As painful as it is to write, I know it’s also hard to read.

So in the meantime, I’m going to stall a bit longer with some way more enjoyable things to write about. Things that matter to me. Like sister Charlotte turning 2 next month. And my crazy talented sister-in-law, Chelsea Ahlgrim, will grace this space with some photography tips for the totally untalented moms like me, who are only comfortable capturing little moments with an iphone. The hard stuff will always be there, but right now I’m in the mood for a little fun.

I made this my profile picture the day after Shep fell in. I love his eyes in this picture. The 3 of us were having so.much.fun. We are still having so much fun. And I’m so thankful.

October

11 / 4 / 1411 / 4 / 14

If a picture could say a thousand words, this one would simply say, “October.” Best laid plans…rough outcome. I’m obsessed with fall like the rest of the country, and in my head I had this month figured out. I was feeling back to my old self, I had outings planned, the month would be perfection, we deserved a fabulous fall after this summer. (Never a good way of thinking.) And while we had some great times to be sure, the month threw in some curve balls that overall just left me whipped, feeling like I’d backtracked several giant steps in getting back to our “normal.”

It began when an ambulance showed up at a neighbor’s house early in the morning. I’d just hosted a neighborhood ladies night, so now I knew this sweet lady, and as I stood in my driveway watching the stretcher being lifted into the back of the truck my heart broke for the fear that accompanies watching someone you love drive away in flashing lights. My mind instantly went back to our experience. Screaming at the paramedics to please, please, just RUN!… into our house. Watching Shepherd being placed on a stretcher. Climbing in the front seat of the ambulance, someone buckling me in. Being told I couldn’t go in to the back where they were working on Shepherd. Begging the young driver for information on what he thought our outcome would be. Cursing the cars that wouldn’t move out of the way fast enough. The memories just wouldn’t stop coming. Thankfully, neighbor is home and doing fine but seeing that ambulance parked down the street left me strung out for the better part of a week, or more. The images I had become skilled at packing away in the back of my mind crept forward with a vengeance. It’s incredible to me how when you think you’ve got it all under control you can be utterly humbled in mere minutes….that stretch on for days.

Upping the ante, Shepherd and his mini partner in crime, Charlotte, decided to take their drama party to whole new level of horror in honor of Halloween. Picture Shep behind his door throwing things and screaming every obscene thing he can think of because Mom and Dad took away all his Legos that he refused to clean up. “I HATE this! You’re the worstest mommy and daddy EVER!” Literally just the tip of the iceberg of fun-loving phrases from Shepherd James. The rest of them are not even worth writing down. It was one of those nights where you seriously wonder how it will feel to vist your kid in jail in 15-20 years. I consoled myself with the knowledge that my own mom was imagining her jail visits with me at about this stage in the parenting game. Erron was less amused then me…and understandably so. The undercurrent of this behavior leaves us way more stressed then it used to. We are well aware Shep comes by this drama naturally, this was not our first showdown with him… we get his age, and what being 3-4 can look like. But we also know that the part of your brain used to regulate emotions is one of the first parts compromised in drowning. And we’ve seen some of that in Shep. It leaves us feeling frustrated, guilty, and wringing our hands when it comes to the correct path of discipline.

Overall, October drove me to do things I wouldn’t normally do, such as ripping open Halloween candy in the middle of the Wal-Mart isle to appease both whining kids and keep myself from screaming. Or, taking a walk down to the cul-de-sac to meet other moms and kids, pushing a giant double Bob loaded with kids and toys in one hand and a large plastic wine glass of chardonnay in the other. This was a new low for me, I’m more of a “special occasion” drinker, and I’m certainly not an advocate for drinking and operating large, heavy equipment such as a double jogger. But everyone has their limits…I had reached mine at 4:00 and we were pushing 6:30. I would have filled up our sports bottle with my adult beverage if I’d had to wait much longer for “adult” time in the cul-de-sac while the littles ran free. All that to say, I am ready for November and all of her thankfulness. I’m not the first one to catch on to the fact that the best way to break out of a funk is to focus on all the good you’ve been given. And we have that in spades. Besides, October wasn’t all bad. Halloween came with Char looking like the cutest Tinker Bell I’ve ever seen, and Shep dressed as Peter Pan …literally screaming “I LOVE trick-or-treating!!” as he spastically ran through the neighborhood. So thank you for that, October, see you next year.