A third installment in my series of stories of the incredible support I received. It gets more personal here--the people in these stories walked very closely with me through my deep dark valleys, so close that the mud of my suffering stuck to them too.
* * *
-Sweetie, I've gotten time off from work next week, and I'm coming to see you.
My mom is on the phone with me again, I keep calling her for cleaning advice.
-Oh, Mama, you don't have to...
-Well it's done—I've already gotten a nurse to replace me. My flight arrives on Tuesday....
After our conversation, I'm hanging onto the first shred of hope I've found in weeks: my mama will be here soon!
When she arrives, she walks me straight to the doctor. I'm well into my second trimester and haven't gained an ounce. The doctor seems to think the situation is getting serious. He refers me to a psychiatrist, but is hesitant to prescribe an antidepressant himself.
My mom knows it will be a month or more before I get in to see the psychiatrist.
-If you will take my word for it as a nurse and as her mother, I really think she needs to be on the antidepressant sooner.
We leave with a prescription, and by the time we get to the pharmacy near our house, she's convinced me to fill it.
For three weeks after she fills me with home-cooked meals, ice cream, cookies,... love. We go for walks. She wipes my tears when I'm too afraid to touch my own face, smooths my hair with the warmest, most perfect hands I've ever known, takes me shopping for maternity clothes and baby clothes, and comforts me as only my mother can. She keeps calling work to get another replacement so she can stay longer. Eventually she has to go back, but she's taken me in to see the psychiatrist by now, and arranged to have friends help me as much as possible.
* * *
-J, are you OK?
I've just dialed Christie on Skype. I'm in tears and exhausted and SO thirsty.
-No, I don't know what to do. I'm so thirsty, but there aren't any clean cups in the house.
-Oh Hon, you need to drink! Listen, this is what you've got to do. Go and get a cup, get some dish soap, turn on the tap--
-But the sink is dirty too!
-That doesn't matter, you're just going to wash the cup under running water.
-But won't dirty water splash up from the dirty sink?
-No, absolutely not. Have you got a cup? I'll walk you through this....
* * *
-Look at those leaves! I can't believe how huge they are! Here, let me get a picture of one, with your feet to show scale.
Jem's mom has her iPod out, and is exclaiming over the British Columbia fall beauty. She's managed to drag me away from the sink and take me for a walk. We've been using our iPods to communicate for months, sending pictures back and forth of my growing belly, of food and art and Bible verses. Now she's here and now I'm in the pictures she sends out. There I am, proudly holding a yam I managed to clean under her direction. And here I am cuddling a fuzzy pink giraffe sleeper she bought for our Pipsqueak. For some reason, I can always look at that little sleeper and see a healthy baby. There we both are, Jem and I, setting up Pip's bed.
She and Dad drove up from Alberta to bring us the car we just bought. Dad goes back soon, but she'll be staying with us for a couple of weeks.
These days, I stop just surviving moment to moment, and live. I wake up every morning with something to do. She keeps me going. We walk a lot, go shopping, do crafts, sketch together, set up the tiny 'nursery'--normal things I hadn't been able to wrap my mind around on my own.
Mum, I don't know how you did it, but your visit brought fresh air into my fear-stifled existence.
* * *
I wake up and breathe relief. Wednesday. B is coming. Most days I wake with dread, unable to believe I'll make it through the day, almost wishing I won't. The days B comes are different. There's something to hope for, some direction to the day, somewhere to go and someone to look to. We go for walks together. We do crafts, look at pictures, go shopping. Then she makes me lunch and tucks me in for a nap. When I wake, she has tea and goodies ready, and she stays with me until Jem comes home
.
When she appears at the door this morning, she has a package for me. Surprised, I open Angel of Hope. The simple wooden figure holds up a candle toward me, sheltering the flame with a cupped hand.
-I thought today we could look up verses about hope. We can write them on index cards so you can have them to remind you every day.
I have tears of delight. We walk together to her house and gather Bibles, concordance, index cards and colored markers. There is nothing for me to worry about, only index cards to fill. When the afternoon is over, she walks with me back to our house.
That night, I tape hope words to doors, windows, cupboards, even shower walls.
B is a mother to me. She makes sure I eat, sleep, go for walks, get enough to drink. She takes me to appointments. Even through her own misery of a month-long migraine, she comes to see me, sends me meals, calls to see if I'm OK. Closer to my due date, she helps me pack for the hospital, dreams with me about that day.
There is no way to express my gratitude to my surprise mother.
* * *
More to come! Tune in next time to read about the one who helped me see Aslan and beauty in the darkness, a Skype rescue relay team, and the very best and strongest support a girl could have: my Jem.
* * *
-Sweetie, I've gotten time off from work next week, and I'm coming to see you.
My mom is on the phone with me again, I keep calling her for cleaning advice.
-Oh, Mama, you don't have to...
-Well it's done—I've already gotten a nurse to replace me. My flight arrives on Tuesday....
After our conversation, I'm hanging onto the first shred of hope I've found in weeks: my mama will be here soon!
When she arrives, she walks me straight to the doctor. I'm well into my second trimester and haven't gained an ounce. The doctor seems to think the situation is getting serious. He refers me to a psychiatrist, but is hesitant to prescribe an antidepressant himself.
My mom knows it will be a month or more before I get in to see the psychiatrist.
-If you will take my word for it as a nurse and as her mother, I really think she needs to be on the antidepressant sooner.
We leave with a prescription, and by the time we get to the pharmacy near our house, she's convinced me to fill it.
For three weeks after she fills me with home-cooked meals, ice cream, cookies,... love. We go for walks. She wipes my tears when I'm too afraid to touch my own face, smooths my hair with the warmest, most perfect hands I've ever known, takes me shopping for maternity clothes and baby clothes, and comforts me as only my mother can. She keeps calling work to get another replacement so she can stay longer. Eventually she has to go back, but she's taken me in to see the psychiatrist by now, and arranged to have friends help me as much as possible.
* * *
-J, are you OK?
I've just dialed Christie on Skype. I'm in tears and exhausted and SO thirsty.
-No, I don't know what to do. I'm so thirsty, but there aren't any clean cups in the house.
-Oh Hon, you need to drink! Listen, this is what you've got to do. Go and get a cup, get some dish soap, turn on the tap--
-But the sink is dirty too!
-That doesn't matter, you're just going to wash the cup under running water.
-But won't dirty water splash up from the dirty sink?
-No, absolutely not. Have you got a cup? I'll walk you through this....
* * *
-Look at those leaves! I can't believe how huge they are! Here, let me get a picture of one, with your feet to show scale.
Jem's mom has her iPod out, and is exclaiming over the British Columbia fall beauty. She's managed to drag me away from the sink and take me for a walk. We've been using our iPods to communicate for months, sending pictures back and forth of my growing belly, of food and art and Bible verses. Now she's here and now I'm in the pictures she sends out. There I am, proudly holding a yam I managed to clean under her direction. And here I am cuddling a fuzzy pink giraffe sleeper she bought for our Pipsqueak. For some reason, I can always look at that little sleeper and see a healthy baby. There we both are, Jem and I, setting up Pip's bed.
She and Dad drove up from Alberta to bring us the car we just bought. Dad goes back soon, but she'll be staying with us for a couple of weeks.
These days, I stop just surviving moment to moment, and live. I wake up every morning with something to do. She keeps me going. We walk a lot, go shopping, do crafts, sketch together, set up the tiny 'nursery'--normal things I hadn't been able to wrap my mind around on my own.
Mum, I don't know how you did it, but your visit brought fresh air into my fear-stifled existence.
* * *
I wake up and breathe relief. Wednesday. B is coming. Most days I wake with dread, unable to believe I'll make it through the day, almost wishing I won't. The days B comes are different. There's something to hope for, some direction to the day, somewhere to go and someone to look to. We go for walks together. We do crafts, look at pictures, go shopping. Then she makes me lunch and tucks me in for a nap. When I wake, she has tea and goodies ready, and she stays with me until Jem comes home
.
When she appears at the door this morning, she has a package for me. Surprised, I open Angel of Hope. The simple wooden figure holds up a candle toward me, sheltering the flame with a cupped hand.
-I thought today we could look up verses about hope. We can write them on index cards so you can have them to remind you every day.
I have tears of delight. We walk together to her house and gather Bibles, concordance, index cards and colored markers. There is nothing for me to worry about, only index cards to fill. When the afternoon is over, she walks with me back to our house.
That night, I tape hope words to doors, windows, cupboards, even shower walls.
B is a mother to me. She makes sure I eat, sleep, go for walks, get enough to drink. She takes me to appointments. Even through her own misery of a month-long migraine, she comes to see me, sends me meals, calls to see if I'm OK. Closer to my due date, she helps me pack for the hospital, dreams with me about that day.
There is no way to express my gratitude to my surprise mother.
* * *
More to come! Tune in next time to read about the one who helped me see Aslan and beauty in the darkness, a Skype rescue relay team, and the very best and strongest support a girl could have: my Jem.
