Here are a few last stories I wanted to tell about the amazing people who helped me survive the worst of my illness. These stories tell me I am loved and that there is beauty that makes this world worth living in. I wish for the same kind of beauty in your life, dear reader, and also that you could be that beauty for someone who can see only ugly just now.
I'm sobbing to him over Skype.
-It's going to be OK Sweetheart. That's why I'm coming.
-You're coming?
-Yup. I've booked a flight. I'll be there for the two weeks before Christmas, and then we'll travel back together. You won't be alone.
I don't argue, I'm so grateful. Daddy is coming! I get the same feeling I had when I was ten or eleven; I had hurt myself badly at school, skinned my left shin so I could see my white bone (I still have a scar). Somebody got hold of my dad and he came to get me, riding up on his shiny red motorcycle.
He's talking to me again, his voice calm and sure:
-Now just lie back, and I'll read some more of our book.
He reads from the Narnia chronicles until I start to relax again. I fall asleep dreaming of Aslan's Country.
Over the next few days I tell myself over and over again that soon Daddy will be here and it will all be OK.
He comes, and it is. Oh, I still have anxiety attacks and tears and panic, sometimes several times a day, but he's on his shiny red motorbike and I'm clinging on from the back. He is starting to make sense of the pain for me, show me something beautiful. There's a reason for it all and so, there is hope.
He walks with me, in the rain and the wind. He convinces me that my umbrella is safe. He cooks stir-fries and grilled cheese sandwiches. He scrubs the floor. He puts his hand on my stomach and marvels at the movement from inside. He and baby play poke-back. Every night, he reads to me until the fear finally lets go and I sleep.
The stories help a lot. They give me something of truth and beauty to hold in my mind against all the ugliness of fear. They distract me a little. They are important, and I can attend to them.
My brother finishes his story. I smile, exhausted through tears. The Word is taking on a whole new dimension for me. A mysterious, confusing dimension, but full of beauty and hope.
-I have to go now, J. Are you going to be OK? Is Christie going to call you?
-Yes, she'll be by in a few minutes.
-OK, let me pray for you.
Once we hang up I barely have time to run to the bathroom before Christie calls me.
-Hey J, how are you doing?
-Oh, you know, bad.
-Aw. You wanna tell me about it?
I tell her my latest crisis. Maybe it's the time I tried to boil all my tea towels and dish cloths. One of them was a cotton cloth I had crocheted out of bright purple and blue yarn. It bled dye all over the other cloths, and the water boiled over purple on the stove and into my cast-iron pan.
-Cast iron is porous, right? And Jem used the pan before I could tell him not to, so I think I've ingested some dye!
-And what do you think that's going to do?
-I don't know, but dye can't be good for the baby!
But I'm already smiling helplessly because I know what she's going to say...
-Oh dear, your baby is going to come out with a purple finger!
I giggle in spite of myself.
-Or a purple nose!
That's the kind of humor my darling sister used to keep me alive. Christie, you are amazing.
I'm standing in the middle of our living room, turning around and around, crying, shaking, screaming. I don't know what to do. I've done nothing all day but to wash my hands. Ever since I got out of bed, I've been at the sink, in a constant crisis of indecision and fear. I finally call Jem at work.
-I can't get the soap off. I didn't use that much at a time, but I can't get it off!
-J, calm down. What do you mean?
-There's this white film that won't come off my hands.
-It's OK, it's just soap. That isn't going to hurt you.
-But it could! It might have chemicals!
He has to go, and I'm still in tears. I spin in circles for another fifteen minutes. Then suddenly, Jem is there. He's scooping me up in his arms, carrying me, seven or eight months pregnant, to the bed. He carefully changes my socks, then washes his hands before coming back to the bed and he just holds me until I stop shaking.
When I can listen again, he speaks deliberately,
-J, all this is about getting sick and harming the baby, right?
-Yes.
-Hon, I want you to know that I take full responsibility for you getting sick. From now on, it is no longer your responsibility. I am the father, and I am the one responsible before God to protect this baby. Your job is to be the mother, the nurturer. Let me be the protector.
There were many others who gave of themselves and without whom I don't know whether my baby or I would have survived. These amazing people truly walked with me. I don't know how they did it. I know they suffered too.I received generously of their comfort, companionship, help, food. They each gave up time, freedom, energy, and spent of themselves without any expectation of payback. I had nothing to pay back to anyone.
I admit that part of the reason I have written these stories down is a small attempt to pay a little something back--something in the way of thanks at least, and maybe inspiration to someone like you to walk close to someone like me.
* * *
-Daddy, I just don't know how to live anymore.I'm sobbing to him over Skype.
-It's going to be OK Sweetheart. That's why I'm coming.
-You're coming?
-Yup. I've booked a flight. I'll be there for the two weeks before Christmas, and then we'll travel back together. You won't be alone.
I don't argue, I'm so grateful. Daddy is coming! I get the same feeling I had when I was ten or eleven; I had hurt myself badly at school, skinned my left shin so I could see my white bone (I still have a scar). Somebody got hold of my dad and he came to get me, riding up on his shiny red motorcycle.
He's talking to me again, his voice calm and sure:
-Now just lie back, and I'll read some more of our book.
He reads from the Narnia chronicles until I start to relax again. I fall asleep dreaming of Aslan's Country.
Over the next few days I tell myself over and over again that soon Daddy will be here and it will all be OK.
He comes, and it is. Oh, I still have anxiety attacks and tears and panic, sometimes several times a day, but he's on his shiny red motorbike and I'm clinging on from the back. He is starting to make sense of the pain for me, show me something beautiful. There's a reason for it all and so, there is hope.
He walks with me, in the rain and the wind. He convinces me that my umbrella is safe. He cooks stir-fries and grilled cheese sandwiches. He scrubs the floor. He puts his hand on my stomach and marvels at the movement from inside. He and baby play poke-back. Every night, he reads to me until the fear finally lets go and I sleep.
The stories help a lot. They give me something of truth and beauty to hold in my mind against all the ugliness of fear. They distract me a little. They are important, and I can attend to them.
* * *
I'm in my usual one "safe" spot on the couch, talking to my brother over Skype. Or rather, listening to him as he walks me afresh through a familiar Bible story. Jem is at work, my mom and dad and Jem's parents are all away and all my friends are busy. But my family has arranged for me never to be alone, and they take shifts being "with me" over Skype, even just to watch me while I nap.
-I have to go now, J. Are you going to be OK? Is Christie going to call you?
-Yes, she'll be by in a few minutes.
-OK, let me pray for you.
Once we hang up I barely have time to run to the bathroom before Christie calls me.
-Hey J, how are you doing?
-Oh, you know, bad.
-Aw. You wanna tell me about it?
I tell her my latest crisis. Maybe it's the time I tried to boil all my tea towels and dish cloths. One of them was a cotton cloth I had crocheted out of bright purple and blue yarn. It bled dye all over the other cloths, and the water boiled over purple on the stove and into my cast-iron pan.
-Cast iron is porous, right? And Jem used the pan before I could tell him not to, so I think I've ingested some dye!
-And what do you think that's going to do?
-I don't know, but dye can't be good for the baby!
But I'm already smiling helplessly because I know what she's going to say...
-Oh dear, your baby is going to come out with a purple finger!
I giggle in spite of myself.
-Or a purple nose!
That's the kind of humor my darling sister used to keep me alive. Christie, you are amazing.
* * *
Finally, just one of the many stories about how my husband cared for me, with a strength and a wisdom I can only imagine must have come directly from God:I'm standing in the middle of our living room, turning around and around, crying, shaking, screaming. I don't know what to do. I've done nothing all day but to wash my hands. Ever since I got out of bed, I've been at the sink, in a constant crisis of indecision and fear. I finally call Jem at work.
-I can't get the soap off. I didn't use that much at a time, but I can't get it off!
-J, calm down. What do you mean?
-There's this white film that won't come off my hands.
-It's OK, it's just soap. That isn't going to hurt you.
-But it could! It might have chemicals!
He has to go, and I'm still in tears. I spin in circles for another fifteen minutes. Then suddenly, Jem is there. He's scooping me up in his arms, carrying me, seven or eight months pregnant, to the bed. He carefully changes my socks, then washes his hands before coming back to the bed and he just holds me until I stop shaking.
When I can listen again, he speaks deliberately,
-J, all this is about getting sick and harming the baby, right?
-Yes.
-Hon, I want you to know that I take full responsibility for you getting sick. From now on, it is no longer your responsibility. I am the father, and I am the one responsible before God to protect this baby. Your job is to be the mother, the nurturer. Let me be the protector.
* * *
Allow me to end with a too brief and inadequate tribute to Jem. He is beyond doubt the one person who supported me the most, with the most endurance and grace. He suffered exhaustion, anxiety for my safety and our baby's, frustration, disappointment, unbelievable stress. But he walked with me through it all. Through the long nights when I would wake crying or screaming every couple of hours, he would take on the difficult task of calming me and waiting with me until sleep reluctantly returned. Through months of such nights, he stayed. He walked with me through panic attacks, held my hand, helped to ground me in the present moment. When it seemed impossible to find a good therapist or counselor, he kept at it. He reminded me to take my meds when I forgot, resisted, made excuses not to. He kept doing the cleaning projects I was constantly 'discovering' and couldn't even begin to do myself. He kept making soup and grilled cheese for me night after night, after a long day of work for him, and after coming home to an inevitably panic-stricken wife who had done nothing all day but lie on the couch and worry and come up with cleaning jobs for him to do, that MUST be done before supper.... He suffered for me and with me. But he did it with so much love and so much strength, that I admit I almost didn't notice. I was so wrapped up in my own suffering. That is what it is like to support someone through a mental illness: thankless, exhausting, lonely. Just ask my dear husband.There were many others who gave of themselves and without whom I don't know whether my baby or I would have survived. These amazing people truly walked with me. I don't know how they did it. I know they suffered too.I received generously of their comfort, companionship, help, food. They each gave up time, freedom, energy, and spent of themselves without any expectation of payback. I had nothing to pay back to anyone.
I admit that part of the reason I have written these stories down is a small attempt to pay a little something back--something in the way of thanks at least, and maybe inspiration to someone like you to walk close to someone like me.
Crying here, Judy.
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