"I hereby resolve"--J

It’s a new year, it’s a new day!

I’ve been thinking a lot about New Year’s resolutions lately--please don’t groan. I know everyone else and their dog and their dog’s nephew’s cousin (do dogs have cousins and nephews? I guess they must) are writing about New Year’s resolutions. I realize New Year's resolutions are extremely cliché. I know that if you’ve made any of your own in some previous, more idealistic life, you’ve inevitably been frustrated and depressed by the whole thing. And then of course there’s the stereotypical New Year’s resolution like “I’m gonna get fit,” which turns out to be un-measurable and unachievable (let’s go back to grade 10 CALM class, or whatever they called that ‘life skills’ class at your school: a goal must be specific and measurable, etc. etc.--remember SMART?) Even if your goals are “SMART,” you’ll often go through periods of failure and frustration because, guess what, you’re human!

No resolution should be sold without batteries of grace: if at first you don’t succeed, forgive, forgive, forgive yourself. It’s a simple concept, but very hard to actually practice for those of us with a tendency to perfectionism and negative thinking. You know that grace you give your best friend, when she is late again, or does that really annoying thing with her napkin? You turn a blind eye or you gently tease, but mainly you forgive. Kindness. Patience. Give that to yourself. I’m learning that failure isn’t a reason to punish myself, rather, it’s a chance to re-evaluate what I am doing and my priorities. Sometimes, I need to change something about my time management or efficiency in order to get it done. Sometimes, it’s the priority I’ve placed that might need to be down-shifted a little, if only for a time.

Resolutions help me focus on the big picture. I am a detail-oriented person; I tend to get  sidetracked by details and forget the whole point  for the details in the first place. “Can’t see the forest for the trees” type thing. Doing research projects in school, I would spend weeks “researching,” aka. chasing bunny trails through mountainous stacks of books. I’d find myself with just a day--or night--left to actually write the paper, and with nothing but bunny trails that didn’t fit with the path I’d initially chosen for my paper. So I developed a strategy to keep myself from getting “lost in the forest,” so to speak. I would set my alarm for thirty minutes or so while I was researching, and when the alarm went off, I’d take a few minutes to stand up, stretch, get some air into my head, and remind myself of my goals for the paper. If I didn’t set my alarm, I’d come up with all sorts of excuses for why I couldn’t stop at the half hour, or I would ignore the clock, or just lose track of time. I had to force myself to get out of detail-mode for a minute and review the big picture.

One important note, however. Resolutions themselves are not the big picture. After reviewing the big picture, I think about all the itty-bitty steps I need to take to get there, and then go after that first itty, bitty step. That’s a resolution--resolving to take the first step. And I’m talking itty-bitty baby steps here, people. You can always make a bigger goal later, once you’ve managed the first step.

I realize some people think resolutions shouldn’t be relegated to one day of the year only, and I agree. I’m not saying to make goals only on New Year’s day. But New Year’s is just a great, logical, albeit arbitrary time to “set your alarm,” take a break, take some time to think about the big picture, and make some real, SMART goals!

Here are a few of mine:

I hereby resolve:

that when I wake up in the morning dreading the day and wishing I didn’t have to get out of my lovely warm, safe bed (OK, so I’m NOT a morning person), I will set my mind instead on the possibilities the day offers for God to provide abundant life;

that I will mindfully enjoy what I am given in life, just for the sake of enjoyment, knowing that it is for enjoyment that God has given it. Once a day I will taste, smell, look at, listen to or just snuggle something or someone I love, just for the pure enjoyment of it, mindfully paying attention to the gratitude that wells up in my heart (or doesn’t--I know it won’t always, and that’s OK too.)

When my mind leaps to assume blame (whether my own or others’), I will slow down and tell myself: “Don’t assume bad intentions.” It’s pretty rare that the intentions are really bad, and easier to forgive when I assume the best.

I will use my "alarm" principle monthly, weekly, daily, even hourly on bad days(!), either by setting an actual alarm or a calendar appointment, e-mail reminder, weekly routine, etc. I will take 5, 10, 15 minutes to review goals and priorities, and keep the Main Thing the Main Thing.

to simplify my life by getting rid of useless and un-beautiful objects, activities and thoughts. I will start by taking--or just setting aside--one bag of stuff to a thrift store once every week.

to just write, every day if possible, and not care if it comes out wrong sometimes. That’s what editing is for!

that when--not if--I fail in the above, I will serve myself a heaping helping of grace. Help yourself, too.

"Mommy, It's Just a Joke!"

My mother suffered from depression when I was younger. As she was recovering she developed what we fondly referred to as her "Prozac Laugh." One of us kids would say something that was apparently actually not funny, based on the lack of laughter produced. We would roll our eyes and say "Mommy, it's just a joke!" at which point she would burst into this completely fake laugh. Soon enough though, the fake laugh turned into real, tear-producing, unstoppable laughter. Little Miss Em's birth story is a bit like that kind of a joke: Really not funny at the beginning, but then you force yourself to smile, maybe chuckle a little bit, because the alternative is to cry. I did cry. Actually, I cried a lot. When I look back now though, I do kind of have to laugh... It' just the absurdity of it all; of one complication piling up on top of the previous one.

Miss Em was due the day after my birthday, which I thought was great - A. was born on his mother's birthday and I thought it would be so cool to share my birthday with my daughter. So part of me was hoping beyond all hope that she would be born on my birthday (although at about 37 weeks I quit caring so much, and after several false-starts just wanted her to arrive as soon as possible). Anyway, my birthday came and went with no baby... well, that's not quite true: A friend and coworker of mine had the audacity to deliver her baby on MY birthday. Oh my word was I upset. And I mean pregnancy-hormone-overload upset. My poor mother and husband must have thought I'd lost my mind. I mean, really, does it matter that much? It doesn't. Not now, anyway, but that day I thought it was absolutely unfair, as though someone was making this big ol' joke at my expense. To make matters worse this baby weighed 7lbs15oz. There was a running joke between my husband and I that 7lbs15oz was the heaviest baby I ever wanted to deliver. Nae had already beat that (8lbs6oz), and I'd been told by both the ultrasound tech and my doctor that it seemed as though I was going to have a very large baby. And of course with a history of severe tearing, each ounce gained was further confirmation that I would tear again.

I went into labour at about 0630 on my due date, February 21st. Nae, now just over two years old, was a such a sweetheart. She'd stroke my face and mimic me through contractions, shaking her head and blowing on the exercise ball I was using for comfort.

We headed to the hospital at around 1430. It's a little weird delivering your baby at the same hospital at which you work, but like I told A., from admission to discharge we had the Dream-Team. My coworkers were all excellent - as I knew they would be - and it made me proud to work there.

Let me pause for a moment and tell you all about the wonders of Entonox, also known as "laughing gas" or "gas and air" (if you've ever watched Call the Midwife). One of the nurses told me I had the "cutest" reaction to Entonox she'd ever seen. Now, having worked with laboring women, I haven't seen this particular form of pain management work particularly well. Most women don't even try it, opting for Fentanyl or the lovely epidural, and those who do try it often come to a point where they look like they are going to throw the mask across the room in frustration. I had tried it with Nae, although to be fair I put it over my face through half a contraction. It dried out my mouth and then I too, felt like throwing the thing across the room. J. had told me I had to give it at least 3 contractions before I decided if it was worth it. After the first contraction I felt funny and dizzy, again ready to give up on the stuff. The sharp edge of the pain was lessened somewhat during the second contraction, and then by the third contraction I was having an almost out-of-body experience: I could feel the pain, I knew it was there, but it was as if I was separated from it somehow. My mind was very clear, my thought process perfect, and my body almost animalistic but relaxed. At one point I heard myself scream - heard myself, because I'm pretty sure I was thinking about something completely different when I heard it- and said to my nurse "I think you should know that that scream wasn't me, that was my body." This made her laugh, which made me a little annoyed because she clearly hadn't understood me. I am going through transition, I thought, although why I didn't just say that I don't know. A few contractions later I told her "I'm pushing."
She replied "Okay, don't push yet, let me get the doctor."
To which I replied "You don't understand, I didn't say I feel like pushing, I said I am pushing."

Forty minutes later, give or take, my baby was in my arms. Beautiful and lovely and 10lbs8oz. That is not a typo. She was flipping 10lbs8oz! Another joke that didn't make me laugh, because it meant that I tore (badly) again. But I didn't just tear, I also had a mediolateral episiotomy that was meant to save my scar, but didn't for 2 reasons. Reason 1: She was flipping 10lbs8oz. Reason 2: She decided to present with her forehead. A baby is supposed to present with the back of the head, the occiput. This gives us moms the smallest diameter of the baby's head to deliver. Occasionally, a baby will present in different ways, for example with the back of the head but be lying spine-to-spine with mom, known as occiput-posterior (OP) or colloquially as sunny-side up. This means moms have a somewhat larger diameter to deliver which can be somewhat more difficult, and can even halt labor progress, leading to a necessary C-section. Nae presented this way, which might have contributed to my first tear. Miss Em was also lying this way (spine to spine) except that she also decided it would be great fun if she stretched out her neck so that, instead of presenting with the back of her head, she presented with her forehead. A forehead presentation is not supposed to be vaginally deliverable (ha-ha) unless the baby is premature, and therefore tiny, or mom has an abnormally large pelvis. Not sure if I have an abnormally large pelvis, but I know Em wasn't tiny! It was also probably made possible because she was lying spine to spine with me, meaning she didn't have to stretch her neck out quite as much. Still presenting with her forehead, but with a smaller diameter to go through my pelvis. Or maybe my physician was able to manually flex her head far enough to make delivery possible. But honestly, between my history of tearing, a hypertonic pelvic floor (I'll talk about that some other time, maybe), as well as the size and presentation of my baby, tearing was more of an inevitability than a possibility. Fortunately, I had a wonderful medical team, yet again. And this time I didn't have to go through the torture and pain of the hour-long repair. I didn't have to hear the comments made by the doctors and nurses, or listen to a list of dos and don'ts that lasted the length of my repair. This time they put me under general anesthesia in the operating room... and I slept.

I stayed an extra day in the hospital because my hemoglobin dropped significantly and had to receive 2 units of blood. And as A. and I were getting ready to go home we learned that my mother had come down with a stomach bug. Our town was a cesspool for one of the worst gastroenteritis outbreaks I have personally witnessed. It affected almost every house in the town and flattened its victims for several days to weeks... And my mom got it. So there I was, torn, in pain, with low hemoglobin, unable to lift my toddler, without much help from either my mother or my husband. A. actually had to return to Red Deer for work the day after I got home from the hospital. He had called multiple times to make sure he was needed, but they never responded. He went grudgingly only to find out that they didn't need him. That's right: did not need him! Not funny. I bawled the day he left: I was in so much pain, I couldn't manage Nae at all, and my poor mother was so sick. I bawled when he got back, too, because I was so exhausted. A dear and wonderful friend stepped in and took Nae twice that week to help me cope and heal. But they were such difficult first few days. I was terrified Miss Em or myself would get the dreaded bug and I couldn't imagine either. I couldn't imagine my 3 day old infant struggling to stay hydrated. I couldn't imagine going through the force of vomiting and the fear of tearing my stitches. I didn't use the upstairs bathroom. In spite of the pain, I climbed down to use the one downstairs. My mother disinfected everything she touched constantly, but I still feared doorknobs, towels, taps, anything she might have touched. She didn't hold Miss Em for the first 4 days we were home.

Neither Miss Em nor I got that gastro-bug, but just when I thought things might start getting better my pain increased significantly. I couldn't even get out of bed. Then I started to feel faint when I did try to move from room to room. I filled a prescription for Tramacet, which helped with the pain, but made an appointment with the doctor anyway. I had a double infection- yeast and bacterial. I developed a fever that afternoon, but the antibiotics started kicking in pretty quick so I only had to suffer through the fever for five or six hours. But then, like I said, the antibiotics kicked in. I had been prescribed Clavulin twice daily for 7 days. I took 2 doses before complete misery began. I won't go into graphic detail, but a possible side effect of Clavulin is severe diarrhea.  Don't think for a minute that this is a minor side effect - For three days I ate nothing. I drank very little. Everything that I put into my mouth caused an almost immediate and frantic race to the bathroom. I was completely depleted. My milk supply all but vanished. People, there were adult-sized diapers involved (and yes, I know that's not what a nurse is supposed to call them). My thought process also started to deteriorate. There was a moment before we knew for sure it was a reaction to the Clavulin that I thought I had contracted that dreaded stomach flu, and in that moment I got just a taste of what J. goes through every day. I saw the transmission of germs everywhere - from my hands to my hair, my face, back to my hands after I'd already washed them, my hands to Em. My feet to the bed, the bed to Em. My hands to the doorknob, the doorknob to A. or my mom, or Nae, and them to Em. Everything ended at Em. My poor, darling, barely two week-old, Em. I refused to touch her, I washed and washed. And I heard my mother say "You need to trust me. If I tell you you're clean enough, you're clean enough. You have to nurse Em. She won't get sick." It was what she had said to J. over and over. It was some kind of strange episode of the Twilight Zone, where I got to experience what my sister goes through all the time. Because I immediately saw the parallel, I knew what I had to do. I had to not let the fear get the better of me. I had to nurse Em, or I never would again. I had to make sure I didn't wash my hands for the fourth time, or I might never stop. I never thought I had the personality for OCD. In fact most people would probably agree that my personality is more or less anti-OCD (You should see my sock drawer... or any drawer... You should see the inside of my brain- obsessive-compulsive is just not in my nature). In those moments though, the fears J. experiences daily became very real to me.  J, you are amazing and strong. You battle thoughts like those everyday, multiple times a day and still face them, even conquer them. It is absolutely amazing. If I didn't think you were rather heroic before, I certainly do now.

That is more or less the story of the first weeks of Little Miss Em's life. Things did start to improve from there, although healing was slow, and pain as well as the narcotic-induced haziness and sleepiness were prominent parts of my life for the first several weeks after her birth. There's much more to it, to be sure. Nae's reaction to her new baby sister was priceless. My mental state, as fragile as it was, seemed more optimistic than with Nae. And there were beautiful late night cuddles and the difficult adjustments to life as a family of 4. But I'll save those stories for later, for now, I'll go make my late night rounds to my girls' rooms and give them both one more kiss goodnight.

And On We March...

It has been over a year since I updated this blog. I've wanted to a few times, but the urge to write that was present during the height of my depression had waned. Like I said in one of my earliest posts, I'm not much of a writer, I don't write when the urge- the impulse- isn't there. I guess the urge is back, but this time I'm hoping my entries will be much different. Before, I wrote in an effort to make sense of my illness and to find peace and healing. This time I want to be able to share victories. Go back and read this post and while you do, listen to the lyrics of the song I transcribed in that post. Because, guess what?

I've reached the top of my mountain. I've gained a victory on this battleground because of God's grace

Perhaps it is presumptuous to say that. It's entirely possible that I'll struggle with PPMD again this time, but already I'm seeing differences, and "God, You are faithful."


... And in case you didn't hear, or didn't figure it out, I am now the mother of two beautiful girls...

"Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful" Hebrews 10:23

walk with me (final installment)

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.

* * *

-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.

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.

* * *

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.

Walk with me, Part 3

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.

walk with me, continued

As promised, a few more stories about the kind of support I was blessed to received from dear friends during the worst of my illness. Do you think you could do anything like this for someone you know?

* * *

-How can we help...?

Jem is beyond stressed. I've told him, of course, you can tell the guys at prayer group what's been going on with me. I know he needs support. The guys are great; they hold him up with their encouragement. I don't mind that they know. I figure it's always good to have prayer. One of the couples have been friends of ours for several years, we often get together for games nights. Tonight they are over at our house. My friend repeats,

-Seriously, we really want to help. J, I wish I could come and spend time with you during the day, but I work all day. But do you need meals? Is it easier for you to be home or to come to our place? How are you doing for grocery trips?
-Wow, well... we could use meals sometimes. Jem is doing all of the cooking these days.
-Absolutely. We'll ask the other couples in the prayer group too if they can bring a meal once in a while. And how about this: we'll do your grocery shopping every week.
-What? No, we couldn't ask you to do that.
-It's no problem, we go every week anyway. Just send us an email with your list by Thursday evening, and you can write us a check when we bring the groceries by.

At the end of our evening, Jem tries to return the board game we've been borrowing from them for months, but they refuse it.
-No, you guys keep it. It seems to be something J can enjoy.
It's true, over the past few weeks that Carcassone game has become not just a helpful distraction, but a VITAL one. I can't even watch a twenty-minute TV show without being totally distracted by some danger to my unborn child. But for some reason, I can get lost in Carcassone.

L and C, you may never know how much we appreciate you walking so closely with us.

* * *

Jem has been planning to go to this hockey game for weeks, but I can't be left alone. I've asked my friend N to come over for a movie night. When she arrives, I'm at the kitchen sink, rinsing a dishcloth to wipe the table.
I'm so glad to see her, but I don't step away from the sink.
-I'll just finish cleaning up the kitchen and then we'll start the movie. Is that OK?
-Sure, no problem. How've you been?
-Oh, not great....
I go on rinsing, rinsing while we talk. I tell her some of my worries. She listens. She tells me a bit about her week. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later, I think I've managed to wipe the table, but now I decide I HAVE to clean the sink. I'm still rinsing the same cloth.
-I'm so sorry, this is taking me way too long. It's just, how do I know...? Is it clean? When is it safe? Have I rinsed enough?
-J, it's all you've done since I came.
She says it quietly, with no reproach.
I'm trembling. I finally manage to put the cloth down, dry my hands. We sit down and start the movie, but I can't concentrate. All I can think about is that I need to clean....
I tell her, don't worry about me, I've seen this one before. I'll just be a minute.
I leave to clean the bathroom. She stops the movie and comes to find me.
-It's OK, J, that's plenty clean. I think you're done. Come on, let's go watch the movie.
I let her take me back to the living room.
By the end of the evening, she's offered to come and get me the next day and take me over to her place. She'll do that often throughout the rest of my pregnancy, keeping my blood sugar level with her barley-and-cream concoctions, walking with me, keeping me entertained, taking me shopping, letting me feel useful playing with her daughter.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you N!

* * *

I'm with my dear friend E, who knows all about my deepest fears and darkest miseries. We've been out shopping, she's asked me about the last few days, how I'm doing. She's reminded me again, God is not punishing you, J. I'm struggling to believe her though.

We walk up together to her apartment, and she puts her sleepy baby girl down for a nap. I look longingly at a slumbering baby. I so wish I could sleep. I haven't slept more than three or four hours a night for the last month or so. Panic wakes me and won't let me lie down again until I've cleaned this, thrown out that.

-Do you want to have a nap?
-Nah, I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.
-Well why don't you try. Here, I'll put a clean sheet on the couch.

I lie down, grateful. My mind is still whirring: but my hands are dirty, my hair is dirty, what if it gets on my face while I sleep? But I close my eyes and try to breathe slower. I sleep.

E, that was the best nap in weeks.
E, your firm, gentle wisdom walked me through several of my very worst days.

Walk with me

I must stop procrastinating these long-promised posts on supporting someone with a mental illness. It's a tricky topic, but I believe it is one of the most important we've touched on so far. That may be why it has taken me so long to get up the courage to put it out there—I'm afraid I won't do it justice. I admit that's a perfectionist/OCD fear, so I'd better face the fear and do it anyway!

If you know someone with a mental illness (and odds are, whether you know it or not, you do) and you want to be a blessing to them, you'll likely face some eggshell-delicate situations. If you really engage with them as a Christian brother or sister, you will have to wrestle with their pain, their guilt, and plenty rather muddy theological issues. And if you walk alongside them any distance, you'll find it impossible to avoid the muck and mire of their suffering.

In the next several posts, I tell stories of the blessings and support I received from amazing friends and family during the worst of my illness. It is my hope that you will find inspiration to do something similar for a person you know.

* * *

It is the fourth month of my pregnancy. I'm just home from my trip overseas, still down with a scary unknown tropical illness. Some friends have invited Jem and I over to their house for lunch. They don't know how much I've been struggling, but they ask how the pregnancy is going. I don't yet know that my worries are about to blow up into panic attacks and OCD, but I already have a sinking feeling of slipping hard and fast into another depression. I tell them about being sick, and my guilt and fear, and they pray for me right then and there.
Hearing someone pray for me out loud is powerful. I know I'm not forgotten; they're reminding God about me. These same friends continue throughout my pregnancy to ask about me, send cards, even bring over a meal. They keep praying and I'm buoyed up by their strength.

* * *

It's one of the few Sundays I make it to church during the second half of my pregnancy. One young mom walks over to me and asks how I'm doing. Now I've lived with mental illness long enough to know that trying to hide it is neither helpful nor ultimately possible. So when she asks with honest interest, I reply,

-I'm doing awful.

-Is it nausea still?

-No, no, panic attacks, actually.

-Oh! I know!

Seriously?, I think. That's not the response I expected, but wow is it good to hear.

-You do?

Indeed she does, and though her situation and anxieties were not all the same as mine, she really can understand. She spends time with me, walking me through her illness and recovery, and all the resources and materials that helped her get through. Knowing that I'm not alone, that someone else nearby has actually gotten through something similar is tremendous comfort.

Dear friend, your pain became comfort for me.

* * *

Another panic attack. Jem's at work, I'm shaking and crying over spilled rice: I've heard of food poisoning from rice. The offending grains are all over my counter from dinner last night. Should I use bleach?

My pregnant self is suffering a serious blood sugar dive, but I can't prepare food on that counter.... I don't know who to talk to: I can't reach my mom, Jem's not answering his work phone. I'm hungry and thirsty, but panic-paralyzed.

Finally, in tears and desperation, I walk upstairs to our landlords'. I'm so embarrassed that I can't even clean up rice, but I need help! I know they are the kind of people who will try to understand, and are willing to help. They have already driven me to a psychiatrist appointment, and have borne with my recently way-too-frequent laundry and long showers.

They aren't home, but their mother who lives with them is sitting on the couch listening to a book on tape. She's a dear, godly lady, over ninety and losing her vision. A real prayer warrior; I am aware she prays for everyone she knows. Even though she can't see me, she knows I'm upset. She gets up, walks over to me, holds my hand for a long time until I stop shaking. The touch of her feather-soft hands brings me slowly back to now. My pounding heart quiets.