Tag: life after disfunction

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Today

Today I paid off my student loans. For a few moments, I stared at the screen and my eyes filled… 18 years it took me. 18 years and I can’t quite believe that it’s done.

I remember staring at my payment schedule when I graduated. All of my education was financed with federal loans. And the four jobs I worked in college paid for living expenses and books. The payoff seemed so far away. I was 23. So much had transpired during those years of study.

When I first began, my plan was to pursue travel nursing. I’d graduate, gain my first two years of nursing experience at my community hospital and then I’d go travel the country as a nurse.

Being a mother was still a top goal of mine… by 29 I said… back when 29 was “old”. After three years of pre-nursing, having applied and been accepted to an esteemed state university for Nursing school, that summer just before I began my two year nursing program, I discovered I was very unexpectedly, pregnant. In that moment, everything changed.

I moved four times with my baby, that year that I graduated. My future felt so uncertain. But I had a degree, a career opportunity and I was determined to make it.

I stayed local, never leaving that community hospital where my journey first began. Her Dad and I found a way to build and then re-build a relationship and marriage to last. And from his previous marriage, our relationship, and a journey in foster care, we now parent six children legally and have nine that we love as our own. I am an 18 year experienced nurse, charge nurse, educator and perinatal bereavement coordinator. Three years ago we moved into our dream home on nearly two-acres in the country. It’s modest compared to many, but it’s quiet and open and everything that we asked for.

Today, that 19 year old that I held in my arms at graduation, is on her own journey of self-discovery. I miss her when she’s not at home. But I quiet that ache with memories of myself at her age. She is her mother’s child. My younger three are off in North Carolina with my sister, their aunt, and uncle and cousins for the week- “cousins camp” they call it. My sister was just beginning her college journey there, when I was wrapping up mine. After she graduated, she put down her roots there. And now part of my heart belongs to NC.

Today, I sit on the front porch of what I hope to be my forever home, my sanctuary. And in the quiet that I so rarely get, I am listening to the birds- so many songs across my green acres. I’m watching my chickens hunt worms in the misty rain that soaks the plants I’ve planted here- once small, now growing full and robust. My husband calls, “Think about where you want to eat tonight…” It’s a date- sans kids- when he gets home. And when the kids return next week, my house will be full again, bonus babies included- my full fridge will be empty and shiny floors, dull and littered with shoes. And after that, a 3 week road trip around the country.

I capture this rare opportunity of solace to reflect and write.

It’s not often that I allow myself to go back and think about my life in my early 20s. It was complicated in so many ways… and hard. I made mistakes. I suffered setbacks and heartache. I worked really hard and I was often very lonely. But this milestone that I reached today and the quiet of my home, took me back to that place- Back to the sparse apartment, to the piles of books and mostly empty fridge. Back to the swollen belly, exhaustion and tears, the daily drives and walks through the city campus and clinical sites, the forever low account balance, the white uniform and the push to succeed and provide for my tiny baby.

I wish I could go back and tell that lonely, scared and very tired girl, that it was all going to work out. That there’d be more blows… bigger blows in fact than she’d ever felt, blows that would leave scars… but her tenacity and grit would pull her through again and again. And a beautiful life would emerge nonetheless. That her loneliness would transform to a circus of children, a zoo of animals and the non-stop antics of her husband. That her fears would build into confidence and wisdom. That while she may never achieve high financial wealth, her life would be rich in love and fulfillment. That she would one day travel and adventure. That along her messy and unconventional path, with time and intentional hard work, she’d become the nurse, wife and mother that she wanted to be. That she would one day know the love that she then craved.

But if I did go back, I don’t know that she would believed me. That girl of 23 had known so much pain and loss, that this life, as it stands, would’ve been unbelievable.

Sometimes, when we are in darkness or at a crossroads, the future is hard to see. Sometimes it looks bleak and lonely, uncertain and very, very different than what we once planned. Sometimes the ache of lost hopes and dreams is heavy and deep. But what my own life, losses and grief have taught me, is that life is forever evolving. Wherever life finds you today- It won’t always be like this. You won’t always feel like this. Those two very simple truths, have helped me weather my greatest pains and soak in my greatest joys.

18 years ago, I never would have predicted that my life would look the way that it does today. I am living a fucking fantasy. It is so beautiful that in my tender moments, I marvel at all that I have… and then I fear losing it all, because I know that nothing lasts forever. And yet, it’s still filled with challenges. And that fear of impending loss, I’ve learned, is likely a trauma-response. I have been hit so many times with unpredictable and astoundingly painful blows, that I sometimes wince without a strike. I prepare to lose simply because I’ve lost before. I brace myself because I tell myself that it hurts less that way and nothing good will stay.

But it isn’t true. Preparing for an imaginary loss does nothing to ease the pain, it only robs us of our current joy. And dwelling on the past, holds us hostage from the marvels of the present moment.

Today I took a quiet stroll into my past, like a visit to my old neighborhood. I looked around. I remembered. I felt. And with a respectful nod, I left. While that place helped to build me, it also helped to break me. Who I become now, helps to build tomorrow. Looking into the horizon, I can’t help but wonder what lies ahead… the gains or losses, the celebrations or hardships… and I once again avert my gaze. That’s not for today…

Today is for chickens to feast on rainy day worms. To feel the soft purr of my cat at my feet and the quiet snore of my pup next to my tall, soft bed. To soak in both the quiet and the song. To marvel at new flower buds, racing hummingbirds and rambunctious young squirrels. For a much anticipated date with a man who makes me feel cherished and loved. To enjoy a clean house and a mid-day glass of wine. To draw a smiley face next to “Paid in full”.

For it is these moments that make yesterday’s storms worth weathering… and fill my tank for whatever energy tomorrow might require.

I’m learning to sit with today.

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A letter to my child when they turn 30

Hello my love,

I hope this letter finds you well… finds you happy. In fact, I hope you’re reading it snuggled up and cozy, with a family that you love quietly preparing for bed, after you’ve just returned home from laughs and drinks with your old Mom. And I hope as you drove home from our date and reflected on how our relationship has changed over the years, that I’m a Mom that you’re proud of.

I hope that I am and always was enough.

You know, the day I discovered I was pregnant with you, I was both terrified and instantly inspired. I wanted to be the best Mom in the world. I cut out coffee and alcohol and ate all the healthiest foods. I was afraid to ever make a mistake with you and I  wanted to give you the world. And then you were here and you were mine… and I made mistakes and told you “no” more times than I can count.

But every mistake was felt almost instantly and painfully. And every decision trial, was harder than you could ever imagine.

Remember how tough it was to have a nurse for a Mom, a night-shifter at that. Every time I came home grumpy from sleep exhaustion or a difficult shift and I yelled for you to “get your shoes on and get out the door”… I regretted, the moment you climbed out of the car in the drop-off line. And after those encounters, when I nodded off to sleep while you started your day at school, I vowed to be better tomorrow… and some days, I wasn’t. Every time I sent you to school with a stomach ache or a sore throat because you weren’t throwing up or had a fever, I stalked my phone all day just in the case the nurse called and you needed to come home.

Remember that teacher that was shitty to you and didn’t understand your feelings or your needs… and I tried to point out the positives to you and give her the benefit of the doubt. I fucking hated her. And I wrote more scathing e-mails demanding change, than you’ll ever know. Her words were never more important than your feelings.

On the hard days when you cried and with a solid expression on my face, I rubbed your back and told you to keep trying, told you not to quit, told you some days are hard like this… my stern exterior broke when I was alone, and baby, I cried right along with you. I cried when you didn’t get picked for safety patrol, when I knew how bad you wanted it. I cried when your drama audition and your visitation day went badly. I cried when you broke up with your first boyfriend-watching your heart break, in turn, broke mine. Every disappointment, every pain, every sense of failure wore on my soul like a ball and chain… even if on the outside, I didn’t show it.

And discipline was no different. The love a parent has when they chose to make hard calls to instill good values and character… is a love that is both exhausting and painful… like debriding and cleaning out an infected wound to save a limb- though essential, your pain didn’t go unfelt within my soul. And so often I wished lessons didn’t have to be learned hard and that indulgence didn’t have to be spared.

As you became a teenager, the struggles got harder and your push for independence was a constant tug-o-war with my undying instinct to protect you. It was around this time in your life that you began to see little slivers of me as a person (not just me as your mom)- a curse word here, a little too much wine there… If I disappointed you then, I hope that by now, you see me as a human that you are proud of. It’s hard to wear the super mom cape forever… though I tried.

You were always a human that I was proud of… even when I didn’t say it. And I know I wasn’t always good about saying it… that was a hard skill for me to learn. Every step you took brought me tremendous pride and unbearable angst. The statistics and stories of tragic death from drugs, motor vehicle accidents, suicide, accidental death, human trafficking… kept me up at night… and the thing I feared the most, was losing you.

From the moment I knew you existed, you were and always will be, my most precious possession… only you’re not my possession. If you were, I’d keep you locked up in the valuables box. But no, you my dear were meant to be out in the world, to shine and to share your gifts. You are a wonder to behold… even though sharing you, means sharing my own heart… cutting open my own chest and exposing the blood-pumping vital organ that sustains me, to the crowded and selfish world around me… silently begging them not to poke.

I wasn’t always able to save you from pain… but my god… I sure as hell did try! And the soul-twisting, gut-wrenching pain that I felt when I couldn’t… seared like a hot poker on my heart… tissue dead, permanently scarred, leaving the muscle to twitch before it learned to pump again, resilient but blackened by the pain you suffered.

I would have given my life to save you from that pain. But in doing so, I would have missed your wonderous recovery… your resilient spirit and tremendous strength. I live every day tormented by your suffering, yet in awe of your wonder.

Despite the hardships, I hope your childhood memories are more sweet than bitter. I hope the games, vacations, parties and quality family time unweigh the time-outs, harsh words, disappointments and tears. I hope I taught you how to both survive and love fiercely, to think critically and trust your gut, to work hard but know when to ask for help. I hope you remember the tree house, ice cream and s’mores, road trips, day hikes and family hide-n-go-seek.

By now, you know that adulthood and even parenthood, isn’t some magical veil that you pass through and instantly gain wisdom and patience and all that is good. By now you know that the super hero cape I wore was one that you merely envisioned. And as you grew and it dissolved, I hope you found grace for my misgivings and recognize my humanity. But I hope you see that I never ever stopped fighting for everything that was good for us and that my love for you is endless.

I hope that you are proud of me, as I am of you.

And just as I listened to your childish pleas and I satisfied them when I was able, I hope you hear this old mother’s plea…

Don’t ever stop coming by to visit. Don’t ever stop asking for advise or a helping hand. Or calling just to say “Hi!”. And don’t you ever… for a single second question that I am not forever proud and in awe of the person you were and have grown to be.

I hope you don’t knock. Come for dinner or a drink, for an afternoon nap or an evening chat. I hope you open the fridge and my front door like you’re home… because you are… in my house and in my heart… darling, you are always home. You are mine and I am yours, forever.

Love,

Mom

 

 

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Fractured Fairytales

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When I was a young girl, there was a line of books called “Fractured Fairytales”. They were essentially, a silly, every-day spin on the old classics. Cinderella wasn’t into glass slippers, but was more of a loafers girl. Prince Charming wasn’t a perfect suiter but had hang-ups. And in the end, Cinderella was better suited to one of his relatives instead…It was that sorta thing.

I haven’t seen the books in years, but the term came to mind the other day as I was finishing up another 12 hour day of providing bereavement services, after a 36 hour weekend of working in covid world and simultaneously mothering, wifeing and adulting. Reflecting on my job and my life as a whole, everything kind of melted together and “Fractured Fairytale” came to mind… Not in the silly sense that the books were written and not in the overwhelmingly tragic sense of a fairytale never coming to fruition or hopelessness… but in a life-like sense… where both goodness and tragedy reside, side by side.

My life in so many ways, is a fairytale. I am madly in love with my husband. We have two absolutely beautiful children together and several more through my husband’s first marriage and foster care, who’s love sustain us. Our house, whilst small, is ours and has blossomed lovingly from the work we put into it. I am well respected in my profession. We take fabulous travel adventures and play games almost nightly as a family. I’ve delivered babies and saved lives, which has provided me tremendous life/work satisfaction. And the kind words people offer me through my writing and my work, has me walking on clouds many days. For these things, I am the luckiest woman in the world.

And yet despite all the wonderful blessings, there are so many fractures…

While I am very open about things like my brother’s suicide, my parent’s divorce, foster care and the tragically beautiful work I do for a living, there are many aspects of my life that I do not share publicly, out of respect for the people I love, and in keeping my private and public life balanced. Some of those things have brought me life-shattering pain; pain, that I don’t believe I will ever recover from. For these things, I wonder why life has been so unbelievably cruel.

It is as if I am caught in this day-to-day see-saw… of celebrating my blessings and grieving my losses, bathing in gratitude and wallowing in my sorrows…

And I know that I am not alone. I know there are many people who carry tremendous burdens, burdens heavier than even my own, that few people know anything of.

I suppose every life is that way, to some degree. We all have private struggles and ups and downs… To love is to have great comfort and risk great pain; and very little success comes without some degree of failure…that is to live. No one is spared all loss and tragedy.

And yet my experience, both in my own life and in my work as a foster parent and nurse, has shown me that those highs and lows often seem disproportionately assigned in the world. Some people’s pendulum of successes and losses seems to swing much harder than others’ do. While some people seem to be able to skate through life with relative ease, others are dealt a hand that slams them with assault after assault, leaving them in a constant state of gasping for reprieve. While we all have challenges and hardships that create cracks in our lives, some people’s fracture lines are many and they run deep.

It’s become my life’s work to walk alongside those people. Because we never do know, what people are silently dealing with. And everyone needs a friend.

The next time you look at someone and label them as “having it all”, being “Mr./Mrs. Perfect”, “living a fairytale”… or better yet, the next time you judge someone for their “low” place in life, remind yourself that every fairytale has fracture lines and some are much harder to patch.

Still, it’s what we learn to take away from our hardships that make our fairytales that much richer.

One thing I have learned, is that life is part hard-work and part sheer-luck, part what we can control and part what we can’t. Working our hardest, we can improve what/where we can. But, we must also be willing to relinquish control over what we can’t.

When I reflect on my greatest highs, I see that I had a big hand in them- my career, my marriage, my family. That reflection reminds me that my hard-work was worth it! But when I reflect on my lowest lows, I realize, that very little was within my control- genetics, the choices and behaviors of others, accidents. And it gives me a small sense of relief. Not all of our misfortunes are ours to own and yet they impact us deeply. Whether they spontaneously befell me or I missed a signal, I was unable to prevent them from happening. Therefore, my only remaining energy must be dedicated to learning from them, improving from them, and working to heal from them.

That, gives me some control back and it carves out a sliver of goodness from the pain.

But it also gives me a lot of hard work to do. Learning, Improving and Healing… Changing… are hard! They require much more intentional energy and effort than silently mulling in regret.

They say that “regret, is wasting energy on the past, and worry, is wasting energy on the future”. These days, I don’t have any energy to spare. So, I am consciously working on remaining in the present. Sometimes, it’s an hour-by-hour struggle to do so.

It is easy to get lost in thought over the origin of my fracture lines- whenst they came and how, by god, I could have prevented them. It’s even easier still to wallow in self-pity over why I’ve been dealt the shitty hands that I have. And lord knows, it is just as easy to worry for the future- there is so much uncertainty, so much to be concerned about.

But those are the moments that I am learning to take a deep breath and center myself, bringing myself back to the present moment- where blessings and power lie in bounty.

Today I have the power to change what I am able- to seek help, to embark on the journey of healing, to work towards being my best self. Today, I am afforded the opportunity to acknowledge my fracture lines… and with great focus on my afforded blessings, pick up the mortar and begin to fill them in. The patchwork will always shadow under the surface paint, but perhaps the structure of my spirit will end up stronger in the end. And if nothing else, it certainly adds complexity and character, even if that complexity is one I’d rather do without.

When we are children, we dream nothing but fairytales… and no one ever tells us that amongst our innocent views, fracture lines are already running through them…

Some of my fracture lines are so deep, so pervading, that I would literally have given my life to prevent them. But that is the mindset of regret and useless bargaining. And what the implications of those lines will be on the future, is exhausting worry. So today, my fairytale is knowledge, empowerment, resources, opportunity, endless love and the beauty of another day.

Because despite the breaks and pain… life is worth living… and if you give it your very best, underneath the ashes… lies the gold of your very own fairytale, chipped and patched, but wonderous all the same.

Re-discover your fairytale today… your life is more beautiful than it sometimes feels!

 

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Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity…
to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

 

I don’t pray very often… that dwindled around the time that I lost my faith- sometime after my brother’s death, my parent’s divorce and more than my share of traumatic experiences. I left the religious schools that I spent twelve years in, and in a public university, I met new people that embraced intellect and understanding over short-sightedness and judgementalism and I learned an in-depth view of science… and that was it… the frayed threads that held my faith and kept me a “believer,” broke. I’ve tried to mend them but it’s like they dissolved…You can’t sew with thread that isn’t there. I admit that church and religion got the short hand of the deal from me because there are many good and smart people in faith communities. And there’s more than one way to embrace “belief”… but going back now is like trying to convince yourself in your 40s that the Easter bunny really does exist. And so I resolve to make peace with where I am. If a god really does exist… then he gets me… and he sees my efforts… and when I’m really in a hard spot… hopefully he still hears my lonely prayers.

Although, in these days of pandemic and personal struggle, I’ll admit that I’m praying more than I ever have. They say, “There are no atheists in foxholes.” And while I don’t believe a desperate cry for survival constitutes “faith”… I accept their point that sometimes desperation leads to the consideration of other ways of thinking, or believing. And when you have exhausted every physical and intellectual effort, and fear and doubt persist… you throw a Hail Mary because fuck it… it can’t hurt. I don’t mean any disrespect for those who treasure their faith deeply… I just sit in a different place. And I wish I had the peace and assurance that they have.

But I am working on creating that peace, that serenity, in other ways. I’m doing that through reframing negative thoughts, acceptance, prioritizing needs, working towards positive change and self-care.

So when I see frustrating things on the news- leaders who in my opinion, display complete incompetence, citizens who endanger others through selfish and ignorant means, the short availability of needed and life-saving supplies, viewpoints expressed that are completely out of balance with humanity as a whole, when I feel overwhelmed and frustrated with my own challenges, deficits and burdens and those of my patients and family, I take a deep breath and I reframe:

“They are not selfish- they are afraid.” “They don’t know any better- ignorance is their crime.” “Their challenges are different than mine.” “I am blessed to have what I have.” “However painful this is, this is a learning experience.” “Today I am here, and I am fortuned with the skills to make a difference.” “This is an opportunity for success.”

Reframing is a technique used to change the way we think, into one that sees the good in a situation, and focuses on positivity, productivity and acceptance, instead of negativity, useless rumination and defeat. When we change the way we think, we then change the way we feel and behave.

When I can’t reframe, because some realities are just that… then I swallow hard and try to accept that I cannot change other people or circumstances and that the life that I have been given, is my own and it is beautiful despite hardship. I can share my messages and shed my light, but I can’t do it expecting people to change. Nor can I let their ignorance rob me of my peace or ability to find beauty. If I let them steal my peace and contentment, then I let their contempt win and their ugliness spread.

Darkness can encroach, darkness can shadow and shade, but darkness can never win.

Then I focus on what I can control, what I can change. I prioritize what is most important for my life and what matters most to me. And my family, my wellbeing and my career sit at the top of those priorities. I can control MY family’s compliance in this pandemic. I can wear a mask and be diligent in my hand-washing and infection control practices. I can control our diet and exercise by providing as much quality produce as I can purchase/grow, be mindful of adequate water intake and use our space and the open outdoors to move when my body is able. I can meditate and practice good sleep habits to enhance the quality of my sleep as much as possible. Exercise, good nutrition and sleep will give my immune system its best fighting chance if I get sick. I can turn off the news and practice self-care activities like soaking in a tub, painting rocks, listening to music, gardening, cooking, writing and laughing and playing with my family to decrease my stress- because stress is not only a detriment to the immune system but it impacts sleep and overall wellbeing. Stress is the enemy of happiness. But serenity, is her friend.

In ordinary times, tomorrow is promised to no one. We are in a global pandemic. I hope that my good health and that of my family pulls us through, but there are no assurances. If I am to lose my life, or that of one that I hold dear, I want to have spent my last days well- knowing both that I gave us our best fighting chance… and that we embraced one another in love and quality time, all the way to the end– not fighting, not angry and stressed out, not ungrateful, not with regret.

If I die tomorrow, I want them to say “She was a warrior”– who practiced diligence and safety and risked her own life to serve others, but not recklessly. I want them to say, “She was kind”– while she spoke the truth, she didn’t put others down, she tried to see the best in every situation and she always lent a helping hand where she could. I want them to say, “She was fun.”– she was forever dancing, singing and laughing and throwing new activities and games at us. And while she might have liked wine a little bit too much and curse words may have slipped-out, both in her discontent and in her mirth… “She loved life and she loved us.” In the words of our little foster baby, I want them to say, she made “This a happy home.”

What do you want people to say about you? And how are you going to get there?

I am so very far from perfect. Stress makes me grumpy and short. I think I appologize more than I say “Thank you.” I’m loud. And it’s possible that my bluntness might offend more than it soothes. But I’m trying.

Many years ago, when I was a young, single mom in nursing school (yes my husband and I worked very hard to get where we are) and my life was one of the hardest and most complicated that it ever was, I threw a penny into a fountain. And when I did, I chose very carefully what my wish would be. Unsure of where I’d be living, desperate to graduate, provide for my baby and to make something of myself, and completely overwhelmed by how to make the very complex and at the time, difficult relationship with the love of my life work… I wished only for “Happiness.” I had no idea where my life was going to end up… but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with true happiness. And it’s been my wish in every fountain and every birthday cake since. Nothing about my life is even close to perfect, but we are happy.

In my eight grade year, I, like all good little Catholic girls, received the sacrament of Holy Confirmation. In the classes leading up to the sacrament, we learned that this made us an “adult” in the church and we learned about the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit- Wisdom, Knowledge, Right Judgement, Courage, Understanding, Reverence, and Fear of the Lord/Wonder and Awe. Caught in another very difficult time in my life, my family was divided, broken and ailing. Of those gifts, I prayed the most for Wisdom, Courage and Understanding.

Perhaps the sacrament worked after all… (Reverence and Fear of the Lord certainly weren’t ones that came through, LOL). While plagued with previous traumas, I did emerge from my most difficult experiences with fortitude, a gained perspective and a desire to understand people and their stories. I have embraced my journey in nursing and in foster care courageously and from that, have gained more wisdom and more understanding than I could’ve ever imagined. Whether or not I was gifted with these through the sacrament, they didn’t come without a hefty price.

Wisdom, I am convinced, is gained when you weather through difficult circumstances, seek to understand them and then derive from them, lessons for the future. However, with that, often comes tremendous pain. While grateful for the wisdom I have, some days it’s hard for me to believe that it was worth it. Some days, if given the choice, I would have sacrificed the wisdom, to escape the pain. But in life, we don’t often get a choice with the cards we are dealt, instead we choose only how we manage them. Understanding that, is acceptance.

This time of the year holds many anniversaries for me. As I soon enter my 38th year of life, 16th year as a mother, 15th year as a nurse, 13th year as a wife, 2nd year as a foster care provider, and day 50 of quarantine…

In these unprecedented times, I am reframing this rainy day as: one that is feeding my garden, as a gift to be alive, as an opportunity to create goodness and to make a difference, no matter how small. And when I am challenged the hardest- on the days when my face hurts and my body sweats from isolation gear and a respirator, when my patients and my family face insurmountable hurdles and the world seems to have gone mad… maybe, just maybe… this self-proclaimed non-believer, might just say a little prayer. Then she’ll take a deep breath, wipe her tears and take another step, because life, horrendously hard as it can be, was meant to be lived well. And my soul aches not for discontent… but for Serenity.

Live well friends and know that in your times of challenge, courage will push you through… and where your heart aches, scars will one day patch the pain… and with them, understanding and wisdom will accompany you.

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I’ve been waiting for this day…

As a bedside nurse and mother, these times are frightening ones… and a title such as the one I’ve chosen, likely seems a strange choice. Let me explain.

My life has been filled with an intricate balance of hardship and opportunity. I grew up poor; but thanks to loving friends and relatives, I had middle-class opportunities. I spent my first six years in a trailer park, where my parents raised four kids and shared one second-had car. Our home environment was strained, and yet my grandmother would have us over to play with our cousins and teach us how to cook. My aunts would take us out to the zoo, theme parks, various outings and treat us to special things. And one year, my grandparents even treated the whole family to Disney World! We were loved.

By school-age, we had a fixer-upper, single family home. There, the local library and woods served as our playground. My great-aunt splurged for a community pool membership and lessons; and that pool became both our babysitter and the source of a great skill. We were avid swimmers when our grandparents invited to us to their “beachhouse”, a bay-side trailer that was our only vacation, every year. While my parents fought to provide us our basic needs… I was afforded the opportunty to receive a private school education. I was the kid in a uniform, who’d never been skiing, or owned name-brand anything, but knew how to cook. I was the honor roll student, who lived in a home that the police knew all to well. I was the girlscout who passed all her tests but never had her badges sewn on, the teenager who had four jobs, the young mother who didn’t drop out of school and earned her degree, but will carry her loans for decades. I was the 25 year old white woman, who married a 43 old divorced immigrant, who had not a dollar to his name, but a heart of gold…and we made it! 18 years and counting!

For ages, I felt like I got the short end of the stick. And yet, I was so often met with unbelievable blessings. My education allowed me a career in healthcare… and yet my hardships gave me perspective. Exposed to universities and surrounded by professionals, I grew and I saw what the world had to offer, but my childhood reminded me to stay humble and it helped me to withhold the judgement of others. This combination of struggles and gifts, continued my tug-o-war of gratitude and discouragement into adulthood. While I was grateful for my blessings, I often struggled with feelings of inadequacy and wished I hadn’t had to work so hard to achieve what others seemed to have so easily.

Having married a man who grew up in a dictatorship, tackling the challenges of parenting, and a nursing career that brought me to the world of grief work, however, helped me to sort those feelings. All of these things furthered my sense of perspective and settled my priorities. Nursing and grief work gave me an outlet to apply my own lessons learned in grief and loss and it reminds me daily, what truly matters, as I help people who have suffered the ultimate loss-the loss of a child. And the challenges I face with my own children, heavy as they are (and trust me, they’ve been heavy!), are never as heavy as losing them.

Both my husband and I work very hard in our professions to give our children the things we didn’t have. And yet we hold our family time sacred, because we understand that life and love is a gift. We cook every day and save restaurants as a special treat, in order to afford travel. And while we have the grand goal of traveling to all 50 states (we’re up to 35!), we make it happen by driving and camping a lot. Travel too, improves perspective. And busy as the day to day is, we limit our children’s activities and it is a requirment that we sit together at the dinner table every night. We found …. no we fought… for balance.

Together, we took our bucket of disadvantages and hard knocks, missed opportunities and lessons learned hard, and we seived out the things that really matter. And we have created a happy and balanced life.

Yet as proud as I am of the life we have created, it has become harder and harder to maintain, as our children have entered adolescence. “I’m not hungry”, one will say as I call them to the dinner table. Homework has sabotaged our afternoon walks and friends have stolen family game night from me… leaving our closet full of games often abandoned (until the foster kids come that is.). As hard as we continue to fight for balance, the culture in this country and social pressures to be everywhere and do everything, are hard. I get tired of being the “bad guy” and saying “No.” What good is time together, if it’s forced?

For years I have been uncomfortable with the busy culture that our country has embraced. We kill ourselves and work til exhaustion. We fill our children’s lives with so many activities, we’ve forgotten how to feed the family unit and spirit. Money has replaced compassion. And materials have replaced selflessness. Our intention to get ahead and to plan for the future has left our arms full of things, and our souls empty. I am appalled at the condition that we have left our planet in, all in the name of convenience and greed. And I am discouraged by the loss of community and the selfishness that this culture seems to breed. Technology has flourished, with computer tech salaries doubling my own and contributing to the nursing shortage. And yet it’s nurses that save lives. We’ve created a generation of children who have no survival skills and think You Tube is the greatest source of information.

This virus has this nurse and momma fearful for her safety and for the future of the world. With hospitals worldwide packed to the gills with people starving for air and dying due to lack of enough equipment, the world is broken… and yet… in some ways… we already were.

While Covid-19 has created a plethora of problems and I believe we will see the repercussions for years to come… in some ways, it might just fix some of our others.

Out of work and shut off from the outside, families have found one another again. Skills and supplies have become our currency. Nursing and other manual labor jobs are once again valued. Wealth is less useful than ingenuity now. While panic and selfishness are certainly evident in hoarding and ignoring quarantine restrictions, the people I witnessed when I did my weekly shopping were kind and considerate and patient. We’ve been forced to let go of luxuries and we’ve re-discovered our creativity. Last night, my teenagers played with sidewalk chalk again. Two weeks ago, I was looking for someone to gift that very set of chalk and paint to. And a week ago, I was the “worst Mom in the world” for denying my 16 year old, the party she was invited to, because according to her friends, this virus “wasn’t serious”. But last night, she snuggled against my legs, all four of us, piled into my bed to watch Frozen 2. As I sit here and write, both kids are playing BINGO with their Dad and he’s playing music by Kenny Rogers, to educate them on “one of the Greats”. Time together, it turns out… IS valuable… even if it’s forced. Venice’s waterways are clearer than they’ve been in ages. Smog and pollution are down. And the technology that turned my children into zombies and I once screamed to limit, is allowing me to play virtual games with my family, across cities and states.

This is just the balance I was praying for.

We’ve stopped looking over the rainbow for our happiness and started looking in our own backyard… and drawing them on our own driveways.

I have been a mother for 16 years now and a nurse for 15. I have witnessed countless births and deaths. I’ve held babies while they took their last breath, raced out of work to respond to my own family’s 911. I’ve been called to the school after being awake for 28 hours because my child was in crisis and received devasting diagnoses and news for the very children I raised so carefully. I have struggled and suffered… but I have known a love that few people do. I laugh until I cry and I have made it my daily goal to search for goodness so as not to be consumed by darkness. My life has in so many ways, been very, very hard… but it is also so very, very good. That, is balance.

What is money if you have no one to laugh with? Education, if you have no platform to apply that knowledge? Opportunity, if you can’t create your own? Good food, if you always sit at the table alone? A green and blue planet, that is covered in waste?

For the sake of healthcare, for the sake human lives, for our economy and for public safety… I pray that this pandemic will soon end. But I hope the positive change doesn’t. I’ve waited for this day… not like this, not with lives lost and a job that now has me in a war zone… But a balance of priorities, a time to love and cherish, and quiet, to find amongst the storm, rainbows.

Seach for goodness… and where you find none… create it!

Wash your hands, stay home, stay safe!

 

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Baking a Cake

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Tonight I am baking a cake… and the irony doesn’t escape me.

You see, tonight is my brother’s birthday. He’d be 41. He died by suicide at the age of 17, 23 years ago, when I was just 14. Long ago, I was dubbed the “family cake maker”.

This cake should be for him, but it isn’t.

Tonight I am baking a cake for my son’s drama club. Once it has baked and cooled, I’ll crumble it and with my hands, mix in some cheap, store-bought icing and turn it into Wizard of Oz themed cake pops- my voluntary contribution to the drama club’s concession stand on performance night.

A cake… baked and then crumbled… like my family. Once again, the irony doesn’t escape me.

There will be no writing in icing, no birthday candles and no singing tonight.

And even though as a perinatal grief worker, “baking a cake and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ ” is one of the many suggestions I make to families who have lost a child and find themselves in search of ideas, when their baby’s birthday rolls around and they are not in arms to help blow out the candles… 23 years later, I still can’t bring myself to do it. And he wasn’t even my child.

A single candle I’ll light and memorializing I will do, but it won’t be blanketed in sugary icing and my words won’t be recorded with mirth.

Tonight I am baking a cake, for a birthday that is no longer celebrated, to be used for a performance that will not be attended by my children’s uncle. An uncle in fact, they’ve never met.

Life is full of irony… and misfortune. I don’t ever expect to rid the world of either. But it can be rid of unwarranted and preventable loss if we open our eyes and start to care. If we pay attention to the people who have withdrawn. If we notice who is just a little quieter, a little more to themselves, a little less engaged. We can save lives if we accept that the world is hard enough without judgement and criticism; and we deem mental health as legitimate and worthy of treatment as physical health.

I have not made my brother’s story a secret. And since I have begun telling it, I can no longer count on two hands, the number of personal stories of suicide that have been brought to me by people that I love. And while I love that I am a safe place to land (and hope always to be so), I am really fucking tired of attending funerals that didn’t have to be.

Tonight I am baking a cake and my tears have replaced my singing.

Tonight, like with many life events, I find myself talking to my brother a lot- telling him all that’s happening, all that he’s missed since he’s been gone. At my wedding, my graduation… my children’s births and life events… it’s like reaching back into time to tell him “I’m a wife now… a nurse… a Momma”. And it makes me so very sad that he isn’t here to see it.

Imagine your life cut short at 17 and all of the wonderful events that you wouldn’t have ever experienced. It doesn’t matter how old you are when you die prematurely, there is always unresolved longing by those left behind.

Depression robs you of the ability to see past your current state. Every day activities are exhausting, goals feel insurmountable and the future seems unreachable. Telling someone who is depressed to “Snap out of it”, “Get over it”, or “Pull themselves up by their boot-straps”, is like telling someone who is ravishingly hungry that there are better food choices than what is presented in the vending machine in front of them and to just “hold off”. If you want them to eat a salad instead of pop tarts, you’re gonna have to hand them the salad! Telling them that the salad exists, isn’t helpful in that moment, if it isn’t a tangible option with support in place.

People who suffer from depression or a sudden insurmountable life stressor, need tools, not ideas. They need someone to say, “I am here to listen, not to judge and we are going to do this together.” They need constant support.

I refuse to allow my brother’s death… or any of the other suicides close to the persons I love, to be in vain. And I am asking you to do the same. If you struggle with making judgement against people, find a way to understand. Help me fight for better mental health services. And if all else fails, just be kind.

And for those of you who find the idea of another tomorrow overwhelming… my heart and my home are always open. I know you can’t see it now, but there is a beautiful purpose for your existence… hold out for it, please! From the sister of a severely mentally ill, drug and alcohol addicted, and at times homeless individual, you are enough! You are and always will be loved! Don’t believe the lies that leaving this world will help anyone. Your absence will cause a lifetime of heart-wrenching pain… and there is always another way.

I am baking a cake… and my god… I wish it was for him.

Bring me your hurting, bring me your rejected, bring me your downtrodden… and in his name…. I will give them respite.

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Angels and Porcelain Dolls

Life is a series of ups and downs, hard days and easier ones, and not a one of us are spared pain and tragedy. Some tragedies however, are life altering. When they hit, they take away not only our breath, but our sense of self. It is with those moments that we are given the opportunity to rebuild and redefine or to withdraw and lay victim. Neither way is an easy way out, as the human mind and heart are fragile. But in rebuilding, we create a journey of giving back that is simply magnificent.

Here’s to those who at one time, found themselves broken.

 

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You were whole…

Despite the scars, despite the hard days’ work, despite an imperfectly perfect life…you felt safe. You felt whole. A hardened shell, cushioned by a life going right, at the day’s end, your body sank into the bed and the quiet calm of the night soothed you. Comfortable and relaxed, you pulled the covers under your chin and breathing out, you sank further into the softness that surrounded you. Life was predictably unpredictable… and you, an imperfect porcelain doll, scuffed and tattered, but intact and beautiful in your well-loved way.

All was well. All was still.

And then, from out the darkness, with no sound, no preemptive warning, an unspeakable, crushing blow leapt from out the shadows, striking you… and you felt yourself break into a million pieces.

Disoriented at first…and confused. One plastic eye hanging loose from its socket, staring at the floor in disbelief. There is shit everywhere and you’re standing in the middle of it.

Braving a glance in the mirror, you look just in time to see another piece fall out of place. What you once were, is now a pile of debris scattered on the floor. And you no longer know your name.

A faceless, nameless tragedy….time and space stand still. You are numb.

Simultaneously, pain and reality soak in. Like a laboring woman, reflexively, you rock. The pain in your soul is too much to bear and you feel yourself crumbling further, from the inside out. Surely, it is your heart disintegrating under the pressure.

And then finally, in the whirlwind that is your life, the racing circles of rational thought, feeling and physics unite and your tears are accompanied by heaving sobs. Your chest aches and you starve for air as much as you starve for reprieve. You beg the universe for a different truth. Bargaining, you’d give anything to have been spared this blow. The pillow that once brought you peaceful slumber, now stifles your wails.

Bouncing between horror and emptiness, in one moment your heart races with panic and dread…and in the next, there is an absence of thought and emotion. You awaken to find yourself staring into space… gone from reality… gone from your body. Unable to speak, unable to move, your only task is to fill and then empty your lungs.

Everything that was before, it seems, has been destroyed. Trust, faith, safety and security, like life-long comrades, lie lifeless amongst the list of causalities. Robbed of your former happiness and ease, you are broken. And the life you once knew, is gone.

Two bare legs, thin and pale, dangle off the bed where you sit- speechless and motionless. As the sobs slow and your breathing again regains some sort of rhythm, you gather your energy and your courage. Easing yourself off the edge of the bed, you crouch to the floor. Slowly and intentionally, you begin to pick up the pieces. Gathering them in your bleeding hands, you are sure you will never be whole again.

Alone in your space, depleted simply by standing and holding what your life once was close to your heart… hands trembling, in a weak and cracking voice, you use the slightest wisp of energy to call out for “Help.”

Expecting your voice to merely echo into the darkness, you are surprised when the doorway fills with light.

Silently and floatingly from the other side, angels move in. One by one, carefully selecting piece-by-piece out of your hands, tenderly, they fill each broken space. With their words and their hearts, gluing each piece back. “Tell me I will be whole again” you cry, as silently, they work. As they mend and you surrender, you begin to see your form take shape again. Knowing that you could not rebuild alone, you revel in their aid. Still you resolve, you will never again be the same.

Time passes and still you gasp for words. Exhausted and aching from every joint, you glance once again into the mirror. Relieved to see the pieces of your life put back into place, you can’t ignore your blessings… but neither can you ignore the fracture lines that remain. Whole again, and yet, still so shattered… your voice quivers when you try to speak, so broken you hardly believe where it’s coming from.

Night falls and anxiety erupts, sabotaging the safety you once felt. Your bed is no longer a safety nest and your room, no longer a sanctuary. You breathe and you imagine and you pray, begging to feel the wholeness the rest of the world sees in you, the wholeness you once felt.

Angel voices whisper in your ears and silently, you respond to the figure in your reflection. “You are strong.” “You are brave.” “You are resilient.” And from the light of the angels, a sliver of hope pierces your heart, “goodness can come from tragedy.” Believing those words, you long for the day that you will regain your voice and your strength. You know you are a survivor and your story will one day be told.

Today you will rest, tomorrow you will crawl… and one day, with grit and knowledge and the pain-staking work of healing, you will fly.

For the broken doll, will one day become the angel- called upon in another’s darkest hour, to minister and mend another broken soul. Your light will fill her doorway when she gains the courage to call for help. And when you reach to pick up her broken pieces, she will see on your hands, the fracture lines…and in your eyes and soul, your strength and undying love.

 

Saviors often wear the deepest scars. Scars are always tougher than uninjured tissue. It takes grace and hard work, not to yield to bitterness and anger. Compassion, wisdom and empathy can be the byproducts of trauma, if instead of shutting the world out, you call for help and accept it… if you work to heal, instead of pushing the pain away.

To every doll standing in the mirror, seeing their missing pieces… broken as you may feel today… if you take the time and do the work, you will one day heal and grow wings.

And to all of the angels, who have at one time or another, answered one’s frail call for help, may you forever know that your pain created a strength that carried them. And the glue that is your love, is ever-lasting.

Perhaps, life is just a series of breaks and mends… some days we are the doll… and if we do it right… some days, we get to be the angel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Not now

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Clinking the last dish into the drainer, she dries her hands and the single tear running down her cheek. “Self care” she hears her therapist say, in the echoes of her ever chattering mind.

Walking past the unvacuumed floors and today’s untended mail, she makes her way to the washroom and draws herself a bath. Bending over to place the stopper, steam drifts towards her face…and another tear falls, joining the tiny ocean she is building.

The same clothes she’s been wearing for two days now, falls to the floor. Stepping into the hot liquid, she remembers the mound of laundry waiting for her…“Not now”, she thinks.

Saturated and soaking in the steamy bath, islands of bubbles float around her body like lonely continents and collect at her breasts. The warm water soothes her aching muscles, releasing the pain from her soft tissue and pushing it into the bony prominences of her spine that lies flat against the hard bottom of the bathtub. Plump, pink feet propped on the stone wall in front of her, she judges their pudgy appearance, yet, welcomes the cool air that envelops her lower extremities, a reprieve from the heat that her body is soaked in.

She is tired.

She wishes the walls of this tub would melt away and that the water were an ocean that she could float away in.

She wishes that lying down would relieve the weight she’s been carrying on her shoulders, as if it were a backpack…weight that feels extra heavy today.

Closing her eyes, she imagines that weight falling backwards into the white walls of the tub, giving her small frame and her soul a break for just a moment. And she floats, suspended in the warm, soapy basin.

The un-quiet of her mind quickly opens her eyes again and staring at the ceiling, she notices a spot of mildew. Her mind wanders to another task that needs tending; but she takes that thought and puts it on a leaf in her mind and watches it float down the river…“Not now…” she whispers.

“Not now” when the office calls for yet another “favor”, “Not now” when her mother starts to criticize, “Not now” when a girlfriend comes just to gossip, “Not now” when life asks for more than she can give.

Now, she tends to her “self”. Now, she takes a break. Now, she lets her body rest…and begs her mind to do the same. Now, she starts to heal.

She is not a laggard. She is a castaway who has given every ounce of energy her body could produce. And she is exhausted. Swimming without a life raft, tossed like debris in the angry seas of life, storms raging around her, head bobbing, she has surfaced from the crashing waves, but she is choking. In a moment of desperation, she reaches for a passing piece of driftwood and clutching it, she collapses. She is in survival mode.

She wishes it hadn’t come to this. She wishes it weren’t such a heavy blow which brought her to realize her self-worth…and self-preservation. She wishes she had reached for help sooner. She wishes she had saved more reserves for the swim. She wishes she felt more sure of the land she was floating towards.

Nonetheless, she is floating. After she rests, she will swim.

And then, one day, one day when her feet once again feel earth, she will run.

But not now…

Now, under the moon’s gentle light…in the quiet of an empty house, despite every lie the universe tries to whisper…she tells her self… “You are enough…right now.”

 

 

 

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“You are Not Alone”- A Letter to the Person who Finds This Season a Struggle

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Dear friend,

I see you. I see you sitting at the table, hot cup of coffee/tea in your hand…and a pause…that you wish would go away…or last forever. A desire to move on…or to freeze and be lost in thought, anything but to deal with the outside world right now. I see the struggle to decorate, the struggle to participate, the struggle to smile.

I see that you are tired. I see that this is hard.

You are not alone.

This isn’t how you want to be. The rest of the world is happy. The rest of the world is bright and busy…and you are just trying to hold on and survive. You want to feel “normal”. You want to get caught-up in the happiness and the joy…but just when you do…you remember…and then…you’re low again. You’re alone again. You’re tired…again.

Maybe the holidays were never good for you. Maybe they have been a reminder of your trauma since as early as you can remember. Or maybe, they used to be good…and things changed. I don’t know what’s worse- to have never had…or to have had and lost.

Either way, I see you.

And I feel you. You are not alone.

This is a hard, hard time for so many people, myself included.

This is what I have learned:

Sometimes, it never is the same again or the way we wish it would be. We may never get the family, the partner, the wishes that we’ve had for so long. We can’t rewrite history or resurrect the dead. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t find value despite our pain.

Finding a way to give back, attaches purpose and positivity to the season. Years ago, my family and I decided that we’d pick three “give-back” activities every holiday season. Some years I called soup kitchens, others we packed a box of donations for the local cat/dog rescue, and still other years, we sponsored a family in need and added their needs and wishes to our holiday shopping lists. Our longest running tradition is creating gift-bags for the homeless (as we live close to a major city with a large homeless population). The kids decorate gallon-sized zip-lock bags with colorful sharpies and we fill them with things like weather-appropriate socks, hand/foot warmers, non-perishable proteins, sweets, toothbrush/toothpaste, hand wipes, a water bottle, etc. We hand them out on the days leading up to the holidays. And on the years that I am scheduled to work at the hospital on Christmas Eve, I make a deal with the universe that if they don’t call me in to work, I will instead, drive around the city to hand out bags with my children. We never get tired of the satisfaction that we gain in helping others. And the kind words and expressions that we receive in return, make it feel like Christmas morning on the city streets. Good deeds are scientifically proven to improve happiness. With no obligation, no price point to match, nobody over-seeing you…find your own way to give-back…and let the magic happen.

And a smile or a kind word is immeasurable to the person receiving it. Don’t get caught up in consumerism-either feeding into it or fighting it…just be kind! The world needs it!

Rituals and traditions-however mundane or silly they might seem at times, help to improve mental health outcomes. Not only do they give us something to look forward to- the game that we always watch, the recipe or the restaurant that we always enjoy, or the “thing” we always do…but they also decrease anxiety because, whether we realize it or not, traditions within a family/group, are predictable. Whether you like the tradition or not…the fact that you know that it’s coming, makes it less anxiety-provoking than the unknown. So, traditions provide us with a comforting sense of “what to expect.” If you don’t already have long-standing traditions, start them! Let this year be the beginning, so that future years reap your ritualistic rewards.

Self-care is essential- and that doesn’t have to mean the spa… (cuz who has time for the spa this time of year?!) While cooking/creating can feel like a chore sometimes…it can also be a wonderful method of self-care. There is something very therapeutic, very maternal, very practical and satisfying about cooking or creating a gift (instead of buying one) for our loved ones. Consider building a photo book/calendar, painting a canvas or ceramic, drawing, writing a poem/letter, making homemade bird seed ornaments or dog treats or baking for friends/family/neighbors. If it feels pressured or overwhelming, than we’ve missed the point, but if it provides distraction and a sense of accomplishment… then well done! You have experienced self-care, with a practical multi-purpose.

You don’t owe anyone, anything… Ok, so if you’re a parent with small children….you’ll have to pull it together for them. But other than that…work functions, family get-togethers, community events…they will all go-on without you-and you don’t owe anyone an explanation. This season might be self-preservation-mode for you. While the rest of the word seems to be operating in over-drive, what you are comfortable doing, is enough! Create boundaries. Know when you are approaching your limit. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to “sit this one out.” It’s okay to stay close to home this year. This is your holiday too, protect your heart and your energy.

Energy is precious when you are struggling. When I am in grief, I have learned that I can have one really good, productive and social day. One day when I’m acting like I’m back to my old self and it feels like “the old days”… and then, I’m exhausted. The next day, both mentally and physically, I have nothing else left to give. Learn what your patterns are. If this is true for you…then don’t schedule more than one busy day back-to-back. You can always spontaneously add activities if you are feeling up to it, but don’t set yourself up for failure by committing to more than you are comfortable doing. Ask for help if it’s a matter of carting kids around to activities or other such stops that don’t require your presence. And always make an escape plan- a easy way to get out of a social gathering if you need to.

I see you.

I see the sadness and the longing in your eyes. I see the heartache that feels as though it will last forever. I see the broken promises and the shattered dreams.

I see you standing in the middle of the flashing lights, the blaring carols and the larger than life trees-donned in loud and bright decor…in the middle of lots of happy people.

You feel small. You feel unheard and un-noticed. You see their smiles and you hear their laughter and you want to join them… but tears and the urge to run away feel stronger than the muscles that could turn the sides of your mouth upwards.

You are not alone.

But you are loved and you are important.

I urge you to step out of that busy scene and use this time to discover the real significance of this season. The quiet, reflective season of giving, nurturing, and loving one another. If you feed that…it will feed you in return. And blessing will come, even in your darkest hours. You can do this. You will survive this season.

Wishing you peace, this season…and always! Happy Holidays, from LIFELIBERTYANDLIBATIONS.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Quilt

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Forward: A deeply personal piece, I have woven into this quilt my own life experiences. This quilt, while unique to me, represents the patchwork inside all of us. Some days I struggle with the loss and tragedy that has touched my life. And some days it’s hard to see the good through the bad. But we must remind ourselves that in the end, it is both the light and the dark, in the struggles and the successes, the tears and the laughter that build the beautiful masterpiece that we are. I am learning to love myself, in all of my different shades. And this piece was an exercise in doing that through writing. I encourage you to reflect on what your quilt would look like and learn to love yourself too, in all your many colors.

Outside, rain smacks against the window panes. Sitting in her chair, her wrinkled hands guide the shiny needle, poking the soft edge, then pulling the thin white thread through the colorful panes of fabric that lie folded on her steady lap. As she sews, she reflects…

Her eyes scan the fabric for a pattern. Is there a pattern? She holds in her lap and in her heart, a patchwork of progress, experiences, accomplishments and hardships that have unfolded over a lifetime. Each event, each square, occurred separately in her life and when stacked in a pile on the table, felt solitary and unrelated. And yet seeing them now, in her old age, side-by-side and top-to-bottom, she realizes that the thread in her hands is not the only thing that ties them together.

Olive and white strips with a silver ring filled with burnt orange felt- the colors of the trailer she was born in and the mud pies that she learned to make from the clay outside. It was there, from her very beginnings, that she learned how to make-do and find joy in simplicity. And the move was her first experience in feeling uncomfortable in order to make positive change, at age five.

Change is easier with magic. She was always looking for magical things- like fireflies and genuinely kind people. Royal blue, with stars, the outline of a jar and little black and yellow fireflies embroidered within its lines. Next to it, a frog, patiently plopped with a subtle smile. The flying creatures that she watched decline in numbers over her lifetime, brought magic to the evenings of her childhood, and lit-up both her jar and her inner joy. The jumping amphibians that she chased as a girl, became an exotic pet and then a tattoo on her back…and then a favorite pitcher and candlestick set on the dining room table that she used to entertain her guests. She loved frogs!

And she loved to entertain- something that wasn’t celebrated in the home she grew-up in, because anxiety oftentimes overruled joy. So she had to make a busy and colorful square with a cake and confetti for all the parties she was denied as a child and overcompensated by throwing as an adult. Birthdays, baby showers, weddings, even seasonal changes- her parties utilized her organized and energetic nature to satisfy both her drive to create beauty and to share joy.

Animals also brought her joy. Her Dad taught her to love and respect all creatures-even snakes. When she was a girl, she thought she’d grow up to be a veterinarian. She wanted to help animals that were hurt or sick. She’d grow up to teach her own children the same values and have a house full of pets. There was never a time that she didn’t have several. So with tiny, shaped pieces of material, in various hues of brown, she created a square for a lifetime of unconditional, furry, scaly, love.

And next to the mud pie, the frog and the pets, a powder blue square with a white house and a tree for the childhood home, she at first hated, but grew to love. Pragmatically perched across the street from her school, with the best climbing tree a kid could ask for, it survived both a house fire and a multitude of challenges. That house held her bed, her pets buried in the yard, her secrets and her screams, her dreams and her nightmares for 15 years. The house that she both ran to and ran from, taught her both what she wanted to be and what she didn’t.

A dark gray square with a single candle. “There’s a candle burning”… sings the Aerosmith song of child loss, “Fallen Angels.” Her family of six crumbled to a family of five when as a teen, her brother ended his life too soon. And it burned a hole in her heart where her faith once resided. Out of the darkness she crept and many a survivor she ministered from her own painfully, preventable loss. And while his flame of existence he might have snuffed, the threads of his influence weaved the most intricate pattern and spelled compassion and understanding on her soul.

An emerald green square, for a pop of her favorite color and birthstone, a symbol of her Irish roots, the color of frogs… And the color of mental illness- that took so much more than a brother from her; but became a passion that she fought for fervently. And top-stitched on the green, a purple and turquoise semi-colon, a lovely cool color pallet that appealed to her on the days when she felt low, and the symbol of suicide prevention.

The turquoise of the semi-colon almost matched the teal hearts sewn atop the solid black square. One tiny heart for each time hers was broken by another “me too,” her own and the children and women she loved so dearly. She wished she was left with more open space and her heart and hands grew tired of cutting out the same shape. And yet she knew the experiences came to define a large part of her- the power that grew from her pain and the anger that energized her fight for change. Her gray head nodded as she thought of the progress made by her gender and education on the word “consent”.

The black background and the fight for women complimented the dark red square, that she proudly embellished with a black tassel and a gold RN- for the day she danced across the stage with a diploma in her hand, past the instructor who told her “Who do you think you are… having a baby in nursing school!?” The diploma that handed a single mother the most rewarding career of nurturing (not animals, like she once thought, but people) and empowering women in their life changing moments of childbirth- where the screams and tears of pain, perfectly married those of new life and joy…(the irony didn’t escape her).

And two more blocks of life-altering significance…cotton candy pink and blue ones with cradles, not just for the career she choose, but for the two babes she birthed herself. She added a microphone to the pink one, for her feisty girl’s ability to always speak-up, to use her voice to help others and….for her love of Elvis Presley- (a unique obsession for a girl so far removed from that generation). And the blue one had a monkey with a pink heart hanging onto the side of the brown cradle, for her active little boy who learned to climb before he walked; but carried with that crazy boy energy, a love for the color pink and a tender heart that found compassion and love for the people most often rejected by the world.

Pink and blue mixed together make purple…a lavender square with a dark green leaf and a tear, for the many babies she held in her career that were still…and the many tears she wiped, when a gift became a betrayal. Around the leaf she stitched concentric circles. Like the ripples a falling leaf creates on a pond, the ripples of grief and loss were ones she knew all too well.

The thin lines that created the pond circles almost matched the perfectly spaced blue stitch that repeated horizontally across the white square. Evenly spaced circles lined-up along the left, to create a piece of paper. Like the papers she graded as an instructor and the papers she sat with for hours, helping her children do homework (ADHD sucks), like the papers she filled with her thoughts and poetry. Across the center she added a pen and covering the bottom corner, appeared to be the edge of a book. She believed that knowledge was power and writing was her therapy.

Empowered as she was and though armed with a spirit of steel and a therapeutic habit, during some seasons of her life, that therapy wasn’t enough. And she remembered the days that she walked into an office and said, “I need help…I’m not okay right now and I can’t do this alone.” Then it was someone else’s turn to minister to the ‘soldier’ who so often ministered to others.

A tangerine orange block spoke to the trauma she witnessed too many times to count and the caution it created in her steps. But overlaying the color of both bold fun and caution, she stitched a rainbow, because after every storm always came a new perspective and behind the dark shadows of tragedy, beautiful blessings are always hidden. Rainbows also mean “love is love” and she never could understand why not everyone could support that.

A light gray square served as fitting background for the beige stoop and black and white door, for the first foster child who knocked on that fateful August night. He brought to her what she knew she was being called to do. “Grief is love without a place to put it”. And fostering gave her love a place to go- cradling those in need of comfort and acceptance and a safe place to lay their heads. Coming full circle from her own childhood and experiences with grief and trauma, it opened a door in the greatest of ways. And she ensured that every child that walked through that door knew both love and fun.

A colorful Ferris wheel made of tiny scraps of fabric for another meaning-filled block…that’s fun….or not. A day at the fair gave her an illness that would forever change her perspective and overall health. Like the facial paralysis she experienced as a teen, being a medical anomaly isn’t cool when you’re living it. Whilst some days, it felt like another illusion, another betrayal…from it she learned what was really important in life and she gained an immense gratitude for the things she took for granted- eating, walking and living a day without pain.

A sunny yellow square with a green tent for the camping vacations that started out as “all we can afford” and ended with driving across the states for a lifetime of unforgettable adventure. Persistence and hard work always pays off. And the view from the summit is always worth the climb.

A cornflower blue one, to compliment that yellow…with some clouds and a plane. The plane that brought her her husband, adventures and a worldly view.

And a sand-colored bottom, with an ocean blue top for the bodies of water that bordered both her and her husband’s home lands. The only vacation she ever knew as a child, didn’t bore, but instead guided them to their most favorite place to be…at the beach. There, the hot sand soothed her joints, the waves washed away her anxiety, and the wildlife provided joyful entertainment.

Every square carefully stitched, each one sewn together to create shapes of both light and darkness, warm colors and cool ones. Every experience interwoven into the next, nothing happening by accident or without repercussion.

While she so wished some of those squares weren’t there at all…while she would have done anything to keep the colors of trauma out of her quilt…she realized the fact that they were there, wasn’t her fault. Instead, it was through her hard work and healing that those colors didn’t sabotage the rest and instead made space for new habits, new experiences, new colors. She even began to see the ways that the different colors complimented one another. A black quilt would be drab, but black next to cheerful colors make them pop. A life without pain and tragedy yields a life of ingratitude. And a life without struggle, yields a life without perspective. Painful as they were to experience, the quilt wouldn’t be complete without them.

Snipping the final loose threads, she lays down her tools, sinks back into her chair and pulls the blanket up under her chin. She’s tired now and as her head relaxes to the side, she nods off to sleep. Her dreams are flooded with every memory that together, created the final masterpiece that she has become. And although there are times in her sleep that her brow furrows and silent tears sneak past the wrinkles around her eyes, she ends with a smile on her face; because she not only survived the storms, she managed to create beauty with them.

Behind her, the rain has stopped and a rainbow crowns her…. and her masterpiece quilt.