Tag: life after disfunction

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Sitting in a waiting room…again.

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I’m sitting in a waiting room again…

Another 2 1/2 hours of my life, spent.

We do this every week,

for psychiatric therapy.

There, I said it. Ohhhh….psychiatric…..gasp!

It’s not because our marriage is on the rocks or because the school advised it for the children based on behavioral concerns (although those are two very good reasons to consider going). We go because we are normal people (whatever the hell, “normal” means), with normal emotions, who encounter normal challenges and struggles and we want some help sometimes to know how to navigate those challenges in the healthiest way possible.

We are blessed to have a wonderful marriage, a loving home and two wonderful, socially mature and thriving children. And we have chosen to share our happy home with foster children. While fostering certainly adds another, emotional and sometimes challenging, dimension to our lives. Fostering is not the only reason we utilize therapy. In fact, we started going to therapy years before we ever considered fostering.

We started going when one of our children found school overwhelming, and we’ve continued as we encounter new challenges. We go because our brains and our hormones, our emotional balance and psychological wellbeing are important to us. We don’t just want to ‘do’ well, we want to feel well. We want to communicate well. And we don’t want our successes to be inhibited by the emotions that so often guide our thoughts and actions.

Just as I go school supply shopping for my children to ensure that they have the tools they need to participate in school…

Just as I take them to the doctor to get immunizations and the occasional antibiotic for strep throat so that they can be well in life…

Just as I call a girlfriend, pour a glass of wine or run a hot bath to unwind…

We go to therapists when we are having a hard time so that we can achieve, settle our minds and be well in life.

We go to therapists so that the patterns in our family lines, don’t repeat themselves.

We go to therapists because we want to utilize every tool available to us.

And there is no shame, misfortune or inferiority to be had in that.

The only shame is ignoring a problem that you know exists. The only misfortune is a person in need of assistance, being denied it. And the only thing that I find inferior, are people who think that they are superior to the services being offered or to those who utilize them.

 

I’ll be the first to admit that my fervent passion for mental health lies in part, out of fear. I was eight when I lost my uncle and fourteen when I lost my brother. I entered adulthood and motherhood afraid to lose anyone else, especially those closest to me, from an untreated, narrowly acknowledged condition. Both my uncle and my brother were never diagnosed nor ever attempted medication therapy…and they died from their self inflicted decision to escape their mental conditions because they saw no other way out. And thousands of others are suffering from the same problem, every day.

And yet the snarky comments, the diverted glances and the air of superiority continue.

We’re all supposed to be “strong”. We’re all supposed to “manage”. We’re all supposed to be able to “figure it out” and “make it all happen”. And yet, no one is giving us the tools to be able to do that. Nor are they taking into account our mental and emotional state and/or capacity.

If your kid has trouble seeing, you get them glasses. If your mom can no longer hear well, you get her a hearing aid. If your back hurts, you take a muscle relaxant, go to physical therapy, do some stretches. But when you’re overcome by fear, anxiety, sadness, loneliness, or feeling overwhelmed or stressed…you’re told to “get over it.” When someone begins withdrawing from social situations, having bursts of anger or crying spells, or is suddenly under-performing at work or school…they are shamed….or…better yet, ignored. And the more subtle signs of mental struggle are almost always missed.

No one expects a diabetic to survive without insulin and diet modifications. No one expects a morbidly obese person to run a mile. No one expects a physically disabled body to function at the same capacity as an able-bodied one. And yet all over the planet, while people acknowledge that our bodies are different, they’re pretending that our brains are all the same. And when someone can’t perform at the same caliber because of their current emotional or mental capabilities, they are shunned.

And so we go along setting unrealistic expectations, over-extending and over-committing ourselves, hiding our problems and making excuses…and it’s killing us.

Yet the excuses keep coming…

“He/she is just doing this for attention.” or “They’re just lazy.”

Attention seekers and people with a low drive exist. But most of the time, there’s more to their behavior than just these single signs. Have you taken the time/effort to explore possible underlying causes? Have you involved a professional to ensure that there’s not more going on? Or did you, with your finite knowledge come to that conclusion on your own?

Imagine the torment of not being able to see and your family telling you that you’re faking your blindness for attention. Imagine losing your ability to hear, and your boss telling you to “just listen more closely and you’ll get it”. Feeling overcome with fear/sadness, being so distracted that you can’t perform…or so manic that you can’t sit still, is like being blind/deaf to the world around you. It’s like sitting in the eye of a tornado and trying to pretend the world isn’t spinning and trying to suck you into it. Talk to them. Believe them when they tell you their struggles.

“I called but I couldn’t get an appointment.”

Mental health facilities are hard to get into. Many of them have 6 month-1 year waiting lists for new patients. Hospitals rarely have an open psych bed. The supply and demand for psychiatric services are incredibly out of balance.

All the more reason not to wait until you are in crisis! Routine mental health support not only provides the resources and support to help prevent a mental health crisis, but it gives you a provider to call when you need them the most.

“I don’t have the money or time for that.” Those co-pays add up and going to routine appointments is cumbersome and time-consuming…

So does carry out pizza and all of your kids’ extracurricular activities. Unlike pizza, investing in your children’s emotional wellbeing will support their overall health. And being a violin playing, chess master, soccer star doesn’t matter if their anxiety, sadness, anger or social immaturity prevents them from enjoying life and reaching their potential. And as parents, the damage we can do by not managing our own mental health effectively, is far more detrimental than any benefit of running ourselves ragged and avoiding self-care to serve our families non-essential desires. Trust me! That shit will come back to bite you!

That being said, there are very real financial hurdles some people face when it comes to affording adequate mental health services. However, there are a lot of resources out there…especially when you live close to a big city. A google search or even a call to a doctor’s office can help you find those resources.

“I tried that before and it didn’t help…”

Medications and therapists are not one-size-fits-all. You don’t go into a shoe store, try on one pair, and then give up on wearing shoes if that particular pair didn’t fit. You have to find a therapist, and when needed, a medication, that works for you. And sometimes, that takes trial and error. But finding the right fit…can be a game-changer.

“We’re not there yet.”

By “we”, do you mean “you”? Because if you are not the one suffering from the mental health symptoms, you shouldn’t be the only one deciding when it’s “bad enough” for someone else to receive outside help, even when that person is your child. Imagine drowning and watching a lifeguard on the shore shout to the onlookers-“He’s okay…he’s got this…he doesn’t need this floatation device yet”. What is the threshold for pursuing a treatment as benign as talking to someone? Why wait for them to go under before you call for help? What benefit do you suppose will be achieved by allowing someone to continue struggling with their head just barely above the water? And just suppose, you do…gasp go to a therapist pre-maturely…what is the detriment, as opposed to going too late? I beg of you, do not let your own pride, prevent you from seeking help for yourself or the ones you love. The risks simply do not out-weigh the benefits.

 

Many people avoid psychiatric services, for themselves or their loved ones, because they are afraid-either of the stigma or a diagnosis. Or because it involves work. The stigma ends with this, us, talking about it and normalizing it. Avoiding it only perpetuates the thing we all hate. While it is normal to grieve, to some degree, if/when a diagnosis is made- it’s important to remember that a diagnosis doesn’t create symptoms-the disease/disorder already existed, it merely has a name now. And having that name allows you to learn how to treat it and move forward. Lastly, becoming better at anything requires work. Digging shit up and working through it, recalling what is tormenting us and recognizing what our faults are and where we have err’d is hard! Growth is hard. Self-improvement is hard. But it’s worth it, to be our best selves.

 

I am sitting in a therapist’s waiting room again…2 1/2 hours…well spent…

Because I don’t have all the answers. Because while I am an expert in some things, I am not an expert in mental health. Because while my children talk to me and I, to my friends and husband, sometimes it helps to have someone else to talk to…an outsider, a professional. Because sometimes, life hands us a load that is too damn heavy to carry on our own.

Because just like pencils and erasers and two-pocket folders, I want my children to have all the tools they need to perform at their best. Because, just like the PT I get for my back, my heart and my mind too, need support and exercise. Because I want to normalize the healthy management of mental health so that one day, when I’m not around, my children, my loved ones, don’t ever hesitate to get the help they need; and so that, they in turn can continue to support others who find themselves in need of support. Because I want to be the best mom/foster mom, wife, nurse, writer, teacher, counselor that I can be. And because I’m not too proud to admit when I, we, need help.

 

 

 

 

 

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If Life Were More Like Video Games

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In the wake of National Video Game Day…

As a mother of an adolescent boy, I must confess I distain video games and virtual realities more than I care for them. The addiction and the violence associated with them is something that deeply concerns me. And the empty void that kids find themselves in when they play is frustrating. However, I also appreciate the art that goes into their creation and the fantastical escape that it can offer (when played in moderation). And the world is certainly moving in that virtual direction, whether we like it or not. Graphics are better than we could have ever imagined. Complex gaming systems and VRs are now readily found in most homes in the U.S. Disney’s newest top rides/experiences around the globe are based on virtual reality over animation. And whilst I do like old fashioned, outdoor play and adventure, if I’m truly honest with myself, I too- the screen-limiting, no-fun Mom, sacrificed quite a few middle of the night hours, in the 90s, trying to beat those pesky levels in Super Mario and Zelda.

So it had me reflecting today…

And I began comparing and marrying components of the video games I once so enjoyed playing, with the harsh realities of the world as I now know it.

And I thought…“What if life was more like video games?”

Despite the very obvious perks of cool suits (or skins as they say in Fortnite), amazing fantasy lands and kick-ass, unearthly abilities… video games come with even more practical advantages over real life… like instructions and an on/off button.

Real life doesn’t come with a manual- our instructions are based solely on who happens to be around us or what info we have access to at the time. None of us get more than one life. And the reset button, despite every best effort we might make, never erases our memory when we just want to start over.

I think of it like this: Birth-toddlerhood is like our pre-game. It’s gazing at the new gift, still in its wrapper and clicking it into the console, before anyone even picks up a controller. It’s that hopeful time, before any real skill is required or sense of defeat is experienced. It’s a place where we can just be. No matter our background, genetic predisposition, or how we came to be, our very existence is widely accepted because we are small and cute and innocent. The world smiles on us and we are embraced with open arms by virtually everyone who passes us by. Babies, like puppies, are loved by all. (And of course, it’s the one phase of our life that we have no memory of… go figure!)

But it doesn’t take long before that cuteness, that baby pudge, wears off and our genetic and environmental influences begin to surface. And at just about that time, we are dropped into our own reality with a pack strapped to our back… to explore, to learn, to conquer, to live… and to be judged. The world who once ogled and coddled us, gives us a swift smack on the back, as our game called “Life” begins.

Once we try out our legs and get a good look around, the first things we look for are instruction and tools. Only in life, there are no instruction boxes that pop up. And it’s not grappling hooks and sling shots that we look for in our packs, but coping skills, emotion management, social awareness, a sense of safety and security, and life skills.

And unlike the predetermined game settings, real life isn’t fair. We don’t all start with the same weapon and powerpack. Some people, because of their background and circumstance, have a lot of tools and they carry a full pack with many options. And others, hold a pack that is nearly empty. From the very beginning of the game, these players, lacking the tips and skills that others were gifted with from the start, feel slower and less inept. Life for them, is harder from the beginning.

But regardless of these disparities, we do all start at the same stage in life. No one gets to skip ahead a level without completing the one before it. Nor does our beginning determine our end. Each person, regardless of their start, will encounter different experiences along their journey- there will be treasures and challenges along everyone’s way. Every level has characters who are willing to help, if you can find them… and every level has a different villain. We all start with an empty score and a full life pack.

What is or isn’t in your pack, similarly, doesn’t seal your fate. Creativity and resourcefulness go a long way over gem stones and cross bows! And even those with no weapons at all, can run and hide in order to survive. But the point of the game isn’t to survive… it’s to win! And let’s be honest, it’s easier to fight a dragon with a sword then it is a toothpick. Those who started with a map, a compass, power bars and new boots are clearly at an advantage over those who have none.

When I look at the faces that walk through my hospitals doors and into the foster system, it is clear who had a full pack and who didn’t. Tackling your demons and conquering your fears, whilst certainly possible for us all, is much easier when you come into life carrying a tool box instead of an eviction notice. Winning at a game is easier to do when someone you know has already done it. Imagine trying to beat a game that no one else has played and no one wrote a manual for. Life is easier to win at when you have another winner to consult with.

I wish more people would realize that.

You know those opaque boxes that pop up above character’s heads in some games? Inside those boxes is typed basic information that the players would find useful as they navigate the game… a sort of character profile box.

What if, in real life, we had such an insight…

If above every person’s head, popped up a profile box with basic facts regarding our background/experiences, tools/weapons, energy level… alongside an image of ourselves- only instead of being pictured in our armor, we were pictured at our start.

How might that change the way we view other people’s worth and productivity?

If you knew someone came into the game with less, would you expect less? If you knew they lacked the tools to tackle their current predicament, might you stop to lend them one of yours? If you knew someone’s energy level was flashing red, would you go in for that last dig, or walk away and let them live? Would you feel as proud of the fortress you had built, knowing you started with an army and they with only a knife?

Would you use that information to eliminate disparity and to promote community? Or would you selfishly use it destroy faster and build bigger?

And what about that youthful image? The one without the armor… the happy, pudgy baby and the sweet, giggly toddler that the world stops to smile upon…

If when you passed by the damaged and aging bodies of our elderly, our homeless, our sick and addicted… you could see first-hand, that they were once young and healthy like you… If behind those sad eyes, you could see their once hopeful face as a child… Would you write them off so quickly? Would seeing them as someone’s “bundle of joy”, someone’s “congratulations,” someone’s baby… before trauma and illness and poor circumstance, before life, had a chance to create its influence, allow you to see them as a human instead of a burden?

How might knowing just a small piece of someone’s puzzle change the perceptions that we make at first glance? Would it create unwanted biases and nudge us to jump to preliminary conclusions? Or would it encourage us to see people from a different perspective and perhaps give them a little more grace?

Would knowing someone’s history, give us the courage to reach into our own tool box and find that patience, compassion, and understanding to meet them where they’re at?

Life isn’t a game. It’s a journey that has a start and a very clear end. It isn’t fair and it isn’t easy. But it also isn’t a void by which we lose our hours. It’s an investment wherein every step and every day matters.

And we don’t get fantastical lands or super-natural powers or convenient little info pop-ups. But we can pretend that we do. Just like we pretended as a child, that the backyard was a jungle or that we could fly…

So too we can pretend…

That everyone we meet is on their last energy bar. That maybe they came into the game empty-handed and that instead of a fight, they’re really just looking for a helping hand.

We can pretend that we’re not really looking to win by ourselves, but to win as a whole.

We can pretend that the thin and dirty face we see, was once a pudgy babe or a silly toddler who has now suffered insurmountable pain and is looking for respite.

We can pretend that a soul’s worth is not dependent on the body’s abilities.

We can pretend that our actions make a difference.

We can pretend that our lives belong not just to ourselves but are players in a much bigger scene and the talents we have are tools to make other lives better.

We can pretend that we are in fact super-hero’s in this life and we can be the treasured helpers hidden in various corners of the game, to offer other players a helping hand so that they might better succeed on their journey. 

We can pretend that this world is in fact fantastical in all it’s varied lands and that there are different lessons to be had in each, if we take the time to explore them.

We can pretend…

And sometimes… just sometimes… when we pretend… we are crazy enough to believe it.

If life were more like video games… 

 

 

 

 

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Finding Beauty in the Storms

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When I was a small child, I spent a fair amount of time in my grandparents’ residence, especially during summers it seemed. There, I learned about gardening, and how to make “Mimi’s iced tea,” and the freedom of running through the sprinkler in your underwear on a hot day. We ate homemade popsicles and sour grapes and ran around with our cousins until we collapsed on the cool ceramic floor.

The days were relaxed and easy and full of sunshine.

But sometimes, as summer afternoons seem to produce, a storm would roll through. And as the skies would darken, we’d run into the house to take shelter. You’d think that as young as we were, we’d be frightened by the storm. But Mimi would express her gratitude that the flowers and the plants were getting “a nice drink of water”. And when the thunder and the lightening would begin, and a thunderous clap would shake the house, my grandmother would shout, “Home Run!”. Yelling as loud as the thunder itself, her exclamation never gave us the opportunity to fear the startle that the thunder clap produced. “The angels are playing baseball” she’d tell us- likely her monotheistic version of Zeus and his thunderbolts, to ease our tiny nerves. She’d even call out their names “Nice one Gabriel! Whooohooo Michael is up to bat!” We were too busy imagining a celestial ballgame via my Mimi, the sports announcer, to fear the storm that was passing overhead.

Maybe that’s where it started.

Or maybe it was my father, scooping us up in his arms and running us outside, to watch under the shelter of our tiny porch, the “light show” of purple and white lightening bolts ricocheting across the dark skies. “Ooh! Ah! Look at that one!”, he’d comment on the weather phenomenon as if it were a fireworks display.

“You don’t think it’s scary Daddy?” A natural angst ran through our youthful veins as we stood outside, just out of the elements, in a powerful storm. “I think it’s beautiful” he’d say. And under his protective arms, our anxieties turned to excitement as we searched the sky for the glorious electrical surprises.

Maybe that’s when I learned to find beauty in the storms.

 

Those are amongst some of my earliest memories, before I was even school-age.

I feel like we tend to hold a special place for our early-childhood memories. The ones we have before reason and intuition and the awareness of life’s challenges become blaringly apparent to us. Memories, like secrets, tucked away in a treasure box and kept for safe keeping before the storms of life start rolling in.

And lord knows, the storms would be many.

Poverty, addiction, abuse, illness, divorce and death…like hurricanes raging through my life…with them came damage. That damage took years to repair and brought with it, the reflexive action to board myself up and hide; like a shore-side resident battening down the hatches before the storm hits. Only, I hid emotionally, not physically and the boards were nailed to my heart, not my home. Despite my early childhood lessons, I had forgotten how to look for beauty. I learned to be both afraid and numb at the same time. Negativity disguised as “realistic expectations” invaded my every view of the world; and I came to expect tragedy everywhere.

Every life encounters storms, some more than others. But no one is immune. Heartache and hard work, misfortune and tragedy rain down on everyone sometimes, regardless of your background and life choices. It’s what you do when those storms come and what lessons you choose to take away with you, that begins to define your character.

 

It took me years to see the beauty in my storms.

The beauty in poverty that is the drive to work hard and learned resourcefulness.

The beauty in pain that is perspective and an understanding of both humanity’s tragic weakness and tremendous strength.

The beauty in broken promises that is the opportunity to mend and then grow.

The beauty in ends, which yield new beginnings.

 

Beating rains both tear-down fragile plants and soften hard grounds.

Floods, whilst destructive, yield fertile soil if you take the opportunity to plant seeds in it.

Dark skies cool the air and make us appreciate clear ones even more.

And after the storm, despite the damage and debris, there is always a quiet and a sense of new beginning as the birds and small creatures venture back out of their nests. And small children find puddles to jump in.

 

I remember the first time my children witnessed neighborhood kids running and screaming when a thunderstorm rolled in. They watched with puzzled expressions, the cartoon-like antics of the panic-stricken children collecting their toys and scrambling inside. And they asked me, “Why are they acting like that?”

“Because some people are afraid of storms.” I said. I explained how storms can bring strong winds and how lightening can hurt you, and that we must find a safe place and exercise caution. “Or, maybe it’s the loud thunder that they don’t like,” I said…

“But my grandmother and your Pops used to say …” and I picked them up and took them to the front window, to sit on my lap and shout “Home Run!” while we watched the “light show”.

As a girl, (and still now), I prayed that every day be a sunny day. Under blue skies and puffy white clouds, I rolled in the green grass, hunted for bugs and hidden treasures and soaked in the warmth of the sun’s great rays. My soul remains invigorated by the energy that a warm summer day produces. And it is calmed by its quiet nights when crickets and peepers lull me to sleep.

Never do I look to the skies and ask for a storm to come. Never would I choose dark clouds over cotton-ball-white ones or beating rain over clear skies.

But when the storms do roll in, because they inevitably, always will… I am grateful for a child-like grandmother and a brave and understanding father, who taught me to find beauty in the storms.

 

 

 

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Water, Leaves, and Stones… a reflection on the ripple effects of both tragedy and goodness as witnessed by this nurse, teacher, grief worker and foster parent.

 

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There is an image that is used by many perinatal bereavement programs which is that of a green leaf floating on the surface of still water. It is an image that I see every time I do grief work and one that is taped to the hospital room doors of families who are experiencing tragedy. And when I do grief education, I take a minute to discuss that image and the symbolism that it represents. There are quite a few components to that image that hold significance; but the one component, in particular, that always stands out to me, are the subtle water ripples around the leaf. While we focus the majority of grief education on the immediate family, (and we should) … I sometimes think we neglect to mention the many ripple effects that grief has on the world around us. And while the leaf is a perfect choice for this image- as it represents premature loss; sometimes the idea of a cold, hard stone works better for me.

When a leaf first falls or a stone is tossed into a still pond, the break in the surface is a sudden and loud disruption. Those closest to the disruption, to the loss, feel its effects the strongest and the fastest. They are the ones standing at the edges of the hole that is created when the stone breaks through the water’s surface.

From that hole, from that initial impact, the effects continue to spread outward, from one circle to the next, ending in a seemingly remote place, the edges of the shoreline. There, far away from the inner circle, someone reads a story that was inspired by that person’s life or they receive the goods distributed by the charity that was created in that person’s name. Even subtler and further away still, are the ideas and the developing culture that is perpetuated by the feelings and ideas of the outer circles, like whispers into the ears of society telling us how we should feel or who/what was to blame. While these ripples are much quieter and much subtler than those closest to the loss, they are very much felt and very much have an effect on the world around us.

I have been touched by two types of loss that share similar ideas and feelings by society: Perinatal Loss (which encompasses any pregnancy loss or death of an infant close in timing to its birth-miscarriage, stillbirth, severe prematurity, genetic conditions or birth defects non-compatible with life and neonatal death) and Death by Suicide. Both types of death are largely considered “taboo” by society. When something becomes “taboo” it doesn’t occur with less frequency; in fact, both types of loss are much more tragically common than anyone realizes. But its occurrence is often ignored or mention of it avoided- either because one is afraid of “catching” it or because one is uncomfortable discussing it. And uneducated, often negative ideas and assumptions are often made.

While tragedy, I find, is not contagious, feelings of discomfort and negativity often are. This perpetuation of negativity/discomfort regarding both suicide and infant and fetal death leads to a lack of acknowledgment of the death by society and ultimately, isolation and complicated grief of those closest to the loss. Loneliness is an awful awful feeling. And then guilt and blame, the demonic twins of tragedy rear their ugly heads and they too feed into the tone of those quiet circles that move outward from the stone. Tones that encourage us to look away, to avoid, to think they must have done something wrong or missed something. Tones that allow us to feel that it only happens to them, not us.

Without even realizing it, the negative energy that is fed into those ripples perpetuates pain and it leads to the under-serving of those affected the greatest by that loss.

Through my journey as a bereaved loved one and my years of public service, I have come to realize that we all play some part in the circles of change.

And not all leaves and stones represent death.

As a mother, a teacher and a nurse, I know the effects that my words and actions have on my children, students, and patients. We all do. Because regardless of our backgrounds, we can all recall a time when we were taught, when we were raised and when we were ill or injured. And we can all recall how those various experiences and the people around us, made us feel- be it good or bad. Regardless of how many years tick by, we can still remember those people who helped to build us up and those who tore us down. And while a significant loss is known to make a strong and definite impact on our development of self, oftentimes it’s the seemingly smaller moments in life that too, become life-altering ones: The words of a mentor, the patience or annoyance of a teacher, the attention or dismissal of a caregiver, the confidence or chastisement of a parent… in the tiniest moments of life can cause large circles of influence on the human spirit.

In the few short months that my family and I have begun the journey of fostering, we have witnessed the most extraordinary effects on people that we could have never predicted. The stone of a child entering the foster system sent immediate ripple effects into the pool of our lives and our home. And in spite of some seemingly inevitable tones of judgment and isolation by people who don’t understand; we have seen more goodness, more understanding, more compassion, working their way into our circles, than we could have ever predicted.

We entered this journey to help children. Through direct affirmation, we can see children who have been immersed in ignorance and anger, now learning love because of our involvement. It is more beautiful and more affirming than we could have ever imagined. And they have changed us as much as we have changed them.

We are better people because we elected to stand by the edge and help catch that stone.

But as beautiful as that is, that’s not what surprised us the most. What has surprised us the most, are the effects that we’ve witnessed rippling further outwards from our experience:

The people who took no previous interest in foster care or adoption, who are now researching the requirements.

The people who previously only worked to save babies, who are now taking a step to save older children too.

The people who in their minds, so easily tossed foster children into the “Damaged” bin, who are now seeing the faces that we love with sweet endearment and compassion.

The parents, not of foster-children, but the parents of children who ‘don’t quite make the mark’ for removal- the parents who have not made their children a priority, who have sparked a sudden interest to do better and to be more present in the lives they created.

The workers collecting a paycheck, in an overwhelmed and inundated system, who have seen love and progress and healing and have been reminded that despite the burn-out and the endless cases, it is tiny human hearts that are on the line. And they have softened and bent in beautiful ways.

And much further away, with no credit to us at all… are the messages in recent movies (like “Instant Family” and “Shazam”) that feature top stars and foster kids presented in a loving manner; even a Sesame Street puppet, who shares perspective and teaches inclusion.

Because while negatively spreads, so does goodness. Good energy begets good energy and waves of change happen when we initiate it.

Though early in our journey, we have been shown that good people can make mistakes and sometimes it’s not our job to rescue them, as much as it is to assist and teach them. We would’ve adopted our first three foster children in a second… but we learned that our efforts were better served in teaching their parents and other foster parents how to love and support by example. A similar message to that of grief support… where we too can’t rescue the bereaved, but we can guide and support and love them.

And it doesn’t take a movie star or a PhD to do that.

I am no super-human. I was raised below the poverty line and I hold college debt that I will take into retirement. I am married to an immigrant and together we make a very middle-class income. We live in a small 3 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath home that faces the side of a gas station, just outside the lines of one of the murder capitals of the world. My children have learning differences and therapists. And when I’m not around said children, I love to curse….and I also love wine. But together, we play and we talk and we love one another endlessly… and despite our very small space and limited abilities, we are changing are the fucking world! Not on a Mother Theresa level, not on a Noble Peace Prize level… but on an everyday tragedy, everyday joyous celebration, every day pond-skipping-stones level.

The nurse in me is forever aware that we never know when our card is up.

The foster mom knows no one is immune.

The teacher knows everyone matters.

And the mother in me won’t let me quit.

And so the ridiculous ven diagram that is my life evolves and the circles just keep coming from my ever-evolving pond.

It is so easy to see and perpetuate the bad. The bad is real and it hurts and mustn’t be easily dismissed. We must acknowledge it and be patient and work through it. And we must accept that that pain will forever change us.

But we can’t dismiss the good either. It too must be acknowledged and then fed; because it too, forever changes us. Like the scars left on abused babies bodies and the ache of the empty arms of a mother, so are the seared imprints of love on their hearts when they are cradled by someone who cares. They will never forget that pain, but neither will they ever forget the love either.

The ripple effects, the rhythmic and vibrating circles of cause and effect, are one and the same. It’s the energy that we choose to add, that changes the direction of the tides.

What if instead of dismissing or jumping to conclusions, we took a moment to educate ourselves and to try to understand? Or even more, to love?

Like the untimely falling of leaves, or the misdirected toss of a stone, not every component of life is one that we get to choose, or one that we welcome. But when those waves of impact strike us, will we add to them judgment and misfortune? Or will we change those circles into life-long lessons of love and acceptance?

Through our words and actions, we can choose to perpetuate anger, distrust, aggression and judgment OR we can be the waves of peace, trust, love and understanding.

The choice is ours. Go make your own ripples. The world is waiting.

 

 

The leaf image discussed in this piece is credited to Gunderson RTS.

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Reading Cards and Reaching for Rainbows: If I could talk to my child self

 

A tarot-card reader once made me a proposition…

To do a silent reading, for this skeptic on a mission.

The results would be sealed for years, to prove its accuracy,

protecting fate from interruption and yet satisfying my curiosity.

 

I never took her up on it… for fear that I would cheat

and open the envelope for an illegal peek.

I was afraid I might change it, if I knew what my fate held…

Like the tampering with history or a misguided spell.

 

Still I wonder… Was this always the plan?

The choices and happenings, that built this lifespan…

Did they build the person? Or did the person built it?

Was the mold pre-determined? Or the pieces built to fit?

Did my life circumstances come to inspire?

Or was my discontent the fuel to my fire?

 

If I could go back and let that child know,

all that was to come, all she’d have to show…

Would she have slacked off and stopped working so hard?

Or was her life’s journey always in the cards?

 

Nevertheless, I wish I could’ve told her:

That the day would come, that someone would hold her,

someone would love her and treasure her gifts.

That she was the captain, not a piece of wood drift.

 

That intentional choices and decisions that were good,

would eventually bring the life that these things should.

But she’d have to be patient and be willing to roll

with a lot of life’s punches, many she can’t control.

 

That the nights as a child, spent lying awake,

wishing the world had sent some other fate…

Would grow into inspiration, to take a child in

and give them the world- a new chance to begin.

 

Life is not easy, but blessings must not be missed-

every chance, every encouragement, every time the soul’s kissed.

Like jewels in the rough, hidden in the darkest days,

are quiet, kind angels who will help you along the way.

 

They’ll give you small glimpses of how sweet it can be,

if you work hard, choose right and take the time to see

the beauty and blessings in all places- light and dark.

Seek to understand, judgements miss the mark.

 

And in your adolescence, the rebellion, emotions and rage,

the poor choices, screaming and feeling like being caged…

will give you the experience and the wisdom to guide

your own gorgeous kin, navigating life and their delicate, dark side.

 

College and four jobs, eighteen going on thirty-

will teach you how to work hard and not fear getting dirty.

You’ll be jealous of others and think it’s not fair.

But my darling, one day… you’ll reap more than your share.

 

Rich not in money, but in love and compassion,

your journey will be hard but driven by passion.

The world is in need of the talents you hold.

Love is the answer, not a heart that’s turned cold.

 

Many relationships, I’m afraid, will come and go.

And each one, holds a lesson that you will need to know.

And then you will choose to love a man twice your age,

scandal at the time, but a love that becomes a gauge.

 

For when your own children come into their self,

they will hold that marriage up like a treasure on a shelf.

And with their future partners, they will compare

the way they are treated, with the love that you share.

 

The bad break-ups and hard lessons, the mistakes and the losses-

merely sticky plaque, that building character soon flosses.

Boring you’d be, not experiencing these things,

You’d lack meaning and depth, a marionette hanging from strings.

 

And yet it is hard, living a life of hard knocks.

My god how it hurts, when yet another shoe drops;

But hard work pays off and rainbows follow storms.

You’ll make it into happiness and help redefine the “norms”.

 

And when you do, humble as it will be…

You’re job is to reach back and help others see:

That beauty and love forever exist

and the opportunity to help, should never be missed.

 

Pick your head up little girl, you’re stronger than you know,

Your fate lies not in cards but the way your heart grows.

Turn your pain into purpose and tears into dreams,

Now go make them happen, life’s sweeter than it now seems.

 

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Building A City Made of Sweets… a journey in love and fostering

He came to us in the late night hours…separated from his sibling in an emergency placement. It was only suppose to be for a few days. He was holding a small plastic bag and nothing else.

“What do you have in your bag?” we inquired gently.

“Just my chips from dinner….and this…” He held up a tiny, soft McDonalds toy…”I like to sleep with this.”

We showed him around the house and introduced him to all of our pets. Our own children were sleeping sound in their beds. “Are you tired?” we asked. It was late for such a small child to still be awake and I imagined my own children in melt-down mode at that age. And yet this little guy was as calm and pleasant as could be. But then again, regardless of the hour, how does one sleep when they find themselves entering a strange, new home with uncertain plans and an uncertain future? But he nodded his head “yes.”

We were in awe of his lack of apparent fear, a sign of the hard journey that he’d been on. We gave him some comfy clothes to sleep in and a new toothbrush. And he neatly set his shoes beside his bed. We left a trail of lights on throughout the house, leading to our bedroom, and we retreated so that our eyes could meet and our hearts could break in private. Together, my husband and I imagined our own two children being separated and taken into strange homes in the midnight hour. And our insides ached. I stared at the ceiling for nearly an hour, processing his journey and contemplating ours, before I finally went back to peek-in on him. He was sound asleep…his tiny toy cupped in his small hands.

With only a few hours of rest myself, I was up early the next morning, coffee in hand, ready to greet our newest member when he awoke. I could hear him and my son talking in their beds and it made me smile. And then I heard the door crack. His little self stepped out with a cautious grin, stopped in front of his door and gave me a cheery “Good morning!”, before coming to greet me.

 

The following three days were well-spent. A trip to the bank- where he got to press the button and shoot the money tube for the first time, the pet store- where we stopped to see every little creature and the grocery store where he picked out a special treat-mangoes! A few new outfits and lots of new experiences, everything for him was new and fun and we had the most wonderful time getting to know one another. We learned that he was a master joke teller, a great helper and an amazing optimist. Everything from him was “Thank you!” and “That’s ok!” and “This is fun!”. He was grateful for every experience, every plate of food and every moment shared. And his most favorite thing to do…was to play board games, especially Candy Land. So we played lots and lots of Candy Land.

 

By his third night, he began to inquire more about his younger sibling. Unbeknownst to him, I had been calling daily, to try and reach the other foster mom to arrange a play date, all to no avail. As a mother, I was shocked that this wasn’t of upmost priority to every party involved. And on one particular night, when I could sense his unrest, a memory from my youth popped into my head, like a flashback, triggered by his angst, I remembered my own anxiety-filled nights as a child and one way that I used to cope.

I crouched next to his bed and I said “Do you know what I used to do? Sometimes, when I was lying in bed at night, before I’d fall asleep, I would build a city made of sweets, in my head. And then, all night, I’d dream about it.”

He gave me a curious, tell-me-more kind of expression. So I continued…”The walls of my house would be chocolate bars, the stone path would be hard candies…the windows…hmmm…what could be the windows?”

His eyes lit up and I could see the gears beginning to turn in his mind…shifting from uncertain angst to excitement.

“What would the grass be?” he asked.

“Sprinkles!” my son pipped in. “Green sprinkles on chocolate icing.”

“And the street lights would be candy canes!” he exclaimed…and before you knew it, we’d built half the neighborhood. I left him in bed, to build the rest.

When he awoke the next morning, he came to me with a smile. “You were right! I dreamed about my candy city all night!”

“That was a good dream wasn’t it?” I said. And he nodded furiously.

 

It didn’t take long to realize that we had received the most perfect first foster placement imaginable. He was sweet and well mannered, easy to love and he came with the condition that this placement was temporary. With that expectation, we viewed this placement like a long sleepover, like a friend of my children’s coming to stay for a few days. It would be easier that way, not to get too attached.

 

And then three days turned into three weeks. And one child, became two.

Through a series of unfortunate events (though fortunate for us), his younger sibling was removed from his placement and we were granted a temporary, emergency over-ride to have both children in our home over Spring Break, even though our license was only for one.

 

On his brother’s first night with us, we found another set of comfy clothes, even smaller than the ones we found two weeks before. And we reminded him of the lay out of the house and where to find us. Then, I flipped on the small lamp in their bedroom before turning the other lights out.

“Is that light bright?” the tiny sibling asked.

“A little bit” I answered. “Do you like light when you sleep? Or do you like it to be dark?”

His brother answered for him, like big brothers often do…”He likes light. He’s afraid of the dark. The last house he was staying in didn’t use lights at night and he was afraid.”

“It was very dark” the little one chimed in and his eyes got very big when he spoke.

My heart hurt. “Who doesn’t leave a light on for such a small child?” I thought to myself. “Well in this house…we always have light.” I told him. And the symbolism didn’t escape me.

Despite his approval of the brightness of the room, as I went to tuck the two in bed, I could still see angst in the tiny one’s eyes. And so I sat beside him on his bed. And I said “Do you know what I like to think about before I go to sleep?…” and together his big brother and I taught him how to build ‘A City made of Sweets’.

His reaction the following morning was just like his brother’s.

 

Over the next week, we continued our adventures as a family of six now. They loved the chore of feeding the animals. They loved to sing and dance-particularly when I played music from their country-something no one had done for them since they’d been removed from their parents months before. They loved sandwiches. They loved the dogs. They loved all their new experiences. And they loved to talk and joke and spend time together as a family.

That family experience only heightened when we got the agency to approve of us taking the boys out of state to spend the Easter holiday with my sister. It would be their first holiday in placement and also happened to be their birthday week. So we wanted it to be an extra special time. And it was.

We went to the Zoo, packed a picnic, played Basketball, Frisbee…and board games of course! We had a birthday party, dyed eggs and made crafts. My sister’s family gifted them with stuffed toys and board games. The boys had a nerf war- and their minor disgruntlements over who had more darts was far over-weighed by the saturation of love.

On Easter Sunday, while the littlest foster and I walked together in search of treat-filled plastic eggs, he made reference to a conversation we had had earlier in the week, about spreading love. That conversation, which at the time, turned into a competition of “Who can say the sweetest thing?” had very clearly made an impression on the little boy.

“I have lots of good things to say,” he said. “I want to give love to the world…like you told me.”

“Oh, you have so much love to give the world…” I told him.

Clutching his bag full of eggs and nodding his head furiously, he looked up at me and said…”Yeah…and You taught me that…you did!”

 

Despite the clear expectation that this was a temporary placement, in those three weeks, we had fallen head-over-heels in love with those two boys. And they with us. And when the day came that they had to leave, (because our temporary “over-ride” was up and the boys needed a placement that could accommodate the state regulations for two), the devastation on their faces nearly broke me.

And for a moment, I questioned the very reason we started this journey in the first place.

We started this journey to be able to show children in need that normalcy and a home of love and joy exists- so that as they grew, they would know what they could achieve if they strived for it. And when I told those little faces that they were going to leave, it was as if I yanked an ice cream cone out of their hands and threw it away in front of them. Like after a lifetime of never experiencing chocolate, I gave them a taste and then took it away. And for a brief time, I questioned if by having them these past three weeks, we had made everything worse. If they had never tasted the sweetness of a loving, structured and supportive family, could they have been saved from the pain of now missing it? In giving them a gift that was destined to be taken away, did we only hurt them more?

But once the hurt settled a little, I began to remember the many sweet memories we made together, the new experiences and the lessons in love… the times they told me that they learned new things from me and the times I watched their uncertain angst melt into a relaxed feeling of safety. I felt affirmed that despite my own hardships growing up, I had in fact, created a happy home. While not a perfect Mom, I am a good one. And despite my earlier discouragements, three weeks of happiness was in fact, better than none.

 

While I settled them into the back seat of the social worker’s car… I kissed their faces and wiped their tears, holding back my own. “Take all the love and joy that we had here… and spread it wherever you go.” I told them. “That is your job. That is what you came here to learn. I want you to teach the world how to love.”

They pulled out of the drive, clutching their new stuffed toys- a red dino and a brown monkey. There was a duffle bag full of new clothes and shoes, two Easter baskets and a gift bag full of games- Chutes and Ladders, Uno, Trouble…and Candy Land.

I waved until the car was out of sight, stepped into the house… and my own liquid heartbreak ran down my face. But underneath that sadness, was a strong sense of hope.

That night, when I settled into bed, the first in three weeks, with only two children in my home, I pictured my other two lying in different beds. And I hoped that wherever they were… In their hearts, the seeds of love that we had planted were and would forever grow… and I hoped that in their heads… they were building A City Made of Sweets.

 

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Making room for Jaden

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect Jaden’s identity

The night started out like many other Saturday nights. I was at work, night shift on Labor and Delivery, when my cell phone began to buzz in my scrub pocket. It was almost 10pm and while I was only a few hours into my twelve-hour shift, it was late for the rest of the world. Peeking into my pocket, I could see that it was daughter calling. Every Mom knows the worry that comes with a late-night phone call and I anxiously stepped off the floor to take the call.

“Mom, I don’t know what to do…. I got a text from Jaden. He said he’s been out on the streets and hasn’t eaten or slept for 3 days. He feels like he’s gonna pass out… he needs a place to lay down.”

 

Jaden was an old friend of my daughter’s. He was a child that I had a compassionate eye on and one that I held a special place in my heart for, for many years prior. I knew that Jaden had a history of trauma and he was always the kid that you saw in the absence of his parents, no matter what event was happening. Whenever I could, I tried to include him.

I remember standing up to take his picture at an event one time and he later asked my daughter why I had done so.  “I don’t know,” was her childish response. But children don’t always see the world the way a mother does. Whilst the kids seemed unfettered, my inner Momma was screaming when I saw that little boy standing up in front of the crowd, holding his certificate and not a soul was standing to capture his moment. “Because every kid needs their picture taken today!” I wanted to say. “Because every kid needs someone to stand-up for them. Every kid needs someone to be proud.” That was the answer I wanted to give, but couldn’t. Instead I blinked back the tears and smiled, “Oh I just like taking pictures… I’ll give you a copy when I get them printed…do you want to sit here?”

As the years ticked by, his situation never improved. “I think my Mom wants to adopt you,” my daughter once told him. “Hmmph… I wish she would,” the quiet little boy mumbled. And as he got older and his traumas started to become evident even to my daughter, she told him, “You know Jaden… if you ever need anything, you can always come to us.”

He was a good kid. He got good grades. He was respectful, helpful and kind. He liked to joke and had the sweetest smile that warmed my soul. But behind that smile, there was pain in his eyes. A pain that he hid well from others. I wanted so badly to rescue him, to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. I wanted to love him like a Momma and not just in passing moments.

And then life situations happened and we lost contact with Jaden. Before that late August night, three years had passed since we had seen him last. His name would come up from time to time within our family and we wondered where he was and how he was doing.

So when that text came in, it was both an answer to prayers and a nightmare coming to fruition.

“Let him in,” I said without hesitation.

 

“Ummm… who’s going to talk to Dad?” my intuitive daughter inquired. (The fact that my husband was even still awake at this hour was a small miracle. Not to mention, that I’m the risk-taker of the family. I am the “rescuer”. My husband lives with much more caution and direct dedication to the people he calls his “own”. And he hates drama. This could be interesting.)

“Put him on the phone,” I told her.

I explained the situation to my husband, reminding him who this child was. “Bring him inside, feed him and then call me back,” were my instructions. And so they did. From inside the hospital walls, I conducted a plan. When my husband called me back, I spoke with the young man myself to confirm his situation. I explained to him that I’d have to call the police and he understood. From inside an empty patient room, I filed a police report and sent them to my home where my family and Jaden waited.

It felt like forever before my husband called me back again. And when he did, he explained that the police could find no ‘missing persons report’. “We have no recourse,” they said, “He can stay here as long as you guys are okay with it.” At this point it was almost 2 am. “Set Jaden up on the couch, put our daughter in our bed tonight and I’ll deal with this when I get home in the morning,” I told my husband. “You guys need to get some sleep.”

For the rest of my shift, my head spun.

 

Fostering was always something I was interested in. For years my husband and I talked about it and for years, my enthusiasm was met by my husband’s reluctance and caution. My husband has the most amazing ability to love that I have ever seen; but his practical concerns for his family’s safety and security and his own future, as an already not-so-young father of four, impeded him from taking that step. And yet for me, regardless of all practicality, from somewhere outside of my own self, something much bigger than me, was prompting me to take on another child- one who didn’t know the love that we had built inside our home, one who needed to catch a break, one who needed somebody who was willing to stand-up for them.

In fact, just a few weeks prior to Jaden’s surprise arrival, my husband and I had another discussion on the topic. I remember telling him, ” I respect that this is not something you are willing to do right now, but I need you to hear me… There is a drive inside of me to do this. It is strong. And I have been pushing it away and trying to ignore it for a long time now. I can’t do this without you, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep denying this feeling. I think there is someone we are supposed to save.”

 

So here I was, on an unusually quiet night in the hospital, consumed by my present situation. While I watched the monitors of new babies heart beats, my own heart was beating faster than before. A million questions and possibilities flooded my mind all at once. Was it safe to have Jaden in the house? I mean he seemed like a nice kid, but it’s been years since we’ve seen him and we know he has a long history of trauma. He is a teenager now and I have a beautiful teenage girl and a young vulnerable little boy. In my efforts to help this neglected youth, have I put my own family’s safety in jeopardy?

But then again, what if Jaden is the child I’ve been called to save? Perhaps because I’ve been ignoring those inner-promptings, the universe has decided “Look, you’re not listening to me… so here you go! Here’s your child!” My non-believing self began to wonder, if maybe, divine hands placed this child on my doorstep for a reason.

And what about my husband? Sure, he sounded understanding and cooperative in these initial moments, but what about tomorrow? What is our end game? If this is the child we are called to save, and he puts him back out, it will break me. But if I coerce him to do something he is uncomfortable with and a member of my family ends up getting hurt, it will break our marriage. All night my mind was clouded with every direction this could go. And inside those cement walls, I felt helpless as my family slept and the quiet of the night echoed my uncertainties. I turned to coworkers and asked for wisdom and prayers and I turned inward, asking for answers.

On my drive home that morning, my eyes welled with tears as I ruminated all the possibilities. In the wee hours of the morning, I had already spoken with a friend who was a social worker. They instructed me that my next step was to call Child Protective Services and to prepare an answer in the event that they asked me if we were willing to keep Jaden. Given the situation, they were sure, the case would meet criteria for “Child Neglect” and finding placement for a teen, a minority boy at that, would be a challenge to say the least. The system where we live is already inundated with kids with no homes.

So … for the first time in 20 years, I prayed. And my prayer was that the universe speak to me through my husband; that through his words and his wisdom, I would know what to do.

When I got home, I found only my daughter in the bed and I tried to prepare myself for my husband’s reaction by first talking to her.

“How did Daddy do last night?” I cautiously inquired.

“Fine,” was her nonchalant, teenage response.

“I mean how was he with Jaden? Did he seem upset?”

“No, he gave him a big hug. And when the cops had Jaden outside, while they talked to him, Daddy said “Well, maybe we’ll just adopt him.”

I stopped the joyful tears before they came and the skeptic that forever lives inside of me, silenced my celebration. My daughter, much like her like mother, is forever trying to save something or someone. And so I concluded, I must take her response with a grain of salt.

And then my husband entered and we excused our daughter. I explained to him that I had spoken with a social worker and what the next steps that we needed to take would be. I also explained a need to prepare an answer for the possibility that they asked us if we were willing to keep Jaden. “What should I tell them, if they ask?”

“What are you going to do-put him out, like everybody else?”, he responded, “There’s nothing else to do. We let him stay.”

“And what about the long-term?” I asked. “What if this isn’t just a day or two…then what?”

“Let’s do your thing” he said.

“What thing?”, the skeptic continued.

“You’ve been saying that there is someone who we’re suppose to save, maybe this is it.”

And my heart sung! But the skeptic kicked in for one last punch…”You know this is ludicrous!?” I told him. “We have a teenage daughter and this is an older, teenage boy with a bad history.”

Without being the least bit shook, he said, “I’m really not worried about it. I feel totally peaceful with him staying here.”

And there it was, the answer that I prayed for, straight from my husband’s lips and not a waver of uncertainty.

Our daughter had gone back to her own bed, our son still hadn’t awaken and Jaden was still fast asleep, mouth open on the couch. I’d later learn that he was a 6 am riser and the fact that he stayed knocked out until noon that day, confirmed his story was true, he’d been on the streets for a long time. He was tired. I told my husband that we’d have a family meeting when I woke up and I turned in to bed. As I pulled the sheets up to my neck, a single tear ran down my cheek and I looked up, “Well…that was fast.” I had my answer, now for the next step.

 

When I awoke that afternoon, so had Jaden. With my cup of coffee, I took the teen outside and we talked. I needed to know what had happened to land him here and what had happened in the years leading up to this. I needed to know if he was an unreported runaway or if he’d truly been “put-out” like he claimed. I needed to understand what I might be up against and I wondered what brought him to us. As much as I wanted to help him, I also had to consider the abilities and safety of my family.

Some things he answered honestly and easily, and others, he’d avert his eyes and say “I don’t really like to talk about it.” He was a child of trauma and the evidence of such oozed from every orifice.

By the end of our conversation, I learned that his story of abuse started as early as he could remember. That despite his lack of detail, his life, as predicted, had been riddled with abuse, neglect and loss. That he’d been fighting to not become the dysfunction that he’d been surrounded by. And that now, that fight had brought him to living on the streets. For twenty days, he walked and used his change for bus fare to reach his old familiar neighborhood where he house-hopped until he ended-up at ours. I told him that I’d do whatever I could to help him and that he was welcome to stay with us.

“You’d have to share a room with our son and it’s a small room. We have rules. And we don’t have much to offer in the way of space and fancy things…” “That’s okay”, he replied.

“But we do have a happy home and we do have fun,” I added.

“I’ll take it,” he said. And right then, I accepted Jaden as one of the family, just as he was, as my son.

I also explained to him that in order to protect us all and to do things the right way, I’d have to call CPS. He agreed to cooperate.

 

The story behind my experience with CPS is not one that I will elaborate much on, but I will say that it was both maddening and disheartening. The recommendations from CPS varied from “take him back home” to “work out an agreement with his family on your own terms” to “drop him off at the CPS office”. Instead we loved him and made him part of our home, hoping that the state would investigate, intervene and give us the graces to continue to care for him. After four days with us, Jaden was removed from our custody when his parents signed him over as a ward of the state and we were deemed “unfit” for no other reason than we did not have a foster license.

Four days … that’s it. I thought I was prepared for this foster thing. And yet we sobbed when he left.

That weekend, we used our grief as motivation and we started to prepare his room…we started to make room for Jaden.

Removing the carpet from my son’s room, the kids helped to pull the staples out of the wood floors. And my angst gave energy to my arms for polishing the floors. Boxes of belongings were packed up and sent to Goodwill to create more space. And furniture was moved around.

It became clear then, that our journey with fostering was not over, it was just beginning.

 

The first step in obtaining a foster license was to attend a mandatory 3-hour information session. In that session, they explained what would be required to obtain a license, what challenges you might encounter and the basic “do’s” and “don’ts” of foster care. To say that the information was overwhelming would be an understatement.

A typically resilient and zealous person, I sat there in silence and thought…”We can’t do this. This is too much! I’ve got four jobs and two other children-both of whom require a lot of me.”

I felt defeated and I wanted to cry. Consumed by my feelings, I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and make eye contact with my husband. For over an hour, I avoided his glance; because I was so sure he’d give me the confirmation that I didn’t want-that it was just going to be “too much” and that we were going to have to walk away. And I just didn’t want to see that same defeat in his eyes. I didn’t want to walk away but I didn’t know how we were going to do this either.

Finally, I braved the glance. I turned around and our eyes met. In a dirty state room, amongst a sea of people, a silent conversation of a lifetime took place in a few seconds between our two sets of eyes. “Defeat” wasn’t what his eyes spoke and yet he must have read the hesitancy in mine.

“We have to do this!” he said after a few silent moments, ” We are perfect for this. We have everything we need to make this work!”

And there again came the wisdom from my husband that I had prayed for. “Ok,” I said. My confidence instantly restored by his, “Let’s do this.”

Two nights a week for six weeks, we’d race home from work and after-school pick-ups to go to class. Still in our work clothes, oftentimes with our dinners in Tupperware, sitting on hard chairs in a sketchy room, in a state building in a rough end of town 40 min away from home, we’d attend 3-hour sessions on the horrors, challenges and needs of foster care. And every time my husband was energized and excited. We made friends. We learned. And we became even more impassioned to love another child.

On the last class, the instructor went around the room and asked everyone for their “one takeaway”. “I had no idea there were so many children who needed homes,” my husband offered. “I’m just really excited to be able to help some of them.” Another affirmation.

Three-hundred and seventy to be exact. Three-hundred and seventy children, the resource worker told us, who currently have no placements, no “home.”

 

As for Jaden, he maintained communication with us for the seven months it took us to meet all of the requirements to obtain a foster license-30 hours of classes, background checks and fingerprinting, home inspections and home revisions, interviews, references and applications. It wasn’t easy, but it was a journey that we continued to feel compelled to take.

By the time we finished, he was settled where he was. He was settled at his school, with his new friends and with his current foster parents. And he elected to maintain his current placement instead of coming back to us. It was hard at first, to say another good-bye to the little boy I committed to loving like my own. But Jaden’s happiness and safety was always the goal. It was never about me.

“I can never thank you guys enough for what you’ve done for me,” he said. “And you’ll always be my family. I’m ok here, I’m going to stay here. But you guys made me smile during a time in my life when I had nothing else to smile about. And I will always remember that.”

So why then did Jaden come? Why on that late August night did he knock on our door? Why did we go through all of this just for him to choose to stay somewhere else in the end?

As it turned out, Jaden wasn’t our end game. Yes, we had a hand in his reaching safety and happiness, but he wasn’t the only child we were suppose to save. As I thought about the journey that my husband took and how his reluctance turned to commitment, literally overnight, I realized, he needed a face to fight for. The idea of sacrificing for an imaginary child wasn’t in his realm of possibility; but fighting for Jaden was. I realized too, that had we known from the beginning, that Jaden wouldn’t come back, we wouldn’t have ever taken on the arduous seven month journey of getting a license. My husband’s world never would have been opened up to the great need of the children of our city, without those seven weeks of classes, without the stories and the statistics and the many, many faces like Jaden’s. And in turn, I wouldn’t have continued to fight without my husband to push me along.

Jaden wasn’t our destination, he was our catalyst – a catalyst for a journey I’d been called to take for a long time. And he was is a very special little boy, who opened up our world and pushed us to greater things. “You’ll always be family to me,” Jaden says.

You’ll always be our life-changer, Jaden.

And now with our well-earned license in hand, we wait…we wait for a placement… we wait for the universe to speak to us again and to send us the next child who needs our love- be it for four days, four months or forever.

Oh, what an adventure it is going to be… an adventure that all started when we decided to make room for Jaden.

 

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10 Things That You Love: Love and Loss … and Foster Care

 

In Foster Parent classes, there’s an exercise that they sometimes do. The instructor leading the class, hands everyone 10 blank cards. Then, they ask everyone to write on those cards, “The 10 things that you love the most”, the 10 things that are the most important to you or that you would want to have in your life. Individual people or pets should not be listed separately but would be grouped on single cards labeled “Family”, “Friends” or “Pets,” for instance. And basic life necessities like food, water, clothing need not be included. I engaged in this activity during one of our final classes…

“Whelp, family, friends and pets, there’s my first 3 cards”… I thought. I’ve got 7 more to fill in.

My “Home” seemed an obvious choice. And oh how I love my “Vacations/Traveling”. I suppose I want my job…and I’d like to have my “Car” too…hmmm this is going to be hard to choose only 10.

The room buzzed as people filled-in the various things that they loved the most. And you overheard people talk about their favorite activities, hobbies, life-focuses and family heirlooms. People started off more concrete, many with the same first three cards as I did; but as we continued, people began to think outside the box. And they began to write things like “Hope” or  “Faith” on their remaining cards. Until finally, everyone had 10 cards filled out in front of them. Our 10 most important things.

The instructor asked us to spread those cards out in front of us and look at them, think about them, imagine them. And she asked us how we felt, looking and thinking about those 10 things. Whatever they might be – our loved ones, our community, our favorite pastime, a sport, our puppy dogs and kitty cats… maybe even something as simple as chocolate – All of these things that bring our life significance and comfort and joy.

A quick glance around the room revealed only smiles. Those 10 little cards signified the 10 things, that we as individuals, held dearest in our lives. Remembering the people and the things that we treasured the most, made everyone feel happy… kind of day-dreamy, almost.

And then the instructor asked us to take away a card. We were shocked.

I mean if you had to narrow down all of the many things that you love/want/need, to only 10… those 10 things are precious! How could we chose which one to eliminate. Not having a car meant I’d be taking the bus to work. No vacations??? I’d be a mess! My hobbies??? But those keep me sane and they bring me so much joy!

One card gone. And the mood of the room completely changed. The smiles were all gone and had been replaced with furrowed brows and looks of concern. They asked us to imagine our life now, without that thing. And it hurt.

And then they asked us to take away another.

“That’s preposterous!” we thought. Another one from the remaining 9 things we held closest to our hearts?! Shaking our heads, we removed another card. Once again, imagining our lives without it.

And then we had to take away another.

And another.

And another.

Each time, being asked to imagine our lives without that thing. And by that point, our initial feelings of concern, had turned to anger and feelings of unfairness and disbelief. In a few short minutes, the entire room’s mood had turned upside-down. How can you ask me, from the 10 things I love the most, to eliminate half?! We felt robbed!

Down to 5 now…and they asked us to take away another.

A room full of adults doing a simple exercise, and at this point, people were half-threatening to get up and leave. Others, said they were refusing to eliminate any more. Some laughed nervously and others sat in saddened silence; everyone finding it impossibly hard to eliminate any one of our top 5 things of importance. And while we continued along with the exercise, knowing full well, that it was just that; when asked to imagine, once again, “How that would feel?”, the fear of those losses began to induce feelings of panic within us. And we began to pray that the forced choices and the losses, while only imagined, would stop.

But the exercise continued until we were down to only one card.

The room was sullen. No more laughs. No more jokes or empty threats. We had been stripped of just about everything that we held dear.

“How do you feel now?” she asked. “Devastated” was the best word we could think of.

They then went around the room and asked everyone to share what their last remaining card was. For most, it was “Family”. And others sacrificed even that, for a virtue like “Hope” or “Faith”.

And after everyone had read their last card out loud, she said….

“Many of our foster children don’t even have that left.”

They’ve lost their homes, their schools, their friends, pets and family. Faith, Hope and Love are on their way out too. However dysfunctional their environment might have been, they have lost everything that was familiar and meaningful to them. And in the amount of time that it took you to complete this exercise, they were told to take whatever they could and throw it in a garbage bag. Then, they were dropped off at a stranger’s doorstep.

“The feelings that you had during this exercise,” she said, “the confusion, the anger, the panic and the sadness… remember those feelings when you get that knock on the door and you open your home to a foster child. And remember, that whatever you have left on that remaining card in front of you…you had a choice in and it’s STILL probably more than what they have left.”

 

Life is a series of circumstances, actions and reactions. We don’t get to choose to whom we are born and we don’t get a say in our genetic make-up. But we do have choices. What will you do with your choices? If you were born with a hand above others, will you choose to reach back and give someone else a lift? Or will you selfishly climb ahead and not look back? If you are at the bottom of the line, will you give-up and let your family’s history be your predetermined future? Or will you push harder to grasp whatever edge, whatever foothold can withstand the weight and pull yourself to the top? We can’t always control what obstacles, what loose rocks, come crumbling and spiraling towards us… but we can choose how we react and who we opt to continue our journey with. Life is a journey and an adventure! Take it! And make it a good one!

Interested in fostering? An internet search of the process in your state and county will yield a schedule of available classes-times and locations, as well as requirements. You’ll start with the info session and go from there. It’s not for the faint of heart but I do believe it is one of the greatest acts of love.

Keep loving. Keep growing. Keep striving to be the best damn person you can be. Life is short… May your blessings be bountiful and your regrets few.

 

 

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Ash and Red Satin….That February

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February is for lovers… Red Roses and “I love you”s.

It was today, February 1st, 22 years ago, when my father came running through the door with a panicked look I rarely saw on his typically unfettered face.

“Where’s your mother?” He was out of breath.

She had left to go pick up my little sister. It was just me … and Dad.

I don’t know if it was pain or shock, fear or a sickening confirmation of what we’d already thought (but not yet said out loud), that I saw in his eyes that day. But I can still see them, as I looked up at him in the dimly lit room, that February afternoon.

His face should have been flushed from the run but instead it was ashen.

“They found your brother. He’s … dead. He’s dead honey.”

My Dad held me and we cried for just a few short minutes and then I wiped my tears and said, “We have a lot to do.” I put my grief in my back pocket and started making the list for phone calls. It would be a long time before I really cried.

We had all thought it. He’d been missing for 10 days. We knew he was ill. We knew it was winter. We knew 10 days was a long time.

But he was a wanderer. He was untethered. And he blew where the wind took him, or the booze. Inside all of us was the hope that he’d wander back, with his sheepish grin and his black boots and chains and a quiet “I’m sorry”. And for both him and us, we wanted another chance… another hug… another “I love you.” Our hearts yearned for more time and our souls pleaded for another chance to help him.

But time and chances run out and so does luck. We buried my brother two weeks before his 18th birthday- his birth and death dates in the same month. Death by suicide, complicated by a high blood-alcohol level and a history of mental illness.

And I was forever changed.

Loss affects us all, no matter what age we are when we experience that loss. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something about experiencing a significant loss during that most vulnerable time in life, when you are old enough to understand it but before you’re mature enough to handle it, that makes a particularly profound impact on your sense of self. Like disturbing a cake when it’s no longer batter but before it’s cooked solid, do the shock waves of loss alter how you develop and who you become? The surface of my heart, lumpy now and tough in spots, tells the story of those waves and my journey in pain. Would it have been different if I had been older, or younger even? Or am I just searching for significance again?

When I learned more of my brother’s reports of psychiatric symptoms, I developed a passion and preoccupation with Mental Health. I wanted to understand and I wanted to help. Addiction too. The crazies and the addicts weren’t scary people to me…they were my brother. The geeks and the outcasts, the artists and the freaks, were endearing to me. I hated the straight-laced, popular kids and those who belittled others. I gained appreciation for oddities and a new life perspective.

But not all of my change was gain. I also lost. I lost my faith. I lost my way. And I lost friends. With his death and a crumbling structure at home, I came to learn that nothing in life was safe or predictable. Confirmed by my own fears coming to fruition and in avoidance of false hope and disappointment, I came to always expect the worst. I disdain regret. I am afraid of missed opportunities. And hope is a slippery ideal that I struggle to keep a gripe on. I learned at 14 years of age that the worst case scenario happens…and sometimes it happens to me. Prayers don’t always save people and not everyone will understand or accept your baggage.

Prior to my brother’s death, I had already come to acquire some pretty hefty emotional armor. And after it, I carried around a fucking axe and bayonet.

Some viewed me as “resilient” and others as “hardened.” It was just self-preservation. And until I found myself a safe relationship where I could finally be vulnerable and let my guard down, I rarely cried. And new losses got packed away in all the rest of my shitty-ass boxes.

But I did come out on the other side. I did survive. And now, I am conquering.

While I will forever live with the pain and regret of not being able to save my brother, I’ll be damned if I don’t go down fighting for others. I learned, through his death, that you can’t save them all, but you certainly can try. At the very least, I can try to understand others and meet them where they are- however “damaged”, however “hopeless”, however “unsalvageable” they might seem.

The ground was frozen the day we buried him. Red roses covered his casket-his favorite flower. Interspersed amongst the grandparents and cousins, coworkers and conservatives, were a gangly group of teens trying to grieve. Blue mohawks and shaved heads, chains and black boots, gathered around the casket after the family, but before it was lowered, to “have one last smoke.” And they tossed their cigarette butts into the red petals.

I think about that image sometimes, ash on red satin, and the symbolism that it holds. Beauty in death, endings and new beginnings, significance in loss, finding a way to grieve, burning pain and imperfections, scars. And my journey makes even more sense.

That February I learned how to stand in a funeral line. I learned how to smile and pretend that I was okay. I learned that everyone grieves differently. And I learned the fragility of life and the human spirit. The other lessons came later.

If February is for lovers than this February I challenge you, while you’re out picking up that bouquet and box of chocolates, to remember that love isn’t always romance and it isn’t always perfect. Love is accepting the human spirit and embracing it wherever it is. This month, reach out to someone who might be hurting. Smile at the outcasts. Stop and lend someone a hand. Check-in with that person that you know might be struggling. Make a call you’ve been avoiding.

As you live your busy life, someone around you is making a plan to end it. Someone is misunderstood. Someone is hurting behind the facade of their smile. And someone just said a very hard good-bye. You may very well never know who those people are, be kind anyways.

As I walked away from his grave, my feet crunched in the frozen grass. My head hung low and despite the crowd, I never felt so alone. Like the rose petals, on the satin surface of my heart, red-hot ash slowly burned a hole. A hole that could never be filled- like pulling a candle out of a birthday cake that would never be made. Burns always leave a scar.

Submersed now, in safety and love, the edges have healed and it no longer bleeds when you touch it. But every February, every holiday, every life event… it still throbs… to remind me to continue loving until the candles are all blown out and the petals are lowered into the ground.

 

 

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Déjà vu

Déjà vu : a feeling of recollection, a common intuitive experience, derived from the French meaning “already seen.”

Have you ever had a moment that you feel you’ve lived before?

I have…

And not just those weird random moments that pop up when you least expect them and you feel like “I’ve been here before” …

I’ve had that too, but I’m talking about a different kind of déjà vu, I’m talking about the return of a feeling brought on by the experience of someone else.

As a mother, I most often experience those feelings through the faces of my children.

Their pride, when they’ve made good grades or created something beautiful …

Their disappointment, when life doesn’t go as they expected …

Their simple excitement, when Mommy loses her mind and buys boxed Mac n cheese or sugary cereal …

Sadness with loss, Joy with positive gain, Frustration with difficulties not easily repaired.

Being a mother, is like walking down a familiar street, only the storefronts have changed and there’s lead in my boots – like I know where I need to go, but things are different and navigating is somehow harder. The price I pay for a wrong turn seems more costly now too.

Being a mother is like Déjà vu … only instead of living it, I’m watching it backwards, from inside a mirror.

But then again, you really don’t need to be a mother to recognize a felt experience through another human being. You just need to make the effort.

Holding on to memories is something that comes easily to me. Sometimes, it serves me well, filling my mind with pleasant thoughts and moments I like to revisit. And other times, my memories haunt me like a bad dream. Either way, when I take a moment, I can feel those memories as if I were there again. Whether they soothe and comfort or insight anger and anxiety, my past has left me with both good feelings and bad, beautiful tradition and reason to change. And when my children find those same feelings, watching them navigate them, brings me right back.

I remember the excitement and anticipation of cracking open a new board game and sitting down to play with my family. I remember how special it felt when an adult would play with us. My Dad was really good at playing games with us. We had a bunch of really cool board games that you can’t even find anymore. He even made a few himself. He taught us how to play cards too-poker and spades. I was so young when we started that my little fingers couldn’t even hold my whole hand. So he’d accommodate me by letting me sit at the bench that ran along the back of the table by myself so that I could lay my cards down there. We’d play for hours. And we continued to do so until we were grown.

I can feel that sense of specialness in the sly smiles of my children and that subtle little butt-wiggle that they do when they settle into their seats, about to do something fun. And it’s my own recollection of that excitement that energizes me when I really just want to sit and relax. Feeling their excitement reminds me of how good it feels to anticipate fun.

I remember the feeling of disappointment, holding that box and asking someone to play or getting an invite and asking for a ride and being told “No, I’m in the middle of something right now”, or, “I need time to myself right now.” I wasn’t a child who got invited out a whole lot, so those opportunities to play, those invitations to socialize felt like gold to me. And I remember that rejection made me feel not important. After lots of moments of not feeling important, that disappointment began to transform into burning resentment.

So when my children come to me and ask to play or ask for a ride, while it can’t always be “Yes” at that very moment, I do try to find a way; because I recognize that familiar eagerness in their eyes and the importance of participating in something that is meaningful to them. And when my ‘tired mom-self’ remembers her ‘wanting to belong child-self’, I usually find a way to make it happen. Between the sweetness of the play and the bitterness of the “No, Mom needs some time to herself,” I choose the sweetness, because as clear as I remember the joy, I also remember the pain.

I’ve experienced more loss in my life than I even care to tally. And those losses have been equally spread throughout my years. But it’s the losses I experienced as a youth, that still leave the deepest scars. Sometimes adults become very self-consumed when they are in grief and they forget that children too, grieve. Adults have it hard because they have to function and produce despite their hardships. But children have it hard too, because they don’t have mature counterparts to guide them through their grief. They don’t get flowers from co-workers or friends that call if they need to talk, and even if they did, they often don’t have the maturity to take advantage of that gift. Be it the death of a person or the death of a relationship, children often feel lost when there is a loss. I know I did- when we lost my uncle, my brother, our home, when my parents divorced, when my family was split and living in different houses…the list continues. Great-grandparents and extended family members were too far down the list to even make the cut for my childhood losses.

My children’s most significant loss was the death of their great-grandmother. I saw my daughter’s sadness the most in her drawings and her unpredictable outbursts. When I’d try to talk to her face-to-face, she could never open up. And that longing to be acknowledged, yet uncomfortable reluctance to be vulnerable, felt familiar to me. So I bought her walkie-talkies and strapped one to my pants. And I’ll be damned if in the middle of my household chores, a little voice hiding in her closet didn’t come through the speaker, “Mommy, I miss Mimi.” Like, déjà vu but backwards … cuz when I was hiding in my closet, I didn’t have a walkie-talkie or someone who I thought could listen.

I remember the angst in not having birthday parties, or even friends over, because it was “too expensive” and “too stressful”. That angst and my natural drive to create fellowship as well as creative expression, drives me to spend weeks creating the most intricate, thematic parties I could dream up. And has allowed my home to become the “hub” for children to hang-out at. Because I hated feeling alone.

Not déjà vu, but running from it maybe?

But while we didn’t have much in the way of birthday parties, my Mom did bake our birthday cake every year. We weren’t allowed in the kitchen while she was preparing it, to preserve the element of surprise. And when I close my eyes, I can still see the darkened room and the lighted candles and I can feel that satisfying and warm sense of pride and love that came with watching my Mom carry her creation from the kitchen- a cake that I knew she had spent hours making just for me.

On busy birthdays, my husband will often suggest, “Why don’t you just buy a cake this year?” … “I can’t”, I say. I can buy the decorations and the goody bags and the even the cookies, but not the cake. Because it’s the same pride and love blazing in my children’s eyes when they see me enter the room with their cake and lighted candles that drives me to create, year after year. And together we suck the icing off the candles like the sweet taste of déjà vu.

When my daughter comes running to me, crying about a boy… I feel that sharp, stabbing pain that comes with young love. And I try to say to her, what I wished someone had told me. Maybe it would have saved me?…Or maybe it’s just me, trying to soothe my own ache…rub away my own déjà vu.

And when she comes home with ridiculously long fake nails, that look like claws, or way too much make-up, it takes a minute longer for the surprise to wear off and the old remembered feelings to kick in, but eventually they do. And I feel what it’s like to try to bridge that gap between being a girl and a woman, when so much of your sense of worth is tied to your looks. Life as a teenager was all about selfish excess, I remember.

When my son is being bullied, ’cause he’s small or not tough enough, the hateful rejection from the rich, snobby-ass kids in my childhood school, comes searing back like a big ‘ol “You’re not good enough” smack in the face. And after I bang out the e-mail to the principle, I wipe away that single, not-good-enough tear from my own eye, along with his. That painful sting of déjà vu.

It’s the squirmy, uncomfortable feeling of sex education that I saw in my own babes that made me want to squirm too, but also drove me to run in a different direction. And instead of an awkward, one way, face to face instructional, we took a really long and animated walk in which my arms became fallopian tubes and ejaculation looked like a rocket ship and consent and pleasure carried just as much weight as procreation. Another episode of déjà vu, dodged.

I know that I’m a good Mom, these times I have done well. But there are many more times that I struggle to empathize with my children’s hardships, because their lives are so very different than mine was. The old “You kids don’t even know “hard!” tends to come out more than I’d like. Their stressors, their fears are on such a different scale than mine were at their ages. And it’s hard not to roll my eyes when they’re crying about a luxury that I wouldn’t have even dreamed of.

But if I take a moment and I try to remember, those old memories packed with old feelings, come rushing back all over again. And it’s those emotion-filled memories that have both fueled me to continue loved traditions and practices and to change the things that hurt me; using my history to learn and create caution instead of repetition and taking every opportunity I can to gain perspective.

But am I too accommodating? Am I making them too soft? Are household chores, rules with consequences and hard-knocks at school enough to prepare them for life, if Mommy is always there to wipe their tears and home is always secure. These are the thoughts that people who have grown up hard and fast have.

Despite my concerns, frustrations and episodes of apathy, I am reminded that this is exactly the life I wanted for them. This is what I worked for. My life experiences gave me the wisdom and the inertia to make this journey, right here, like this, so that they would have a different life. And life is hard enough, home doesn’t have to be.

According to Psychology today, déjà vu “involves having that feeling of knowing in a situation in which you are experiencing something totally new.” My children’s lives are something new. They are not mine. My recollections, my feelings, those may feel like something lived before, but what’s happening right now, is totally new. Déjà vu can’t claim that. Despite both the sweet similarities and the traumatic flash-backs, despite genetics and behavioral cycles, this life is new. And there’s something about that, that lessens the amounts of lead in my boots.

With a whole lot of hard work, and a little luck…I’m living a fucking fairytale…a slightly fractured, little bit bumpy, imperfectly perfect tale…but a fairytale nonetheless. And there’s nothing déjà vu about that…but then again, I never really liked that feeling of déjà vu anyway, it was always a little bit unsettling.