Are we there yet?

We’re coming upon the final days of 2013…and for us, the year can’t end fast enough.  You know how people write Christmas letters, recapping the important events of the previous year?  I actually like reading them and in the past have considered writing one.  But I never can seem to get around to it and this year…well, it’d be one downer of a letter.  “Hi there, friends and family!  This year was roller coaster of tears and frustrations; let us share the details. (Insert laundry list of struggles here.)  Merry Christmas!”

Not that everything in this year was sad or disappointing—it wasn't.  We took a trip to California in August to visit family and that was definitely the highlight of these past twelve months.  It was the happy thought that propelled us through a year where I developed plantar fasciitis and then threw my back out.  A year where my uncle passed away suddenly from a heart attack a few weeks before our planned visit.  And a year of trying to have a baby and failing three times in a row.  Three positive pregnancy tests followed by three “I’m so sorry’s.”  So yes, we’re ready to leave 2013 behind and move ahead into 2014.

But then again, in the midst of our repeated heartache we have been the recipients of so much love and support.  It’s almost overwhelming at times—in the best possible way.  So many kind words, so many cards, so many encouraging Facebook posts, so many kind gestures, so many comforting hugs and tears of understanding. Because yes, this past year has been very, very hard.  But even in the hard, God’s grace has been there.  Giving us humor in the middle of medical mayhem.  Ordering events so that even the most difficult things happened in the best manner possible.  Caring doctors, amazing coworkers, the prayers of so many creating around us a bubble of peace to ease the transition from joy to sorrow, from expectation to loss. 

And in addition to all of the comforts listed above, we have an amazing three year old little boy.  Who yes, is testing boundaries and rehearsing often what it means to obey.  But even at three years old, he has such a tender heart.  He’s now witnessed me crying on multiple occasions.  Every time, he asks if/why I’m sad and then tries to cheer me up. 

“Mama, are you sad?”

“Yes, I’m sad.”

“Mama, I love you.”

“I love you too, Sweetie.”

(Runs up and gives me a big hug)  “You happy now?” 

And then there are our conversations in the car.  They range from funny (baby tummies vs. food tummies) to tedious (“Why? Why? Why? Why?”) to truly profound.  The latest in this series of car-chats was this past Monday.  I had gone in for an ultrasound that afternoon and that’s when we learned that there was no heartbeat.  Again.  So after pulling ourselves together a bit in the parking lot of my doctor’s office, I drove over to pick up Grant from his Aunt Kiki’s house.  I had my wits about me as I gathered him up and got him into the car.  My brother took time to give me a hug and fill up one of my tires with air (it was soft and of course he noticed and I didn't.)  But as I pulled onto the road to head home, the tears came again.  And of course CB (my son’s blog nickname) heard me sniffling and started to ask questions.

CB:   Mama? You have a 'tuffy nose? Are you sad?
Me:   Yes, Sweetie--Mommy is sad.
CB:   Why you sad?
Me:   (Ok, how to explain this…) Because the baby in my tummy won't be coming out; it had to go right to heaven to be with Jesus.
CB:   But why does the baby have to go in heaven?
Me:  I don't know, Sweetie--that's a really, REALLY good question.
CB:   I know! I fink that God wants the baby to be in heaven with Him instead.
Me:  I think you might be right about that.
CB:  Yeah--and the baby will grow up in heaven and get big there with God but not here.
Me:  Yes, I think so.
CB:  (starts to sing) "Jesus loves me, this I know! For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, they are weak but he is stwong! Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so." Mama--you happy now?
Me:  I'm happy to be your Mama. Thank you for singing to me, Sweetie.

I was blown away.  Such sweet words, such matter-of-fact faith from one so little!  I made it through the rest of the car ride, arrived home and began making a variety of phone calls, trying to figure out what to do next.  Later that night I lay awake, my brain churning when CB came into our room and crawled into our bed.  I lay there and listened to him breathe as I tried in vain to calm my thoughts and get some rest.  Finally, at 3 a.m. I started to sob.  Tears flowing, chest heaving while I cried out in prayer, “Lord--this hurts so much!  It happened again—AGAIN!  I don’t want another baby with you—I want my baby here with me.  Why?  Why can’t my baby stay here with me?” 

I had no sooner finished speaking these words in my heart when CB rolled over to snuggle right up next to me and said “Mama?  It’s OK, Mama.”  Then he went right back to the restful, even breathing of sleep.  The sobs stopped as I realized that I’d been given a Divine hug via a sleeping child.  My sleeping child.  I am not forgotten.  I am not forsaken.  I am hurting and sad and disappointed but not despairing.  I don’t walk this path alone.  God’s grace surrounds me.  He has promised that all things work together for my good—even the hard, hurtful things.  He has surrounded me with a host of caring, compassionate people—what a blessing they have been!  And He has allowed me to be the Mama of this precious little boy.  A boy who has been a comfort to us from the womb.  It was his birth that brought hope and joy into another year filled with tears and loss.  Within the span of two months I lost my Bestemor (grandmother) and UB lost his father to cancer.  It was a whirlwind of grief and change.  But we had a little boy to look forward to; every holiday that year was our first without Dad and Bestemor but it was our first with CB.  This past summer as my California family grieved the loss of my uncle, CB’s playful curiosity and animated conversation brightened their days and left them with precious memories of our time spent together. Then and now, he’s our little silver lining. 

So here, at the end of 2013 we pause—to heal, to search for answers, and look toward the future.  Together with family and friends we will celebrate the birth of our Savior…the baby called Wonderful, Counselor, the Prince of Peace.  And oh, how we need His counsel and His peace!  Merry Christmas, friends.

And happy New Year. 

That's not funny! Oh, wait...yes, it is...

My friend recently shared this photo on her Facebook timeline:

I love it!  So true.

My family is gifted in the laughter department.  When UB and I were dating, he said to me “Your family laughs a lot!  Like, all the time.”  I thought this was such an odd observation—doesn’t everyone’s family laugh a lot?  Um, no.  They don’t. 

But mine does—we laugh in good times, we laugh in bad times, and we laugh at inappropriate times. And I am so very thankful.  Well, maybe not so much for the inappropriate laughter.  That can be a bit of a challenge, especially when you try to suppress it which of course makes things even funnier and then you find yourself shaking, abs hurting, trying to get a hold of yourself so you don’t completely embarrass your appropriately-serious father.  Because snickering and snorting during a 9/11 Memorial Service is so not appropriate. 

It wasn’t my fault!  It was my mom’s—she started it and since I was sitting next to her, I got sucked in.  This wasn’t a recent event—oh, no.  This was a service that took place about one month after 9-11 took place.  The country was still reeling from the shock, rubble still filled the streets of New York City, and the incredible sacrifice and heroism of the 1^st responders was on everyone’s mind.  So a ceremony was held at our Town Hall to celebrate our 1^st responders and remember the sacrifices of those in NYC. 

This was an extremely solemn event, during which they had a dove release; a beautiful symbol of peace.  Shortly after the birds took flight, there was a 21-gun salute, which if you’ve never heard is pretty impressive.  Any idea where this is going?  As the 21-gun salute went on, Mom put her head down and started to shake slightly.  I leaned in and asked what was wrong, but she just shook her head.  She started to shake a bit more noticeably, and I knew she was trying to suppress laughter but had no idea what she found so funny.  So I asked again and she whispered:

“I hope the doves are out of range!” 

Maybe it doesn’t seem so funny now, and we both know they were shooting blanks, but at the time, the thought of one of the doves soaring gracefully then BAM plummeting to the ground…so much for that bit of symbolism! Oh, my word.  That’s when I learned that the only thing worse than trying to suppress inappropriate laughter is trying to suppress shared inappropriate laughter.  There we were, both of us with heads down, hands over our mouths, shaking, trying desperately to look like we were moved to tears by the solemnity of it all.  It didn’t work.  Dad kept whispering “Knock it OFF, you two!”  while trying to scoot his chair over to put some distance between us.  Eventually we pulled it together in time to stand and sing the final patriotic hymn, our cheeks and abs sore from the repressive effort. 

It probably doesn’t help that my family loves to watch stand-up comedians. Brian Regan is one of our go-to guys.  His bit about going to the emergency room is a particular favorite.  I can’t tell you how much it has helped to be able to laugh in the midst of medical crisis. But then there are times when one of his sketches will pop into my mind at the most inconvenient times.  Like the one about shopping for refrigerators. (If you haven't seen it before, click here to watch. It’s really funny and what’s below will make much more sense to you.)

It’s totally fine when we’re shopping at Sears or Lowes and we pass the appliance department.  We actually bought a refrigerator a few years back and had a grand time of it, thanks to our pal Brian. 

But it’s not so good when we’re in the funeral home.  We were there meeting with the Funeral Director to make arrangements for my father-in-law.  Dad had been fighting lung cancer for about nine months when some sort of infection caught hold of his weakened immune system.  He died suddenly, the day before my birthday, when I was five months pregnant with Grant. 

Anyway, there I was with UB’s family as they scheduled the calling hours, chose the  prayer card design and the prayer card poem, etc.  Then it was time to choose the casket.  The Funeral Director pulled out this sizable catalog and began to show us various casket options.  I had no idea there were so many choices and such a wide range of prices—from wicker caskets (oh yes—wicker) all the way up to hermetically-sealed, ornate pieces of art with copious scroll work and satin lining.  And as he’s explaining the different options, all I can think is:

“This casket right here, this holds your loved one’s remains for $1200.  You’ve got this casket; this one holds your loved one’s remains for $2500.  Check this out: $5500—holds your loved one’s remains.” 

Oh. My. Word.  It was all I could do to hold it together and not snicker as we are looking through this catalog.  If it had been my family at that table, at least two of us would’ve started quoting that bit at the same time and we’d have all devolved into a shared fit of inappropriate laughter.  But this was UB’s family.  Not that they don’t laugh at things—his family has their own traditions of laughing at bodily functions and discussing them at the dinner table.  UB’s dad had a terrific sense of humor, and had he been there he would’ve been cracking jokes about how ridiculous some of the more expensive models were.  But he wasn't there and I had to keep it together lest I be demoted from inlaw to outlaw.  

This is not the only case of funeral-inspired inappropriate laughter in my family.  My aunt has some great stories to tell! (Hmmm...maybe I can convince her to write a guest blog post...) Even though an overactive funny bone is inconvenient at times, I'm grateful for it.  What a blessing it's been as we’ve navigated the ups and downs of these past few years. So the next time I’m in a meeting or a church service and you see me put my head down and my shoulders start to shake, do yourself a favor and look away. Don’t get sucked into my irreverent snicker-fest.  Your abs will thank you.  J

Venting, Part II

Hello, again!  The response to my last post has been so encouraging.  Thank you to all who offered words of comfort and camaraderie. I will confess—I was a bit nervous as I hit the “post” button.  But I’m glad I did. And while I don’t want my blog to turn into “Aunt Bossy’s Place: Where I Kvetch About the Stupid Things that Escape People’s Mouths,” there is more I need to say on the subject.  So here goes…

I know that we’re supposed to avoid using the words “always” or “never;” that the use of such absolutes automatically weakens one’s argument.  But I’m going to do it anyway, since I have actually found two instances where these words are warranted.

 1.)  When walking behind me, UB (Uncle Brainy, my hubby’s blog-onym) will always step on my heels. ALWAYS.  And don’t get me started on shopping carts.  Not a good scene.

      2.) When speaking to a woman who is struggling with infertility or miscarriage, never, never, never, never, NEVER tell her to “just relax.”  N-E-V-E-R.  It is never helpful and always makes her want to slap you. 

As much as I hate the “time for another” comment, I abhor this one even more.  There have been a few times where, after hearing “Time for another!” that I’ve hinted that we’ve been having some difficulty.  The response?  Yep—you guessed it: “Just relax; it’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen.” 

Deep breath…bag up some produce…they don’t know any better…deep breath…

But, oh—it gets better.  They then follow up this oh-so-helpful advice with a story about their second cousin’s ex-wife’s sister-in-law who tried and tried and finally stopped trying and BAM she got pregnant, thereby affirming the validity of the Relax Your Way to a Baby method.

So what’s the deal with fertility clinics?  Bunch of quacks, apparently. Blood tests? Assistive therapies? Nah—we don’t need no specialist doctor-type people—we have the Beatles and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. All we need is love and to RELAX! 

(Pause here while all you children of the 80’s finish the song lyric in your head…)

So where do I even begin?  Ok, yes—excessive stress can negatively impact fertility.  And your cholesterol and your blood pressure, and give you ulcers, and layer on the belly fat.  Stress is bad.  But I’m sorry—no amount of relaxing will fix hormonal imbalances, remove ovarian cysts or prevent my baby from dying in my womb.  I could sit with cucumber slices on my eyes listening to Enya for days on end and that would do NOTHING to ensure that the tiny life inside me keeps growing and developing properly. 

Just relax!  Of course…except for the fact that pregnancy is now an emotional minefield.  So the next time I get a positive pregnancy test and am overwhelmed by waves of joy and fear—just relax!  So I spend the duration of the pregnancy (however long that is) hoping and praying and trying somehow to brace myself for the worst (even though that never works)—just relax!  How do these people breathe with their foot in their mouth all the way up to their ankle?  Oh, I know—they just relax! 

Deep breath…reeling it back in…deep breath…

Now, I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m walking around with a dark cloud over my head, just waiting to bite the head off the next person who says one of these hated phrases.  I’m not.  But do I have sad moments?  Yes. They usually come at night as I lie awake in bed, waiting for sleep.  It is in those quiet moments that waves of grief wash over me, unhindered by the busyness and bustle of my daily work.  It’s then that careless words or the burden of loss squeeze at my heart, bringing hot tears to my eyes no matter how hard I try to hold them back.  (Crying is rather inconvenient when sleeping with a c-pap—let’s just say that nasal pillows + crying-induced runny nose = not pretty.)  But it is also in those times that I remember others who are hurting.  I’ve learned to use that time to pray, asking God to pour out His peace and comfort on all of us.  Because I know that the answer to my struggles is to trust His will and timing in my life.  And I can honestly say that I do trust Him; I have all along.  God’s grace has been sufficient every step of the way.  He hasn’t taken away the hurt; He’s provided grace to endure it.  He hasn’t taken away the uncertainty, He’s promised to guide me safely through it. He has given me laughter in the midst of crisis and gratitude for all that I do have; all the while building my faith, strengthening my walk, and tenderizing my heart so that I can better comfort others who are hurting. 

So how do you comfort someone who is hurting?  I truly believe that most of the people who are guilty of saying hurtful things are really trying to help. It’s true that some people are just clueless jerks, but I doubt any of them are reading this post.  I think that most people stumble when someone they know is grieving and they want to make them feel better.  So they say something that is meant to help solve the problem or give the situation a Pollyanna-esque positive spin so their friend/loved one won’t feel sad anymore.  They don’t realize that you don’t have to find a solution or try to take away the grief.  Because you can’t.

You can’t take away their pain, but you can empathize with it.  You can’t explain away a broken heart with a litany of why it’s all for the best and they should be grateful it wasn’t as bad as so-and-so and at least they still have such-and-such. It doesn’t help. But you can listen and let them vent and maybe cry with them and agree that it really sucks right now and hug them and tell them you’ll pray for them and then actually do it. You can surprise them with a cup of their favorite coffee or send them a pretty card or bring them chocolate ice cream.  You can show up with a dinner that can be put in the freezer & pulled out on those days when they’re too emotionally exhausted to cook.  Or you can text them in the middle of the day to ask how they’re doing and let them know you’re thinking about them.  Show them you care; show them that they are important to you.  Give them space but don’t leave them alone.  They need you.  Actions speak louder than words, do they not?  And actions that shout “I care about you!” will always be the right thing to say.   

Always.