That would be me.
Maybe it's the idea of pain so great I would want to inject heroin to make it stop. Or the photo lab I used to work in where, once in a while, a roll of film came through with detailed photos of a birth. Or maybe it's the complete lack of control over my own body, coupled with the thought of being bedridden with a foot-long needle in my back plus a device attached to my urethra plus an IV drip plus.. plus..
Oh man. Just the thought makes me a little queasy and makes my pulse race a bit.
Until fairly recently, a standard blood draw would make me pass out, or at least render me motionless until my blood pressure resumed normality. I would kind of freak out at my own pain, like the time I got two fingertips shut in a car door, or a pinky caught in a heavy door frame (that hurt like a sonofa).
About six years ago, I had an eye test done where the doc shined some light across my retinas to check for glaucoma. I felt okay for a minute, then suddenly I had no idea what happened to me – I couldn't tell if I was about to faint, or run to the bathroom, or barf, or all of the above. She gave me smelling salts to bring me around, and I had to have my husband come pick me up. It was a horrific experience.
I can be calm as a cucumber on the outside, but my subconscious says "hell no, we won't go!"
Yeah, so that's one thing that has intimidated me for decades about having children: Going through the birthing process. I have rationalized that, after all, it's just one day compared to a lifetime of the joy of parenthood; a rite of passage of sorts. Millions of women have done it, stretching out tens of thousands of years before me and without a needle in their backs. But on the inside, I'm freaking out. Last night I was reading through a chapter on birthing methods, coping techniques vs. medication, doulas and partner roles, blah blah.. I couldn't sleep for crap last night.
What in the world is my problem? It's not like I can avoid it – believe me, I would entertain the thought of general anesthesia if it were a possibility (and not just in an emergency).
I think I would prefer to go med-free mostly because I loathe the idea of being strapped to a bed with a bunch of crap attached me, unable to move. But I have no idea what the process will be like – will I manage it, or will I have a breech baby that demands a c-section? Will I have a reasonable labor, or will it drag on for 20-30 hours until I'm so miserable I beg for medical mercy?
This is a problem, and I need to address it sooner than later because time isn't slowing down. Sigh…
Any advice from those of you who have been there?
October 21, 2011
October 14, 2011
All control is an illusion, and there are no guarantees
This time last year, my life was in ashes. I had just completed a set of fertility tests, and before DH could go through his own tests, the Specialist called us into her office to deliver the news. I had age-related egg quality issues, and our chances of conceiving successfully on our own was… oh, let's just say next to none.
I spent months mourning, grieving, praying, looking for answers, and researching everything I could get my hands on. Add to that professional counseling, peer counseling from church, yoga, acupuncture, prayer from others, and anti-depressants.
Many months later, I experienced incredible physical and emotional healing by the Holy Spirit during a prayer session with my peer counselor. Soon after, I became pregnant.
Today, I still am pregnant: 22 weeks and expecting a baby boy in February.
I could say something pithy like "What a difference a year makes." But the big question is: What happened?
Let me tell you what I believe: I believe that God has chosen to first heal my heart from the years of fear and aching that kept me from wanting to have a baby, followed by the fear to try again and insurmountable depression in the face of a diagnosis of destruction. I also believe that God answered my prayer to conceive a child by healing me.
So what does that mean? That everything is smooth sailing for the rest of my life, that I shouldn't expect anything bad to happen, that this kid is guaranteed to be perfect in every way?
Of course not.
But it does mean something undeniably powerful and true: That God does not give up on us, that real healing is possible – emotional and physical, that there is hope beyond our circumstances, and that the end is never the end if we choose to trust God.
I also know that there are no guarantees in this life. None but one, which is the reality of God and his unchanging, transforming love for us. I also know that I cannot control these things. I can manage some things and even be successful in some areas, but ultimately all control is an illusion.
I choose to put my faith and trust in Him, and to embrace hope and let go of control, and as a result I worry less about what might happen. If something horrible does happen, I know He won't abandon me but will carry me through it.
I think it took the events of this past couple of years for me to understand these truths, and I only hope that my story gives others encouragement – even though my story isn't finished.
I spent months mourning, grieving, praying, looking for answers, and researching everything I could get my hands on. Add to that professional counseling, peer counseling from church, yoga, acupuncture, prayer from others, and anti-depressants.
Many months later, I experienced incredible physical and emotional healing by the Holy Spirit during a prayer session with my peer counselor. Soon after, I became pregnant.
Today, I still am pregnant: 22 weeks and expecting a baby boy in February.
I could say something pithy like "What a difference a year makes." But the big question is: What happened?
Let me tell you what I believe: I believe that God has chosen to first heal my heart from the years of fear and aching that kept me from wanting to have a baby, followed by the fear to try again and insurmountable depression in the face of a diagnosis of destruction. I also believe that God answered my prayer to conceive a child by healing me.
So what does that mean? That everything is smooth sailing for the rest of my life, that I shouldn't expect anything bad to happen, that this kid is guaranteed to be perfect in every way?
Of course not.
But it does mean something undeniably powerful and true: That God does not give up on us, that real healing is possible – emotional and physical, that there is hope beyond our circumstances, and that the end is never the end if we choose to trust God.
I also know that there are no guarantees in this life. None but one, which is the reality of God and his unchanging, transforming love for us. I also know that I cannot control these things. I can manage some things and even be successful in some areas, but ultimately all control is an illusion.
I choose to put my faith and trust in Him, and to embrace hope and let go of control, and as a result I worry less about what might happen. If something horrible does happen, I know He won't abandon me but will carry me through it.
I think it took the events of this past couple of years for me to understand these truths, and I only hope that my story gives others encouragement – even though my story isn't finished.
October 1, 2011
Multitasking Heart
First the good news: the big 20-week ultrasound was last week, and it was more or less a smashing success. I say more or less because the tech had trouble getting a good image of a couple of baby bits, so I squirmed while she dug in the wand. I have no idea how long it took - 45 minutes? But now I have sore muscles connecting my pelvis to my hips.
Anyway, I digress. She asked if we wanted to know the sex, I said yes, and she said something like "Well there's this thing here between the legs".. I'm thinking yes - it's a dash in a snowstorm - so I said "What is it?" and she kindly pointed out that it's a penis. I felt just slightly silly (but later learned that DH couldn't tell either so we can be ignorant together!).
So yeah. Somewhere around Valentine's Day I'm gonna give birth to a boy.
Me. Give birth. Have a baby. I'm actually pregnant and it's not going away. I feel him bumping around in me, and see (and feel) my body changing rapidly.
I am blown away by this every day. When I thank Jesus for this amazing blessing that I can barely comprehend, I start to cry (usually at a time when I can't like in the car, at work, or outside walking).
Meanwhile, DH is awake at 3 a.m. most nights trying to figure out all the details of the parenting universe while I toss and turn trying to figure out how to stay comfortable long enough to sleep more than half an hour at a stretch.
I truly do not understand how any woman can honestly say she loves being pregnant. Emotionally it's a variety of wonder, terror, and joy. Physically it's a major pain in the ass. But it has to be worth it, right? Just kidding. Sort of.
Rather than ruminating over the complexities of parenthood (which makes my brain go numb), I can't think more than six months ahead. I'm debating what kind of childbirth I really want to embrace. The epidural is fine, though I truly loathe the idea of having a footlong needle stuck in my spine while my pee drains into a bag. Part of me truly wants to feel the act of giving birth, though. Like somehow being numb from the waist down will disconnect me from the experience a bit.
My coworker used the hypnobirthing method with amazing success, which makes me wonder: could I do it? She said it was definitely not pain free, but she was able to manage it and stay calm. She was in labor for all of six hours. Okay, I don't think that means I'd have the same experience but I gotta wonder if there's really something to this. Obviously there is. I will do research.
And now the bad news. My grandmother is dying. She suffered congestive heart failure the day before my ultrasound. She's apparently conscious now but isn't connected to reality at all. I wish so much that I could be at her side, even though she'd probably not know me, and just pray and be there. Death isn't new to me: I've lost a great grandmother, grandfather, and other grandmother not to mention a couple of uncles. I have held a bedside vigil. I don't wish her to recover - her life has dwindled to medication and the white walls of a nursing home while her mind is trapped in the prison of dementia - I wish for God's mercy to end her suffering and bring her home. God's will be done.
So my heart vacillates between joy and sadness, hope and longing, the future of my son and the past of one of my mothers who helped raise me. Yes, it's the cycle of life. No beginning comes without something else ending, does it?
Anyway, I digress. She asked if we wanted to know the sex, I said yes, and she said something like "Well there's this thing here between the legs".. I'm thinking yes - it's a dash in a snowstorm - so I said "What is it?" and she kindly pointed out that it's a penis. I felt just slightly silly (but later learned that DH couldn't tell either so we can be ignorant together!).
So yeah. Somewhere around Valentine's Day I'm gonna give birth to a boy.
Me. Give birth. Have a baby. I'm actually pregnant and it's not going away. I feel him bumping around in me, and see (and feel) my body changing rapidly.
I am blown away by this every day. When I thank Jesus for this amazing blessing that I can barely comprehend, I start to cry (usually at a time when I can't like in the car, at work, or outside walking).
Meanwhile, DH is awake at 3 a.m. most nights trying to figure out all the details of the parenting universe while I toss and turn trying to figure out how to stay comfortable long enough to sleep more than half an hour at a stretch.
I truly do not understand how any woman can honestly say she loves being pregnant. Emotionally it's a variety of wonder, terror, and joy. Physically it's a major pain in the ass. But it has to be worth it, right? Just kidding. Sort of.
Rather than ruminating over the complexities of parenthood (which makes my brain go numb), I can't think more than six months ahead. I'm debating what kind of childbirth I really want to embrace. The epidural is fine, though I truly loathe the idea of having a footlong needle stuck in my spine while my pee drains into a bag. Part of me truly wants to feel the act of giving birth, though. Like somehow being numb from the waist down will disconnect me from the experience a bit.
My coworker used the hypnobirthing method with amazing success, which makes me wonder: could I do it? She said it was definitely not pain free, but she was able to manage it and stay calm. She was in labor for all of six hours. Okay, I don't think that means I'd have the same experience but I gotta wonder if there's really something to this. Obviously there is. I will do research.
And now the bad news. My grandmother is dying. She suffered congestive heart failure the day before my ultrasound. She's apparently conscious now but isn't connected to reality at all. I wish so much that I could be at her side, even though she'd probably not know me, and just pray and be there. Death isn't new to me: I've lost a great grandmother, grandfather, and other grandmother not to mention a couple of uncles. I have held a bedside vigil. I don't wish her to recover - her life has dwindled to medication and the white walls of a nursing home while her mind is trapped in the prison of dementia - I wish for God's mercy to end her suffering and bring her home. God's will be done.
So my heart vacillates between joy and sadness, hope and longing, the future of my son and the past of one of my mothers who helped raise me. Yes, it's the cycle of life. No beginning comes without something else ending, does it?
September 21, 2011
The Pressure is On
This week we're having the floors replaced in the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Leaving the carpet in the bedrooms and the linoleum in the bathrooms (for now).
On the first day of construction, I came home to bundles of furniture collected in the center of the living room and in the kitchen. Clearly, cooking was out of the question. We also noticed a thick film of dust collecting on every surface (probably the walls too). All we can think about now is how much cleaning we'll need to do this weekend once it's all done - it was kind of depressing and made me anxious. Not that I'm not willing, but I know how fast I get tired these days.
Otherwise I can't believe we lived with this nasty gray carpet in our condo for nine stinking years. So much for being frugal. I hate spending the money, but it's all part of the plan to make the condo more appealing once we're finally ready to sell it and buy a house (not planning on it helping the value since that's in the toilet anyway). At this point, that could be another couple years. But I digress.
On the second day of construction, I was determined to lay on the couch in front of the TV so I rearranged a couple pieces of furniture. I felt like I had triumphed over a small hurdle, but by the end of the evening I was coughing up dust. Ick.
Our collective frustration manifested itself in, of all things, an argument about painting the walls. DH is in love with pure, flat, white paint. The kind you see in art galleries. I can see why he's attracted to it, but it's anathema to a home as far as I'm concerned. To me, pure white (except the trim, doors, and ceiling) is cold and hard. Not soft and warm like I prefer. Is it worth arguing about? Probably not, especially in that moment. But it was too late. I was pissed off.
I sat in a chair later (in the dust-free bedroom), trying to figure out why I was so frustrated. I could see it was symptomatic of the pressure I'm feeling all around me. I'm still getting used to being pregnant, am suffering some digestive maladies because of it, typically wake up 6-7 times a night instead of sleeping soundly, and feel overwhelmed at the thought of planning for the arrival of the baby and all the complexities it will bring:
Today's the third day of construction and we're not sure they'll be done before sometime tomorrow. But that's okay. I can live with dust (from the other room), and we can use it as an excuse to go out to dinner tonight. Protecting my sanity and marriage is more important anyway.
I was reminded yesterday, whether by the Spirit or nine months of counseling drilled into my head, that I need to make sure I take opportunities for self care. I'm woefully neglectful and lazy in that department - not sure why. So I'm signing up for chair massage at work once a month. Trying to prioritize exercise. Eating more vegetables and fruit. Saying no once in a while (though maybe not often enough).
I'd like to say that I'm procrastinating less but that would be a lie. I still can't make any decisions about the condo or the baby, and even though I'm on the docket to play guitar and sing background vocals with the worship band this Sunday I haven't picked up my guitar this week (barely touched it in the last month). What is wrong with me? I know I need to practice but, without the song list for this Sunday, I'm likely to wait until I see it before I bother so much as humming a tune.
And, if I'm honest, I have to admit I've been neglecting my relationship with Jesus which is the stupidest of all. My friendship with my Lord is my anchor in this world but I keep putting Him in a box instead of praying more and reading the Bible.
Just call me Procrastinitus Maximus!
On the first day of construction, I came home to bundles of furniture collected in the center of the living room and in the kitchen. Clearly, cooking was out of the question. We also noticed a thick film of dust collecting on every surface (probably the walls too). All we can think about now is how much cleaning we'll need to do this weekend once it's all done - it was kind of depressing and made me anxious. Not that I'm not willing, but I know how fast I get tired these days.
Otherwise I can't believe we lived with this nasty gray carpet in our condo for nine stinking years. So much for being frugal. I hate spending the money, but it's all part of the plan to make the condo more appealing once we're finally ready to sell it and buy a house (not planning on it helping the value since that's in the toilet anyway). At this point, that could be another couple years. But I digress.
On the second day of construction, I was determined to lay on the couch in front of the TV so I rearranged a couple pieces of furniture. I felt like I had triumphed over a small hurdle, but by the end of the evening I was coughing up dust. Ick.
Our collective frustration manifested itself in, of all things, an argument about painting the walls. DH is in love with pure, flat, white paint. The kind you see in art galleries. I can see why he's attracted to it, but it's anathema to a home as far as I'm concerned. To me, pure white (except the trim, doors, and ceiling) is cold and hard. Not soft and warm like I prefer. Is it worth arguing about? Probably not, especially in that moment. But it was too late. I was pissed off.
I sat in a chair later (in the dust-free bedroom), trying to figure out why I was so frustrated. I could see it was symptomatic of the pressure I'm feeling all around me. I'm still getting used to being pregnant, am suffering some digestive maladies because of it, typically wake up 6-7 times a night instead of sleeping soundly, and feel overwhelmed at the thought of planning for the arrival of the baby and all the complexities it will bring:
- Will I keep working full time?
- Do I have a choice?
- How much is day care?
- Do we need to dump half our furniture so we're not crowded *sses-to-elbows in that condo?
- Can I afford to take 12 weeks off (6 unpaid)? Yeah, probably not but I want to so badly!
- How am I gonna bond with our baby if I have to work full time?
- Just how much water do I need to drink anyway?
- Am I really going to have this baby or is something gonna go wrong?
- We're so screwed...
Today's the third day of construction and we're not sure they'll be done before sometime tomorrow. But that's okay. I can live with dust (from the other room), and we can use it as an excuse to go out to dinner tonight. Protecting my sanity and marriage is more important anyway.
I was reminded yesterday, whether by the Spirit or nine months of counseling drilled into my head, that I need to make sure I take opportunities for self care. I'm woefully neglectful and lazy in that department - not sure why. So I'm signing up for chair massage at work once a month. Trying to prioritize exercise. Eating more vegetables and fruit. Saying no once in a while (though maybe not often enough).
I'd like to say that I'm procrastinating less but that would be a lie. I still can't make any decisions about the condo or the baby, and even though I'm on the docket to play guitar and sing background vocals with the worship band this Sunday I haven't picked up my guitar this week (barely touched it in the last month). What is wrong with me? I know I need to practice but, without the song list for this Sunday, I'm likely to wait until I see it before I bother so much as humming a tune.
And, if I'm honest, I have to admit I've been neglecting my relationship with Jesus which is the stupidest of all. My friendship with my Lord is my anchor in this world but I keep putting Him in a box instead of praying more and reading the Bible.
Just call me Procrastinitus Maximus!
September 9, 2011
Living in Tension
So we went on vacation this week. Opting for a reasonably priced, somewhat local option (we were thinking about Hawaii earlier this year, but it's just silly since I'm pregnant), we spent a week chilling out at my aunt & uncle's vacation home in the Utah mountains. I wouldn't say we did a lot - we did some stuff every day, but mostly relaxed which was the whole objective.
They say it takes three days for a person to actually relax on vacation. What would that look like? I use sleep as a gauge. In which case, relaxing apparently took a while - in fact, having arrived on Friday night it wasn't until the following Thursday night that I got a good night's sleep. The night before we headed home. Pretty sad, huh? But part of the reason is, that three-floor house in the forest surrounded by the black of night instead of the sounds of the city is downright creepy when it's just me and DH there. Otherwise we love it to pieces.
But anyway, on to the subject of the day: living in tension. I've said that I have decided to embrace hope, and that is true. As evidence I point to my generally non-stressed demeanor and acceptance of this pregnancy. I'm not freaking out about things anymore, though I kind of avoid learning much about raising a baby just yet. It's trickling in. Too overwhelming right now.
We finally decided to let the larger world in on our growing secret this week. Yeah, it took this long (I'm 17 weeks now). Letting the cat out of the bag feels like I'm enabling it to run away. Is that a weird analogy? And.. I still haven't told anyone at my work (save for the few who know me on more than a water cooler basis). And I still don't want to. Though they're probably about to start taking bets so I should.
I think there's something publicly embarrassing or just very awkward about people knowing about such an intense and private loss. Not like when a family member dies, but something.. I don't know what it is. Shame isn't the right word, I know.
Maybe it's because our society has no idea how to grieve publicly. We're taught to lick our wounds in our caves on evenings and weekends so we can be sparkly and productive on weekdays. But real life isn't like that. It kicks and screams and demands to be dealt with when it's inconvenient and messy and ugly. It relentlessly hounds us until we have nervous breakdowns or failed relationships, or until we pursue counseling or medications - or sometimes all of the above.
If this pregnancy doesn't work out, I don't know how I would return to work. I don't know that I would be mentally capable for some time. But why do such thoughts even cross my mind? Why am I still waiting for the other shoe to drop? Everything in my body is 100% clinically proven to be normal. Normal! The scans and the chromosomal blood tests prove it. So what the hell is my problem?
Oh wait... it's been a couple weeks since I cracked open that Battlefield of the Mind book. Guess it's time to do some more reading.
Sigh... God's work in my heart is never done.
They say it takes three days for a person to actually relax on vacation. What would that look like? I use sleep as a gauge. In which case, relaxing apparently took a while - in fact, having arrived on Friday night it wasn't until the following Thursday night that I got a good night's sleep. The night before we headed home. Pretty sad, huh? But part of the reason is, that three-floor house in the forest surrounded by the black of night instead of the sounds of the city is downright creepy when it's just me and DH there. Otherwise we love it to pieces.
But anyway, on to the subject of the day: living in tension. I've said that I have decided to embrace hope, and that is true. As evidence I point to my generally non-stressed demeanor and acceptance of this pregnancy. I'm not freaking out about things anymore, though I kind of avoid learning much about raising a baby just yet. It's trickling in. Too overwhelming right now.
We finally decided to let the larger world in on our growing secret this week. Yeah, it took this long (I'm 17 weeks now). Letting the cat out of the bag feels like I'm enabling it to run away. Is that a weird analogy? And.. I still haven't told anyone at my work (save for the few who know me on more than a water cooler basis). And I still don't want to. Though they're probably about to start taking bets so I should.
I think there's something publicly embarrassing or just very awkward about people knowing about such an intense and private loss. Not like when a family member dies, but something.. I don't know what it is. Shame isn't the right word, I know.
Maybe it's because our society has no idea how to grieve publicly. We're taught to lick our wounds in our caves on evenings and weekends so we can be sparkly and productive on weekdays. But real life isn't like that. It kicks and screams and demands to be dealt with when it's inconvenient and messy and ugly. It relentlessly hounds us until we have nervous breakdowns or failed relationships, or until we pursue counseling or medications - or sometimes all of the above.
If this pregnancy doesn't work out, I don't know how I would return to work. I don't know that I would be mentally capable for some time. But why do such thoughts even cross my mind? Why am I still waiting for the other shoe to drop? Everything in my body is 100% clinically proven to be normal. Normal! The scans and the chromosomal blood tests prove it. So what the hell is my problem?
Oh wait... it's been a couple weeks since I cracked open that Battlefield of the Mind book. Guess it's time to do some more reading.
Sigh... God's work in my heart is never done.
August 26, 2011
What Does Support Look Like for Me?
That's the question I have been asking myself this week. I realize I've posted a number of questions from well-meaning people that have inadvertently hurt or otherwise negatively affected me. There are others that I haven't bothered posting, because this blog isn't just a rant (as relieving as that can be at times). No, I really do want to focus on positive things and I know that others really do just want to express support but just don't know how. I mean, would I if I were in their shoes? Yeah, probably not.
Generally speaking, people's reactions have been a mix of awe and wonder and relief and even tears, not to mention absolute joy! Despite this plus the evidence so far of a perfectly normal pregnancy, we haven't made any bigger announcements. I don't know why exactly – twice bitten forever shy? It just feels right to tell people individually. I'll never post my ultrasound pic as my profile on my FB page. I'm happy to just enjoy what I can while I can in the context of a powerfully moving event. Of course, I seriously don't mind if a friend or relative leaks the info because they just can't hold it in.
Anyway, back to ways I can think of that are good ways to support me. First I'd say, ask me or DH how we are doing, and accept our weird answers. It's never a straightforward "fine!" or "great!" – it's always a mixture of optimism, hesitation, maybe a bit of discomfort, and other things that just make us human because of what we've been through and where we are now. It IS weird!
Second, I would say, is to be a cheerleader. Okay that sounds over the top, right? But you'd be amazed at how some people have reacted. Some can't help but have a negative (clinical, stereotypical) reaction since I'm such a geezer and statistically it's just so risky and the baby could have all kinds of problems and… right. Never mind the fact that there are societies where having children in the 50+ range is quite normal. If I had paid homage to statistics and didn't believe in the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, I flat out would never have tried again. And believe it or not, other people's enthusiasm actually lifts us up.
Eh, that's about all I can think of.
Generally speaking, people's reactions have been a mix of awe and wonder and relief and even tears, not to mention absolute joy! Despite this plus the evidence so far of a perfectly normal pregnancy, we haven't made any bigger announcements. I don't know why exactly – twice bitten forever shy? It just feels right to tell people individually. I'll never post my ultrasound pic as my profile on my FB page. I'm happy to just enjoy what I can while I can in the context of a powerfully moving event. Of course, I seriously don't mind if a friend or relative leaks the info because they just can't hold it in.
Anyway, back to ways I can think of that are good ways to support me. First I'd say, ask me or DH how we are doing, and accept our weird answers. It's never a straightforward "fine!" or "great!" – it's always a mixture of optimism, hesitation, maybe a bit of discomfort, and other things that just make us human because of what we've been through and where we are now. It IS weird!
Second, I would say, is to be a cheerleader. Okay that sounds over the top, right? But you'd be amazed at how some people have reacted. Some can't help but have a negative (clinical, stereotypical) reaction since I'm such a geezer and statistically it's just so risky and the baby could have all kinds of problems and… right. Never mind the fact that there are societies where having children in the 50+ range is quite normal. If I had paid homage to statistics and didn't believe in the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, I flat out would never have tried again. And believe it or not, other people's enthusiasm actually lifts us up.
Eh, that's about all I can think of.
August 16, 2011
"You're a Little Old to be Having..."
Oh no she di-n't!
As un-hip as I am, I imagine my head swerving side to side with a wild arm gesture while I'm saying this.
I felt like I needed to call my grandmother and tell her the news. So I did, and for a few seconds she was silent, then started saying “Well, you’re a little old to be having…” I cut her off and basically said that I would really, really love to hear some positive words from her right now, that I’ve been through absolute h*ll the last couple of years because of this stuff between two miscarriages and a diagnosis of infertility, that believe me if I could have done things different I would have…
Okay, quick reality check. I am well aware of just how "old" I am (just turned 42). It's risky. Doable, but risky. And I can only assume that if someone isn't rude enough to say it to my face, sooner or later their tongues will be wagging behind my back. What am I gonna do? Keep walking. Keep sharing my story. Keep forgiving.
I know this is just the way she is, and she does suffer from dementia, so I keep that in mind. But I wasn’t about to let something negative be the first words out of her mouth (again). I think it came out in a weird combination of panic, laughter, and yelling. The conversation ended well enough and she didn't seem to retain any of the tension from that moment. Just shocked silence, I suppose. Which is a logical reaction. Overall she seemed quite amazed and happy.
I have a weird relationship with my grandmother, though I don't think she knows how weird it is from my end. From the moment I was conceived she considered me the daughter she never had (she had three sons) and spoiled me mercilessly all my life. Until one day, my dad asked me whether I thought it odd how much she complemented me. And then I became aware. Aware of the devastating effects of favoritism across an entire generation in my family. Aware of just how humble I needed to be, and how I needed to separate myself from this favoritism, even if I couldn't get her to understand why (which I couldn't). It has left a legacy of... distrust, resentment, and a total lack of closeness that just makes me so sad. I have no relationship with my cousins which I can only presume is partly because of this.
I love her and forgive her, and just accept her the way she is since I know I cannot change her. But I have every opportunity to be a catalyst for change, to break the cycle of favoritism and resentment with God's hand in my life.
As un-hip as I am, I imagine my head swerving side to side with a wild arm gesture while I'm saying this.
I felt like I needed to call my grandmother and tell her the news. So I did, and for a few seconds she was silent, then started saying “Well, you’re a little old to be having…” I cut her off and basically said that I would really, really love to hear some positive words from her right now, that I’ve been through absolute h*ll the last couple of years because of this stuff between two miscarriages and a diagnosis of infertility, that believe me if I could have done things different I would have…
Okay, quick reality check. I am well aware of just how "old" I am (just turned 42). It's risky. Doable, but risky. And I can only assume that if someone isn't rude enough to say it to my face, sooner or later their tongues will be wagging behind my back. What am I gonna do? Keep walking. Keep sharing my story. Keep forgiving.
I know this is just the way she is, and she does suffer from dementia, so I keep that in mind. But I wasn’t about to let something negative be the first words out of her mouth (again). I think it came out in a weird combination of panic, laughter, and yelling. The conversation ended well enough and she didn't seem to retain any of the tension from that moment. Just shocked silence, I suppose. Which is a logical reaction. Overall she seemed quite amazed and happy.
I have a weird relationship with my grandmother, though I don't think she knows how weird it is from my end. From the moment I was conceived she considered me the daughter she never had (she had three sons) and spoiled me mercilessly all my life. Until one day, my dad asked me whether I thought it odd how much she complemented me. And then I became aware. Aware of the devastating effects of favoritism across an entire generation in my family. Aware of just how humble I needed to be, and how I needed to separate myself from this favoritism, even if I couldn't get her to understand why (which I couldn't). It has left a legacy of... distrust, resentment, and a total lack of closeness that just makes me so sad. I have no relationship with my cousins which I can only presume is partly because of this.
I love her and forgive her, and just accept her the way she is since I know I cannot change her. But I have every opportunity to be a catalyst for change, to break the cycle of favoritism and resentment with God's hand in my life.
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