Big Guy has been doing well for some time. We have not had to even think of calling 911 for over six months. And then on Thursday we had to make a call.
Four large policemen arrived. We discussed the situation, and agreed that based on the incident that triggered the call, Big Guy needed to be evaluated by a professional. So they summoned the EMTs, and off Big Guy went to the ER. Andrew went with him.
I've BTDT so many times that the first thought in my head was, "Okay, so for now everyone is safe."
That is how parents of kids like mine think. But not at first. The last time I was at the psych ER I spoke to a mom whose daughter was being admitted and said, "I know you feel like the biggest failure in the world right now, but you are awesome. You have done the very best thing you could do for your child, because right now she is SAFE. And whatever anyone thinks or anyone says, what you need to tell yourself over and over again is, my child is safe."
Despite the positive framing, there are things that are so not okay. While Big Guy was blowing up, Snuggler curled on the sofa, tears running down her face as she moaned, "Not again! Oh, no, not again!"
Little Guy screamed and ran into the bedroom and hid himself under the blankets. "No! No'! No!" he cried, "I don't want anyone to die!"
And I couldn't help them, because I had to focus entirely on managing Big Guy. Safety. Safety. Safety. There is a point where the whole world, the whole list of priorities in life reduces to safety.
I was very proud of Snuggler, who after a few minutes pulled herself together and, of her own accord, went in to solace Little Guy. Later she said, "It helped me, too, Mama. When you have to calm someone else you need to calm yourself first." That takes a degree of courage and insight that's unusual in an 11 year old.
After the police arrived and we were on safe ground again I packed up my two youngest and took them off to Dancer's dress rehearsal. I'm sure that sounds weird, but after a crisis my #1 priority shifts from safety to security, security, security. Oh how, oh how, oh how do you give a sense of security to children who have to live in an erratic and sometimes dangerous situation? How can kids grow up healthy when things can shift from safe to scary in a moment? One gives snuggles and hugs and love, and tries to keep life feeling as normal as possible. We make time and space in which to remember that this one event doesn't constitute the whole of our lives.
A delayed stress reaction hit Snuggler as we arrived at the theater. We had a bit of waiting time, so we hung out in a corner as she whimpered that she was scared. We played hangman, talked about school, waited in line. We watched -- and greatly enjoyed -- the performance. Dancer was stunning. When we got home at about 10pm, I emailed Snuggler's teachers to say they shouldn't expect to see any homework the next day.
Then Andrew called to say Big Guy had been deemed safe and was being sent home. Getting the others to bed, and more importantly to sleep, shot to the top of my priority list. Because, you see, it's hard to get to get a scared kid to sleep. Now my mantra was calm, calm, calm.
I washed dishes, talked to kids, got them to bed. Little Guy slept in the girls' room on the top bunk, "Because my brother won't find me up there." Snuggler opted to drift off in the living room, listening to an audio book.
Big Guy and Andrew arrived at midnight. Big Guy was exhausted and went straight to bed. The day was over. The next day (and perhaps for the next week or month) we'd most certainly see fallout, but it would be a new day. That wasn't today. I said my prayers, and went to sleep.
One of my favorite quotes is from Winston Churchill, who said, "When you're going through hell... keep going."
It's easier to keep going if I have my priorities in order. Be safe. Stay calm. Find the things that help you feel secure. Remember not to let the bad things become everything. Pray. And keep moving forward, at whatever tiny pace you can muster.
Showing posts with label crisis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crisis. Show all posts
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
When better is different from well
Big Guy will be released from the hospital tomorrow and return to his residence. The doctors feel he has stabilized. We asked about changing his meds, but were told that when he is older he will master the art of self control.
Do I believe that waiting is the best we can do? Do we have a choice? Do we have enough time before he is legally an adult to take that approach? This is not the hospital's problem; he is no longer a danger to himself or others, and so their job is done. Ours remains.
Do I believe that waiting is the best we can do? Do we have a choice? Do we have enough time before he is legally an adult to take that approach? This is not the hospital's problem; he is no longer a danger to himself or others, and so their job is done. Ours remains.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Helping siblings of kids in a mental health crisis
A lot of the crisis management that goes on when Big Guy is doing poorly has to do with keeping the rest of the family safe and calm. A good therapist will occasionally inquire how you, the parent, are holding up. But no one ever talks about how to help siblings cope.And it's a huge issue.
I know most of you don't have this situation. But there are bits and pieces in this that might help, I think, with everyday life.
1. Minimize the amount of trauma kids witness. Violent meltdowns aren't good for other kids to see, especially when they involve danger. The other kids get understandably anxious, which means they want your attention, which divides your focus, which is very frustrating. Not to mention kids can learn behaviors you don't want them imitating. And they could get hurt. After a lot of near-misses, we sat the other kids down at a calm moment, and explained to them that when Big Guy was falling apart we needed to be able to devote 100% of our attention to helping him -- and we couldn't do that if we weren't sure they were safe. After that, whenever he blew we'd turn to the others and say, firmly but calmly, "I need you to go in the other room until he is safe again." Once they learned to remove themselves, life became less complicated.
2. Make time to help your other kids process their feelings. This seems impossible, especially when you are running on empty. But there has to be a time when your 'normal' kids get 100% of your attention, too. This is closely connected to the next item...
3. Know what makes your kids feel loved. Another seeming no-brainer, but when you're stressed your brain isn't clear. I often tell moms who are expecting a second child to write down in advance all the things that make their first child's eyes glow with joy. Because then when you're exhausted you look at the list and laugh at your brain-deadness, saying, Oh my, yes! A bubble bath! I can give her a bubble bath! It's a simple, do-able thing that you were too stressed to think of, and it gets you a lot of mileage because it shows your child that of course you know the specific things she enjoys. (More about this here.) If you have a child who moves in and out of crisis, it helps to have a list for each of your other children. Eventually you'll incorporate it into your long-term memory. Most of the time.
4. Reinforce a we'll-get-through-it attitude. Kids need to know that real life isn't just a matter of making uncomfortable stuff go away. We work through problems -- and it's work, and it doesn't always happen at the pace we want, and we don't always get the results we want. It's not fun. But one thing about families is that we work through things together. Parents have to take the lead here. If your head is screaming I can't take this! I can't do this! you have to breathe deeply and talk yourself down. Have to. Little people are counting on you.
5. Keep life as normal as possible. Do all the regular things you can, and supplement with fun stuff. It's totally okay to call people and say, "One of my kids is in the hospital. Can I mooch a playdate sometime in the next few days?" Keep the chores moving, because simple things like laundry and cleaning the bathroom give us a tiny bit of control over our lives. And try to have dinner at a regular time, even if it's not the regular time.
6. Tell your kids how you feel about the fact they have to go through this. It stinks. If you could snap your fingers and make their sibling normal again, you would. If you could make things like they used to be, you'd do it in a heartbeat. But if we don't always get to choose the situations we have to live through, we do get to choose what kind of people we want to be. And we, in our family, want to be people who grow stronger and braver and more faithful. The situation stinks, but we're going to do what we need to do to make it as good as it can be.
7. Remind kids of other people they know who have siblings with problems. Undoubtedly you will know a family with a child with severe health issues, or developmental problems, or accident-related injuries. Just knowing that other families are hurting and adapting and coping can help.
8. Breathe, hold it together as best you can, and cry when you're alone. I am convinced that one of the reasons God made the day 24 hours long is so that mothers have 2am for sobbing. Make sure you take a couple of close friends into your confidence. You'll be surprised how many people have siblings of their own who had major problems.
Or, if you don't know anyone to talk to, write to me at LotsaLaundry1@gmail.com . It's hard to go through this stuff alone.
I know most of you don't have this situation. But there are bits and pieces in this that might help, I think, with everyday life.
1. Minimize the amount of trauma kids witness. Violent meltdowns aren't good for other kids to see, especially when they involve danger. The other kids get understandably anxious, which means they want your attention, which divides your focus, which is very frustrating. Not to mention kids can learn behaviors you don't want them imitating. And they could get hurt. After a lot of near-misses, we sat the other kids down at a calm moment, and explained to them that when Big Guy was falling apart we needed to be able to devote 100% of our attention to helping him -- and we couldn't do that if we weren't sure they were safe. After that, whenever he blew we'd turn to the others and say, firmly but calmly, "I need you to go in the other room until he is safe again." Once they learned to remove themselves, life became less complicated.
2. Make time to help your other kids process their feelings. This seems impossible, especially when you are running on empty. But there has to be a time when your 'normal' kids get 100% of your attention, too. This is closely connected to the next item...
3. Know what makes your kids feel loved. Another seeming no-brainer, but when you're stressed your brain isn't clear. I often tell moms who are expecting a second child to write down in advance all the things that make their first child's eyes glow with joy. Because then when you're exhausted you look at the list and laugh at your brain-deadness, saying, Oh my, yes! A bubble bath! I can give her a bubble bath! It's a simple, do-able thing that you were too stressed to think of, and it gets you a lot of mileage because it shows your child that of course you know the specific things she enjoys. (More about this here.) If you have a child who moves in and out of crisis, it helps to have a list for each of your other children. Eventually you'll incorporate it into your long-term memory. Most of the time.
4. Reinforce a we'll-get-through-it attitude. Kids need to know that real life isn't just a matter of making uncomfortable stuff go away. We work through problems -- and it's work, and it doesn't always happen at the pace we want, and we don't always get the results we want. It's not fun. But one thing about families is that we work through things together. Parents have to take the lead here. If your head is screaming I can't take this! I can't do this! you have to breathe deeply and talk yourself down. Have to. Little people are counting on you.
5. Keep life as normal as possible. Do all the regular things you can, and supplement with fun stuff. It's totally okay to call people and say, "One of my kids is in the hospital. Can I mooch a playdate sometime in the next few days?" Keep the chores moving, because simple things like laundry and cleaning the bathroom give us a tiny bit of control over our lives. And try to have dinner at a regular time, even if it's not the regular time.
6. Tell your kids how you feel about the fact they have to go through this. It stinks. If you could snap your fingers and make their sibling normal again, you would. If you could make things like they used to be, you'd do it in a heartbeat. But if we don't always get to choose the situations we have to live through, we do get to choose what kind of people we want to be. And we, in our family, want to be people who grow stronger and braver and more faithful. The situation stinks, but we're going to do what we need to do to make it as good as it can be.
7. Remind kids of other people they know who have siblings with problems. Undoubtedly you will know a family with a child with severe health issues, or developmental problems, or accident-related injuries. Just knowing that other families are hurting and adapting and coping can help.
8. Breathe, hold it together as best you can, and cry when you're alone. I am convinced that one of the reasons God made the day 24 hours long is so that mothers have 2am for sobbing. Make sure you take a couple of close friends into your confidence. You'll be surprised how many people have siblings of their own who had major problems.
Or, if you don't know anyone to talk to, write to me at LotsaLaundry1@gmail.com . It's hard to go through this stuff alone.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Who wants to be a strong woman?
Last spring I read Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. Tough book, but full of hope. It's about women who have undergone -- and overcome -- hideous things: sexual slavery, acid in the face, utter ostracization because of a fistula. Having their stories as part of your mental repertoire of what people can survive is life-changing.
When you're familiar with strength like that, you start to realize that balancing what you want for your career with what you want for your child with what you want for yourself is barely a start. Being stoic when your kids are being impossible, or your spouse lets you down, or you make some humiliating mistake -- those are baby steps. Strength is about digging deep to get through whatever gets thrown at you, and maintaining your integrity in the process. Being a strong woman isn't at all glamorous; no one wants to have to be that strong.
But sometimes we do have to be that strong. Which argues for paying attention to how we spend our time and what we invest our energies in, so that if and when life gets rough, we'll already have a clear idea of what we value and which way we want to turn. There's a saying that character is revealed, not formed, in crisis. Here's hoping you have no great revelations any time soon... and that if you do, you find that you are quietly pleased to discover you are much stronger than you ever suspected.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Monday, a few days late
On Monday Big Guy was moved to his residential facility. It was a day that even in retrospect feels practically wordless. Whatever was said was overpowered by the undercurrent of emotion. I will remember Monday as the day I cried harder and more than any other day in my life.
And so we begin the slow process of finding a new definition of normal. There is moderate relief: we are no longer waiting for things to happen. Logistics are ridiculously easier. I have decided I'm not going to feel guilty about the fact that there's less laundry, or that I can get up a little later, and that I no longer have to wonder if that emotional boulder perched on the cliff is going to come tumbling down on my head tonight. Those bright spots can exist separate from the grief, in the way you can have a light on in one part of the house and stumble about in another.
I think about Big Guy a hundred times a day. Despite all the anguish and trauma, I'm thankful -- daily -- that he is my son. I pray for him, I desperately want him well enough to come back home. But it's also my job to be thankful for what I have today.
Today I am thankful for the respite, for more time with my other children, for emotional space for healing, and for peace and quiet.These are gifts that have been given to me in the midst of a difficult time, and I am not going to refuse them by insisting on feeling bad about everything.
And so we begin the slow process of finding a new definition of normal. There is moderate relief: we are no longer waiting for things to happen. Logistics are ridiculously easier. I have decided I'm not going to feel guilty about the fact that there's less laundry, or that I can get up a little later, and that I no longer have to wonder if that emotional boulder perched on the cliff is going to come tumbling down on my head tonight. Those bright spots can exist separate from the grief, in the way you can have a light on in one part of the house and stumble about in another.
I think about Big Guy a hundred times a day. Despite all the anguish and trauma, I'm thankful -- daily -- that he is my son. I pray for him, I desperately want him well enough to come back home. But it's also my job to be thankful for what I have today.
Today I am thankful for the respite, for more time with my other children, for emotional space for healing, and for peace and quiet.These are gifts that have been given to me in the midst of a difficult time, and I am not going to refuse them by insisting on feeling bad about everything.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Moving on Monday
We learned today that Big Guy will be moved to his residential setting on Monday. Lots of mixed emotions around here: grief, hope, resignation, fear, relief, and then hope again. Those of you who pray, please include us in your prayers.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Resolution
On Tuesday we went to visit a place that has accepted Big Guy. It has one huge advantage: he would be able to continue at his current school if he goes to live there. There are other advantages, too, namely that it's close enough that we could monitor his mental health, and visit frequently. I won't go into the disadvantages.
Yesterday I met with Big Guy's therapeutic team, and they agreed that this is probably our best option. No one thinks it's a fabulous option, but it's better than the worst one, and better than the next-worse one, and hey -- it does have some advantages. In the world we've been inhabiting for the last three months, that sounds pretty good.
I have been holding this information in my heart, pondering it, savoring it, trying it on for size. After months of being at sea, it is hard to find my land legs again. Part of me feels free, exhilarated by being out from under the rock of not-knowing what to do, or what it's even possible to do. Part of me is terrified, grieving for my son, hoping desperately that this will help him.
We're not sure of the exact timing yet, but it looks like Big Guy will move to the new place within the next ten days. He did not entirely dislike the facility. Yet the reality that he will not be living at home is hard for him. He was so fragile this afternoon that for a while I wondered if he'd be spending the interim in the hospital.
And so we move on.
Yesterday I met with Big Guy's therapeutic team, and they agreed that this is probably our best option. No one thinks it's a fabulous option, but it's better than the worst one, and better than the next-worse one, and hey -- it does have some advantages. In the world we've been inhabiting for the last three months, that sounds pretty good.
I have been holding this information in my heart, pondering it, savoring it, trying it on for size. After months of being at sea, it is hard to find my land legs again. Part of me feels free, exhilarated by being out from under the rock of not-knowing what to do, or what it's even possible to do. Part of me is terrified, grieving for my son, hoping desperately that this will help him.
We're not sure of the exact timing yet, but it looks like Big Guy will move to the new place within the next ten days. He did not entirely dislike the facility. Yet the reality that he will not be living at home is hard for him. He was so fragile this afternoon that for a while I wondered if he'd be spending the interim in the hospital.
And so we move on.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Stuckness
Big Guy was in bad shape yesterday. He was in his "the world would be better off without me" mindset: desperate, hard, sullen, feeling wronged, impenetrable to reason or love. It scares me when he's like that, and his unreachability makes me insane.
Big Guy has a mental front-wheel alignment problem. The official term for it is distorted thinking; for most people the problem is resolved with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. We've had years of that, with only modest improvement. Big Guy needs his interpretations of events and thoughts constantly corrected, because his anxiety and mood issues warp and bend reality. He is prone to impossible tautologies. Yesterday he believed no one loved him, that he was unloveable, that nothing could be done about it. I asked what evidence would be sufficient to prove he was loved. He replied, emphatically, "Nothing could prove that!" When no evidence is admissable, it's hard to make a case. It's maddening, not to mention exhausting.
I suppose if Big Guy was unrelated to me I would shrug and walk away, leaving him to his own devices. I'm his mother, though, and at night I sob, bemoaning the crippling of my beautiful son. Yesterday I became so frustrated that I did physically walk off, snapping, "Don't talk to me! I need to cool off!" Fortunately we had a solid mile to go to our destination. That was sufficient distance to burn off a goodly amount of adrenaline, and to send up a hundred little prayers.
When I am angry, I need to burn it off. At home I tend to clean house furiously; when I'm out, I tear down the sidewalk. Deep anger builds a barricade around my heart: I want to be mad, I have a right to be mad, and I'm darn well going to be mad. There is no reasoning with me at those times, and I've learned that the only legitimate course of action is to get physically busy, and keep my mouth shut.
It dawns on me today that being in the midst of real fury is probably somewhat akin to being in Big Guy's head. When I allow my anger to pass, I can look back and can see how I got stuck, how anger grew to dominate my body and brain, how easily I justified myself, how I rejected sensible input and neglected to consider all angles. I can see all this because I'm outside it. Big Guy doesn't get completely outside his distorted thinking often.
When I finally calmed down yesterday, after racing many blocks and sending up many requests for help, my brain cleared. I turned to Big Guy and asked quietly, "Out of all of you, how much is really worth hating?"
Ten minutes earlier he probably would have snarled, "All of it!" But he was able to stop and think (trying to keep up with me probably helped lower his adrenaline level), and admitted, rather surprised, "Not much."
"Then let's just work on that little piece," I said, "And we can love the rest."
Big Guy has a mental front-wheel alignment problem. The official term for it is distorted thinking; for most people the problem is resolved with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. We've had years of that, with only modest improvement. Big Guy needs his interpretations of events and thoughts constantly corrected, because his anxiety and mood issues warp and bend reality. He is prone to impossible tautologies. Yesterday he believed no one loved him, that he was unloveable, that nothing could be done about it. I asked what evidence would be sufficient to prove he was loved. He replied, emphatically, "Nothing could prove that!" When no evidence is admissable, it's hard to make a case. It's maddening, not to mention exhausting.
I suppose if Big Guy was unrelated to me I would shrug and walk away, leaving him to his own devices. I'm his mother, though, and at night I sob, bemoaning the crippling of my beautiful son. Yesterday I became so frustrated that I did physically walk off, snapping, "Don't talk to me! I need to cool off!" Fortunately we had a solid mile to go to our destination. That was sufficient distance to burn off a goodly amount of adrenaline, and to send up a hundred little prayers.
When I am angry, I need to burn it off. At home I tend to clean house furiously; when I'm out, I tear down the sidewalk. Deep anger builds a barricade around my heart: I want to be mad, I have a right to be mad, and I'm darn well going to be mad. There is no reasoning with me at those times, and I've learned that the only legitimate course of action is to get physically busy, and keep my mouth shut.
It dawns on me today that being in the midst of real fury is probably somewhat akin to being in Big Guy's head. When I allow my anger to pass, I can look back and can see how I got stuck, how anger grew to dominate my body and brain, how easily I justified myself, how I rejected sensible input and neglected to consider all angles. I can see all this because I'm outside it. Big Guy doesn't get completely outside his distorted thinking often.
When I finally calmed down yesterday, after racing many blocks and sending up many requests for help, my brain cleared. I turned to Big Guy and asked quietly, "Out of all of you, how much is really worth hating?"
Ten minutes earlier he probably would have snarled, "All of it!" But he was able to stop and think (trying to keep up with me probably helped lower his adrenaline level), and admitted, rather surprised, "Not much."
"Then let's just work on that little piece," I said, "And we can love the rest."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Choices
by John Burningham which has gotten a lot of use. It present silly choices, and it makes for good interaction and funny discussions. (The link brings you to the hardcover page, but there *is* a paperback version.) It's the kind of book you send to cousins, or give to a child with siblings, because it will free up mom for a couple of afternoons while the kids quiz each other. My mom gave us our copy, and we're glad to have it.We seem to be stuck in a dark Would You Rather... here, one where the choices run more on the lines of would you rather drown in the ocean, or be eaten by a shark? I've been in this place before; it's where you get to choose what you hope is the least-worst solution. Except in this situation we're limited to a voice-your-opinion role. It's not in our control.
There is a lot in life that we don't control. Most of it, frankly, doesn't matter. If you write down a list of the things that drive you nuts (to serve as a proxy for what you want to be in control of), I'd be willing to bet that there are few things on your list that are life threatening. Generally it's our reactions that are more life-threatening (or at least life-scarring) than whatever pushed our buttons.
In The Art of Choosing, Sheena Iyengar writes about the research on how we make choices, why we make choices, and what kinds of choices we really want to make. Parents who are asked to decide whether to continue or cut off life support for their child are notably more unsettled and unhappy later on than parents who are informed by doctors of the possible options but told which option has been selected. This is because although we like to feel like we're in control, we don't like to second-guess ourselves. It stinks to live in an endless state of what if I'd chosen the other door.
Hence I'm aware that there's a certain blessing in not being the one who ultimately decides what is going to happen. On the other hand, the illusion of having some influence over the outcome is an ingredient of hope. We like hope. It helps.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Mummies
Since made-in-China plastic doesn't decay for centuries, technique didn't matter as much as, say, the time we mummified a real chicken. That took weeks, and several pounds of salt. Yesterday's activity was based on the project in Snuggler's Book of Artrageous Projects
, and involved cheap makeup and stick-on jewels and toilet paper and masking tape and shoe boxes. Today they unwrapped the mummies and -- lo and behold! -- the dolls were perfectly preserved!Tomorrow we're unwrapping some of the Big Guy crisis, and it's making Andrew and me feel rather ancient and dried out. If you could encircle us in your thoughts and prayers, we would appreciate it.
Photo from the ApplesandJammies blog.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Thought progression on doing hard things
- I don't wanna do this.
- I shouldn't have to do this.
- I don't think I can do this.
- No one should have to do this.
- I guess I don't have any choice.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Loss
I am missing my children today. Funny how that hit me full-strength after they (mostly) came back! Dancer's the only one away at the moment, and yet this morning my heart is aching.
It might have something to do with Eldest going off to college in the fall.
It might relate to Big Guy's difficulties, and a sense of what could have been.
It might be that I'm aware of how much my family will change soon, and how much the younger three will feel the absence of their older siblings.
There's a howl in me this morning that's being secreted, slowly, from my eyes.
It might have something to do with Eldest going off to college in the fall.
It might relate to Big Guy's difficulties, and a sense of what could have been.
It might be that I'm aware of how much my family will change soon, and how much the younger three will feel the absence of their older siblings.
There's a howl in me this morning that's being secreted, slowly, from my eyes.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Mixed emotions, roles, and motives
Lately the emotions flowing around here are rather like the convergence of multiple rivers: everything gets dumped in together for one wild set of rapids. A social worker from Big Guy's school asked yesterday how we're doing, and I told her that our strategy has been that when we're feeling A, we ride that wave. When we're feeling B, we ride it. When we're feeling C, we focus on that. And when we're feeling A and B and C all at once, we breathe deeply and wait it out.
Sometimes there's no way to integrate feelings. Andrew's father died four days after Eldest was born. Andrew is an only child, and his dad was his only close blood relative. On the one hand was the overwhelming joy of being a new dad; on the other was the grief of losing his own father. It was impossible to hold both feelings in the same grasp. Sometimes all we could do was hold the baby, and cry.
Big Guy feels that if we really loved him we wouldn't send him away. I'm not sure that we are truly the ones making the decision -- the situation pretty much mandates it -- and I hope and pray Big Guy's heart is open, some day, to understanding the real reasons for what is happening. It's heartbreaking stuff.
Sometimes there's no way to integrate feelings. Andrew's father died four days after Eldest was born. Andrew is an only child, and his dad was his only close blood relative. On the one hand was the overwhelming joy of being a new dad; on the other was the grief of losing his own father. It was impossible to hold both feelings in the same grasp. Sometimes all we could do was hold the baby, and cry.
* * * * *
The past two days, with fewer kids in the house and school over, I've gotten a lot of work done. The breathing room has given me a chance to see how much there is on my to-do list. It's not that different than what I handle normally, but when I can sit down and work for a solid block of an hour or two at a time, I'm more aware of the volume.
I lose a lot of energy lost switching from Mom-the-Editor to Mom-the-Teacher to Mom-the-Mom to Mom-the-Writer. I've discovered that it is far more efficient to hyperfocus than to multitask. My strategy is to concentrate a huge amount of attention on whatever's at hand. I handle distractions (because they do come, frequently), by allocating a small corner of my brain to act as a kind of receptionist. That lets my main concentration proceed mostly unimpeded. Lately the receptionist has been forgetting to hand me the little pink message slips, though, and I've been forgetting a lot of little tasks. Things like returning books to the library, filling out camp forms, and putting away already-read books are not getting done. I've chosen to shrug my shoulders rather than stress out about it. It's what I can do.
* * * * *
It's very likely that Big Guy will be moved to a residential facility later this month.
He is doing well at the moment, and yesterday ran a little business selling slices of watermelon at the playground. It's hard to integrate that with where we are, overall. It's kind of like looking at a pointillist painting up close, focusing only on a light patch. I am big on light -- that's where the hope lies, and we need hope -- but we have to make decisions based on the whole picture.
Charles Angrand, Le Pont de Pierre
Big Guy feels that if we really loved him we wouldn't send him away. I'm not sure that we are truly the ones making the decision -- the situation pretty much mandates it -- and I hope and pray Big Guy's heart is open, some day, to understanding the real reasons for what is happening. It's heartbreaking stuff.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I liked this post about the picture, 'Loneliness' by Gloria Neel:
For many years, Journal of a Solitude
by May Sarton ranked among my favorite books. I haven't re-read it in two decades, so I don't know if I'd like it as much today as I did when I was single. I liked my solitude then, and I still like it (when I get it) now. It's the bright side of the moon of loneliness.
If you are an introvert, solitude is the stuff through which you find resilience and your peace is restored. This probably sounds laughable coming from someone with five kids; alone takes on an aura of fantasy when you're a mom. However, I've learned that what external circumstances don't provide, I can still sometimes find in pockets of my heart. There is a still, quiet place within me that can be nourished regardless of who or what is swirling around. It takes work to find that place, and to keep it healthy. I can't always go there at will. But it's there, and that's good.
I look at Gloria Neel's painting, and can imagine myself sitting in that chair, very content to be alone. I can also envision myself on a different day, bleeding with the loneliness she intended to portray. Then I can imagine myself with leg draped over the chair arm, typing away on a laptop, completely oblivious to the emptiness of the world around me. In some ways that's the most alarming idea; I wonder if and when technology will become so iconic of isolation that it makes its way into art.
Many wonderful people have reached out to me in the past week, concerned about my family's struggles. Sometimes one feels lonely in the midst of a crisis. I do not feel that way at all. There are senses in which we are very alone, but it is not because we lack for caring friends. Not at all. Thanks.
For many years, Journal of a Solitude
by May Sarton ranked among my favorite books. I haven't re-read it in two decades, so I don't know if I'd like it as much today as I did when I was single. I liked my solitude then, and I still like it (when I get it) now. It's the bright side of the moon of loneliness.If you are an introvert, solitude is the stuff through which you find resilience and your peace is restored. This probably sounds laughable coming from someone with five kids; alone takes on an aura of fantasy when you're a mom. However, I've learned that what external circumstances don't provide, I can still sometimes find in pockets of my heart. There is a still, quiet place within me that can be nourished regardless of who or what is swirling around. It takes work to find that place, and to keep it healthy. I can't always go there at will. But it's there, and that's good.
I look at Gloria Neel's painting, and can imagine myself sitting in that chair, very content to be alone. I can also envision myself on a different day, bleeding with the loneliness she intended to portray. Then I can imagine myself with leg draped over the chair arm, typing away on a laptop, completely oblivious to the emptiness of the world around me. In some ways that's the most alarming idea; I wonder if and when technology will become so iconic of isolation that it makes its way into art.
Many wonderful people have reached out to me in the past week, concerned about my family's struggles. Sometimes one feels lonely in the midst of a crisis. I do not feel that way at all. There are senses in which we are very alone, but it is not because we lack for caring friends. Not at all. Thanks.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
We had a plot twist in the Big Guy saga yesterday. It's good news on one level, but hard news on another. Kind of like trading a cluster migraine for a perforated ulcer. In keeping with the general theme of the past week, there are strong mixed feelings everywhere we turn.
As that was unfolding, I took my four other children to the beach. It's a long, long trip, but the beach wasn't crowded, the weather was perfect, and the water was calm. I sat under the umbrella and let the background noises of waves crashing and seagulls squawking and little kids (not mine) crying and accented calls of Cold beer! Corona! soothe my soul. The sounds of a jazz band playing 1940's hits drifted in from the boardwalk.
At certain junctures there is something nice about being among people without having to talk to them. I read a book, and let life waft about me, and for a while I was lifted up into the realm of normal.
As that was unfolding, I took my four other children to the beach. It's a long, long trip, but the beach wasn't crowded, the weather was perfect, and the water was calm. I sat under the umbrella and let the background noises of waves crashing and seagulls squawking and little kids (not mine) crying and accented calls of Cold beer! Corona! soothe my soul. The sounds of a jazz band playing 1940's hits drifted in from the boardwalk.
At certain junctures there is something nice about being among people without having to talk to them. I read a book, and let life waft about me, and for a while I was lifted up into the realm of normal.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
This morning, as Little Guy and I returned from walking Murphy the Dog for the last time, my dear son was being quite annoying. It's his way of showing he's upset, especially lately. Rather than tell him to knock it off (which doesn't usually work well, anyway, and isn't a good strategy when I'm irritable) I picked him up. This is possible because he really is a little guy, just growing out of size 4 clothes and weighing in at a mere 44 pounds.
As I walked down the street with my suddenly quiet boy in my arms, I had a visceral memory of holding Big Guy at about the same age. All in an instant the tears poured out. They came so fast I could barely see where I was walking. I couldn't think, couldn't talk. I held my six year old close, blinking rapidly, trying not to sob and upset him. I thought, "Grief is the thing that sneaks up on you."
But the phrase calls to mind Emily Dickinson, who had a much better thought:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I hope that things will get better for my family, though I'm aware they might not. This leads me to think that hope is bigger than wishing for a specific outcome. Hope exists on a deeper level, contingent more on what we choose to believe about life than on what happens in a particular situation. I have that kind of hope. I hope you do, too.
As I walked down the street with my suddenly quiet boy in my arms, I had a visceral memory of holding Big Guy at about the same age. All in an instant the tears poured out. They came so fast I could barely see where I was walking. I couldn't think, couldn't talk. I held my six year old close, blinking rapidly, trying not to sob and upset him. I thought, "Grief is the thing that sneaks up on you."
But the phrase calls to mind Emily Dickinson, who had a much better thought:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I hope that things will get better for my family, though I'm aware they might not. This leads me to think that hope is bigger than wishing for a specific outcome. Hope exists on a deeper level, contingent more on what we choose to believe about life than on what happens in a particular situation. I have that kind of hope. I hope you do, too.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Today should have been Big Guy's graduation from 8th grade. He was the salutatorian. Except he wasn't able to be there.
One of my favorite passages from any book, anywhere, is the one below from C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters. The set-up is that Screwtape (the devil) is writing to his nephew Wormwood, a neophyte tempter. When WWII starts up and England enters the war, Wormwood's "patient" is of an age where it's possible "but by no means certain" that he will be called up for service. Screwtape advises:''
We had a period of silliness today, involving Playdoh and Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies all mixed up into a ridiculous story line. There was sunlight outside when we finally emerged from where we were. There were people who could have been nasty, but instead were kind and open. A fine playground wasn't too far off, and we found a store en route where we could buy sunscreen. We arrived home in time to walk the dog before she peed in the house. (My folks were supposed to dog-sit in exchange for an apartment this weekend, but we canceled their visit because of Big Guy's crisis, and so we're now drop-in dog walkers three times a day.)
We arrived home and one friend had already dropped off supper, and another arrived with tomorrow's meal. She also brought this, because, she said, it's a good thing to have on hand when the sh*t flies:
And Dancer, wonderful Dancer, who spent the day alone at home as we journeyed into hell, went and did the laundry without being asked and made us individual chocolate lava cakes for dessert.
These are the things that I hold in my heart, even as it is breaking.
We do have choices in the midst of darkness. Know your cross. Carry it. Notice the light, and treasure it. If you can, eat chocolate lava cake with whipped cream and raspberries. And love your children and hold them close.
One of my favorite passages from any book, anywhere, is the one below from C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters. The set-up is that Screwtape (the devil) is writing to his nephew Wormwood, a neophyte tempter. When WWII starts up and England enters the war, Wormwood's "patient" is of an age where it's possible "but by no means certain" that he will be called up for service. Screwtape advises:''
"We want him to be in the maximum uncertainty, so his mind will be filled with contradictory pictures of the future, every one of which arouses hope or fear. There is nothing like suspense and anxiety for barricading a human's mind against the Enemy [God]. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them.We are going through tough times around here, moaningly overwhelming times. I am trying very, very hard to stay 'in the moment', to accept what there is to accept at any given point in time -- and not to focus on whatever worries the next step may bring. Today it occurred to me that part of this involves paying close attention to the things that there are to be thankful for. For even in times of darkness, life still holds light.
"Your patient will, of course, have picked up the notion that he must submit with patience to the Enemy's will. What the Enemy means by this is primarily that he should accept with patience the tribulation which has actually been dealt out to him -- the present anxiety and suspense. It is about this that he is to say 'Thy will be done' and for the daily task of bearing this that the daily bread will be provided. It is your business to see that the patient never thinks of the present fear as his appointed cross, but only the things he is afraid of. Let him regard them as his crosses: let him forget that since they are incompatible, they cannot all happen to him, and let him try to practice fortitude and patience to them all in advance. For real resignation, at the same moment, to a dozen different and hypothetical fates, is almost impossible, and the Enemy does not greatly assist those who are trying to attain it: resignation to present and actual suffering, even where that suffering consists of fear, is easier and is usually helped by this direct action."
We had a period of silliness today, involving Playdoh and Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies all mixed up into a ridiculous story line. There was sunlight outside when we finally emerged from where we were. There were people who could have been nasty, but instead were kind and open. A fine playground wasn't too far off, and we found a store en route where we could buy sunscreen. We arrived home in time to walk the dog before she peed in the house. (My folks were supposed to dog-sit in exchange for an apartment this weekend, but we canceled their visit because of Big Guy's crisis, and so we're now drop-in dog walkers three times a day.)
We arrived home and one friend had already dropped off supper, and another arrived with tomorrow's meal. She also brought this, because, she said, it's a good thing to have on hand when the sh*t flies:
And Dancer, wonderful Dancer, who spent the day alone at home as we journeyed into hell, went and did the laundry without being asked and made us individual chocolate lava cakes for dessert.
These are the things that I hold in my heart, even as it is breaking.
We do have choices in the midst of darkness. Know your cross. Carry it. Notice the light, and treasure it. If you can, eat chocolate lava cake with whipped cream and raspberries. And love your children and hold them close.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
In the soup
There are times when life is thick, and heavy, hard to move through. You can't breathe, can't see ahead. It's like swimming in pea soup.
Last night Eldest asked, "How do you get through something like this?" I thought for a bit and replied, "You just do. You keep moving forward, because... because what choice is there?"
Sometimes you do what you can, and then do the next thing that you can, and then the next thing... It's better than treading water (or soup) forever.
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