Separation Anxiety

I learned somewhere that babies don't differentiate from their mothers for quite some time.  A year, perhaps?  They shared a body initially, and psychologically, the baby is still fundamentally connected with his mother.  But at about a year (am I making this up?) the child starts to recognize differences between his wants and needs and his mother's.  He realizes that they are not one, and psychologically he responds by gaining a sense of self and other.

At the hospital for Isaac's surgery last Thursday, he was his normal, active, sociable self.  He babbled at the receptionist and waved to the nurses.  When we headed into his waiting/recovery room, with all its medical accoutrements that look ever so familiar to me now, though, he balked.  He twisted back towards the door with unmistakable energy.  "Can he possibly remember?" I thought.  He must have.

When it was time for him to go to the OR, he allowed the nurse to take him from me with minimal resistance.  It was a simple thing, her taking him back, but in retrospect, it feels like the end of his first innocence.

When he was finished and awake, we went back to get him and bring him to the recovery room.  He clung to us, Sam and me in turn, and wouldn't let go.  It was unsurprising considering the situation, I suppose, but significant for him.  Isaac has been snuggly, but not clingy, and his ferocity was distinct.

Within a few days of the surgery, Isaac seemed back to his normal self.  He crawled around, giggled with his siblings, pulled up to toys (though post-op instructions are no weight-baring on his feet, I can't get him to cooperate) and seemed generally content.  When it was time for Mother's Day Out, where Isaac has always leapt from my arms to get to the toys, the new people and the children, Isaac clung to me and bawled.  The caregivers commented that he must not be feeling well yet, but I'd seen him content for a couple of days.

That night, as I was rocking him to sleep, I gave Isaac my breast, hoping to reassure him and reestablish whatever connection, trust or oneness had been lost.  Isaac has been weaned for several weeks now, because I can't produce a 40 calorie/ounce milk, and that is what he needs in order to regain and maintain his weight.  He took the breast gladly and suckled hopefully, eyes closed, ready for sweetness and rest.  But there was nothing there.  After several minutes he got frustrated, looked at me with pain, and turned away. I rocked and sang, but he couldn't get comfortable on my shoulder or in my arms.  At last I put him down in his crib, where he promptly rolled over and slept.

 I sat in the dark and rocked myself, remembering how utterly content he once was in my arms and at my breast.  That time of sweet oneness is over, and the thought made me sad and anxious.

Separation anxiety will affect us both.  My heart yearns for the connection. It is hard to let him go, even this little step.  Or perhaps it is a big step, this psychological differentiation, this sense of self and other.  It is second only to the physical separation of birth.  Now, like then, I think we both feel a little lost and lonely.

(Will this ache be healed someday?  When we are all gathered into one, when we become Zion, of one heart and one mind, will we regain the sense of unity we lost at birth?  Will we no longer see each other as self and other, but as part of one living body, a whole community?  Will that sense of complete belonging return? When I first learned to love selflessly, as a young adult, I began to see that possibility.  I sensed the beauty of inclusion in defining the self, of seeing others as part of me, their strengths and weaknesses affecting me almost as intimately as my own.  It was a wonderful feeling, that sense of unity and love.)

Lately, though, I've found it necessary to define boundaries.  To become lost in caring for Isaac--to lose track of myself and spiral downward into oblivion--does not serve the purpose.  And so I let Isaac cry sometimes at night, that I may have a time for my own sleep.  I separate us, at MDO, so I can have time to define and strengthen myself.  These boundaries feel right, and necessary, now.  Even in the pain of no longer being one with my son, I know it is right.

Truly this must be one of the mysteries of God--this need for separation that we may be blessed in unity--because I don't understand how it all works out.  I feel my heart yearning for unity, and also yearning for separation, for boundaries.  It is all part of life and love, and inevitable as the passing of time.

Nourishing Faith

Almost two years ago, I stopped at Walmart for a pregnancy test, in hopes of Isaac.  The associate who showed me where to find them struck up a conversation about children, and what a blessing it is to have them.  We shared our stories about having children (her four are all grown) and the Lord's hand in our decisions and such.  She wished me well, and God bless.  It was a sweet, nurturing conversation.

A couple of months ago, as I was signing Isaac and Dorothea up for Mother's Day Out, the registrar struck up a conversation about our children, too.  Hers were getting married and graduating from high school, and she had home schooled them and loved that challenge and opportunity.  I shared some of Isaac's difficulties, and remarked how miraculous his life was, and how grateful I'd been for the challenges and miracles.  We rejoiced together in the goodness of God, and how He can use challenges to bless ourselves and others.  Again, I felt my faith nurtured.

Bentonville has been a place of great nurturing for me.  I read Alma 32 last night and thought about the importance of nourishing our faith, of planting, tending and tasting of it.  It had never occurred to me before that nourishing our faith can be made easier by our environment, but it was very clear to me as I pondered that last night.  Just as it is easier to keep a garden watered and growing and thriving in a warm, humid environment, where the sun shines and rain falls abundantly, I think it is easier to nurture our faith in an environment wherein others nurture it with us.  It is sweet to eat the fruit together, to rejoice together, to work together.  Though the last years have been difficult in many ways, my faith is stronger than ever, and I know that is in part thanks to my faithful community.

Community Garden

This realization led me to another, which is that those who live in a faith desert undoubtedly have a harder time nourishing their little seeds, and coaxing them up into plants which bare fruit.  There are many places, today, where it is so dry that watering one's lawn is frowned upon, or even illegal.  Likewise, I think there are many places where a person's little garden of testimony is frowned upon, and the resources given the garden (hope, belief, a desire for a thing to be true, and acting upon the principle) are scorned.  Instead of "how dare you waste water on your lawn?!" it is "how dare you assert you have truth!" or "how dare you focus on your faith?"  Instead of "how can you expect to make a garden, don't you see this is the desert?" it is "how can you cling to faith--don't you see what a terrible world it is out there?" There is a deceptive sense of scarcity, when really, nurturing faith creates abundance! Instead of "why should you get a garden when everyone else has nothing but dry dirt?" is is "why should you enjoy the peace and spiritual prosperity of the gospel when everyone else is satisfied with the dearth of intellectual correctness."

It makes me think about Lehi's dream, and the people who came and ate the fruit, but then listened to the tauntings and teasings, the mockings and anger of the people in the great and spacious building.  It says they (the partakers of the fruit) "were ashamed."  How can that be?  How can someone be ashamed of relishing in what is sweet and good and right and true?  How can enjoyment of a hard-earned reward be embarrassing?  It could be if the people you are listening to are saying "How dare you? What is wrong with you? Why should you want what we're all fine without?  You think that is good? Hah!  How base to enjoy something so simple.  You have no idea what a fool you look, with that juice dripping down your chin and that smile on your face.  We know better than to enjoy something like that."  But of course, instead, they have nothing to enjoy, other than the satisfaction of not being "taken in" by what is real and rooted, and trading it instead for what is unfounded, but oh so high and mighty.

It makes me sad to consider those deserts of faith.  I know I will not always get to live in this little corner of heaven, this nurturing oasis that has taught me how bounteous and beautiful, how delicious and fulfilling the harvest of faith can be.  How will I guard my little garden then?  How will I feed my children the fruit of faith, that they may know to plant, nourish and reap?  I know it is possible, and the Lord will provide the way.  It will take much more diligence, though, and strength to ignore the ways and words of the world, and eat my sweet fruit without shame, and teach my children to do the same.

Walled Garden with watchtower ;-)

Pearls of Wisdom

Yesterday morning was a rough one, full of anxiety and tears about Isaac's treatments, wondering if they will ever come to an end, and feeling like whatever I do seems not to be enough, and inevitably leads to more difficulty.  I was back in the "rock and a hard place" frame of mind, feeling trapped between bad choices.  It was miserable.  I thought through the normal physical needs that seem to bring on the trouble, but I had slept well, eaten a good breakfast, and exercised already.  Yet I was still so down.

Happily, yesterday was also Mom's Day Out, so with Dorothea and Isaac off my hands I had time to ponder, read the scriptures and pray.  I remembered that I'd meant to fast on Sunday.  It brought so much peace a week ago, but the effect only lasted so long.  Mom fasted every week for many years while we were in Nashville and she was going through depression, I thought it would be a good thing for me, too, only I'd forgotten.  So, I determined to start a fast.  Rather than fast for Isaac, (as I thought even thinking about Isaac's surgery would stress me out) I fasted for myself to feel the presence of the Lord more, to strengthen my relationship with him, and to understand what I should learn during this time of difficulty.

Immediately upon starting the fast, my mood changed.  Instead of feeling weighed down, I felt light and happy.  My blessings were impressed upon my mind.  I thought about being married to Sam, and how wonderful he is and how right for me and how much I've enjoyed getting to have him work from home the last few days.  I thought about how happily Isaac takes his treatments--the casts don't seem to bother him nearly as much as they bother me, and he is active and happy and curious and talkative and very mobile.  He doesn't seem to feel sorry for himself a bit.

I went upstairs to talk to Sam and get ready for the day (I'd gone biking in the morning, which was good!), and couldn't wipe the smile off my face!  In the shower it occurred to me that the Lord wasn't giving me a hard time on purpose, and that it was only my reaction to it, etc., that made it hard.  There was nothing especially dramatic or painful about the time, or Isaac's treatments.  The long drive is . . . long, but has been safe and comfortable and relatively painless.  There is much to be grateful for, and little to be unhappy about, if I would only see it that way.  I felt like the Lord would like me to see it that way, and not to be miserable.  The fact that the treatment is taking longer than I'd originally anticipated is only a matter of expectation, and expectations can certainly be changed.  Anyway, over all, I got a new perspective.

I continued to ponder about what I could learn from my reaction to and feelings about this time throughout the day.  Sunday night Sam had given me a blessing, and one of the things he mentioned is that I would be able to realize I am not alone in my endeavors, but that I have a team of family and friends who are all with me on this. It was a very nice thing to contemplate and open my heart to.  I love having you all on my team, sending your prayers and loving thoughts, calling, visiting, and being so supportive!  Thank you.  I love having a visiting teacher who says "tell me what you need and I can set it up."  I love having the sweet folks at Mom's Day Out, who happily take care of the kids so I can have a break.  I love having Dixie come and talk with me and help me clean.  I love having a bishop who called me in just to check up on me and see if there was anything he could do to take anything off my plate (he offered to talk to the Stake President about letting me be done with my Stake calling for now, and though I don't know what will come of it, I was glad that he assured me it would be fine to take that step.)  I love having kids who love me despite my failings, and remember to pray for Isaac, and for me, and are generally emotionally stable.  I love having Sam who says "I've felt like this time has been pretty good, and peaceful."

Also, I've been listening to "Little Women" on cd.  I started on the long drive, and over the last couple of weeks it has been my treat in the car.  There have been so many wonderful pearls of wisdom that I've loved hearing, and have wanted to savor at length, but driving in the car isn't conducive to writing things down, so they have mostly been lost in the 20 hours of listening.  Yesterday, though, I decided to get one of the cd's to listen to as I folded laundry, and there was a part about Meg, newly married and with twin babies, and how she gets so wrapped up in the care and concerns of her babies, she forgets her husband and herself and ends up miserable, lonely and anxious.  Her mother comes and talks to her about it and reminds her "Try to get out more. Too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you aren't good for anything!"  How true it is! Also, she reminded Meg "You are the sunshine maker of the family.  If you are stormy, there is no fair weather for anyone."  So true, again. Mrs. March counselled Meg to rely more on her "team" of her husband, mother, and the housekeepers of the two houses, and to make herself more agreeable to her husband and to enjoy and participate in life more.

And there was my answer about what I need to learn.  I have learned it, and written about it recently, I know, but it is still settling into my psyche, I think.  I can't wrap myself up entirely in Isaac.  In fact, I sometimes have to lovingly "neglect" him for my sake, and others.  I have to rely on my team better.  And I have to realize that he is more buoyant that I sometimes give him credit for.  I've let him cry himself to sleep a couple of times in the last week, in exhaustion, and he didn't die.  In fact, he didn't even cry very long at all.

So, though I was hungry and almost didn't get dinner on, I feel like the fast was successful.  I feel peaceful again.  I am recommitting to not let Isaac's treatments rule my life, but to treat them instead like the one little thing that they are.  One little part of my wide, interesting, full, happy life.  Perspective instead of myopia, and no more tyranny of little things.

Remind me if I forget!

OOH! OWW!

(The title is a humorous twist on the rhyme scheme ;-)

Oh, Ow!

How sharp the share that plows

soul soil;

affliction tills in rows,

that I may plant

sweet seeds of hope

in heart new-softened now.

Another sower also knows

the power of the pain,

and whether I allow

or no, he casts in doubt 

which quickly grows.

endow

harrow

vow

low

allow

throw

follow

owe

Edit, comment, add!  Fix up the second stanza!

Fast Sunday

Fasting has worked its beautiful magic on my soul today, for the first time in well over a year, and I am so grateful and glad.  The power to subdue my physical body, which body seems to cloud my perspective and darken my vision so much of late, is  precious.  Nearly whatever is ailing me seems to be cured by fasting, whether PMS, depression, myopia or impatience.  This afternoon I experienced that quiet respite as I sat holding Isaac, who had fallen asleep on my chest as I rocked.  Our days in the NICU were recalled and I felt again that deep sweet peace of simply being able to hold my baby.  My impatience about his current treatments faded, and I was blessed with perspective--all will be well whether his surgery is next week or in a month.  He will learn to walk, and will grow up capable and happy.

I sat there, feeling my physical nature subdued and my spiritual nature stronger, and was glad.  I hope I have learned a lot from this particular episode of depression.  "Constant nourishment to mind and body" is something I haven't attended to very diligently before, and I have felt the consequence.  In fasting, it felt as though I had "reset" my physical nature, and can start again and do better.  I've seen and felt the need for fun and recreation as well as work, and for quiet times, too.  Surely play is balancing and nourishing to the soul and to our relationships as much as work is.  Some come from the angle of having to learn to value work, as they only like play.  I've come from the other (equally unhealthy?) side.  I will certainly be a better mother if I can show by my actions that I value play!

Today I shared my testimony of gratitude and how it is an exercise of faith, and a principle of happiness.  It helps us to get through hard times without losing our Foundation and peace and joy.  I've been very grateful for that principle, to get me through hard times in the last couple of years.  I also shared (again?) the experience of my breaking heart, in the NICU, not knowing when I would get to hold my baby, and not knowing if I could stand the wait any longer.  I cried to the Lord in pain and sorrow, and in two days, my baby, whose lungs had been full of fluid (?) and pneumonia cleared up and he was able to get off the ventilator and I was able to hold him.  It was such a sweet, joyful time.  

Well, I'm off to FHE, now, after a delicious nap this afternoon.  It has been a peaceful Sunday!

I missed. . .

September 1st is Isaac's other birthday--in my mind--and I missed it.  It is the anniversary of his getting off the ventilator and beginning a life of breathing on his own, and of our getting to hold him.  It was a miraculous day.  As if in commemoration of it, today, I got some of his medical records in the mail.  I'd requested them in hopes of convincing the Anesthesiologist at Shriners to do his operation there, but that chance is passed.  Nevertheless, the records came today.  A hundred pages at least, and it was really interesting to read back through them and remember how much happened to that sweet little baby.

Now, a year later, my biggest worry was that he was coughing a little and might have a runny nose.  He needs to be totally healthy for surgery in a week and a half, and I am planning on dedicating myself to that purpose as much as possible.  I think I won't take him to the MDO program this week or next, to limit exposure.  And I'm praying for him, and will fast for him, too.  It will be my first time to fast in a very long time (since before he was conceived), and I am looking forward to it.  I have had many experiences with the power of fasting, and it is both physically and spiritually cleansing for me.

 In other news, I had a great day.  The weather has changed, or at least it is vacillating between the 70s and 80s (morning and afternoon) as well as between the 90s and 100s.  Today was the first cool day in a long time.  It was still in the 70s when we went to the park at 11 am, and it was so, so, so wonderful to be outside, in the sun and cool air.  It always seems like such a small, silly thing when people talk about the weather, and yet, it is not small and silly in my world.  So very much is affected by light and dark, sun and rain, hot and cold.  The weather is foundational to our physical experience, half of our soul.

It is 10:30 and I still hear Ethan rustling.  I need to help him settle, and then to bed myself.

"I don't feel like it, I'm tired, maybe I'll get to it later."

I know it sounds like the excuses we hear from children, but they are my own (though echoed by my children with frightening speed after I accidentally utter them aloud.)  Are these always excuses, and indications of laziness that ought to be got over at once?  Are they ever allowable?  And if so, when?

I got to talk to the LDS Social Services counselor yesterday.  He is (as I knew before hand) from my class at school (year and major) and it was a little funny to sit with him, discussing depression and how to overcome it, as if we were studying for a class, and feeling like I had as much to offer as he.  I didn't get the Master's, though, so he certainly has more training, and of course more experience, as I have only my own life to go by, and he has worked with many.  Still, there was more of a feeling of being peers (did I want something else?)  We talked about finding balance, prioritizing (he brought up the Stephen Covey 2 x 2 Matrix of high/low importance/urgency, which Sam had brought up over the weekend on our temple trip and had already had me categorize all my activities) and taking little steps.  I mentioned that I hadn't "carved out time in my day" for stillness/spirituality/scriptures and prayer, and he pointed out that if I feel like I can't do it if I don't have 30-45 mintues, I might never do it at all, and that simply reading one verse is better than nothing, and helps.

The other thing he pointed out (that was a new thought) is that doing what depression tells you to do only ever gets you deeper into the depression hole.  It is a self-perpetuating cycle, and it is important to be able to identify those thoughts that come from depression, recognize them as such, and studiously do or think otherwise.

So, when I am faced with a situation like this evening, with the kitchen needing to be cleaned and in desperate need of a mopping, and all the junk from the car that has accumulated after three car trips (all within a week) needing to be put away, and a fussy, needy baby (I can't figure out why--he isn't usually, and doesn't seem to be tired or hungry or uncomfortable), I just want to walk away from it all.  "I don't feel like it!"  "I'm tired!" and "Maybe later (though I can't at this moment imagine ever wanting to do it)" are all close to the surface.  But are those the voice of depression?  Should I ignore them and press forward?  It is part of my duty, my job description and my life to do those things.  And what example would I be setting for the kids if I just walked away from it? And yet, where in the world do I find the energy to do it?  But that is the trouble with depression--there isn't any emotional energy, yet life must go on.  I do want to overcome it.

It seems like I (might) feel this way especially on days when I have already run myself dry, and that maybe what I ought to do is take a little time for fun, or for myself, and then I will be up for it.  But that isn't the case, that I can tell.  No matter what else has happened during the day (today it was a cast change for Isaac, which went smoothly, and a long drive home, during which I sang with Dorothea, played "I spy" and listened to "Little Women" on cd.  None of that was emotionally taxing.)  Is it just because it is the end of the day?

Anyway, if you have thoughts or advice, please tell me.  I hate feeling this way, but at the moment, don't know what to do about it.