Through my miscarriage, the loss of my baby, I have come to realize that there are formulaic things people say, well-intentioned but misguided. People don't seem to realize that certain phrases just don't provide comfort in certain situations. Other people's pain makes us uncomfortable, and it is instinctual to want to fill uncomfortable moments with words. People are also uncomfortable with their inability to explain why someone is suffering, so they try to find words that they think will help them do that.
Though I understand this basic human reasoning, and have probably made the same mistakes myself, I have found myself lately wishing people knew better. I've mostly been patient, and have accepted people's words as loving gestures. I've tried my best to have grace with everyone, because I know no one would intentionally hurt me. But nonetheless, I decided to make a list of things I wish people would not say to me to explain away my loss.
It was God's plan. I've always been a "God's plan" kind of girl. I have used this phrase often to explain my own changes in life, both losses and wins, and to comfort others in the same way. Then, when the three-year-old daughter of one of my best friends passed away unexpectedly, I finally realized how painfully unhelpful those words really are in a time of loss or grief. In my situation, I don't believe any part of God's plan includes me walking around with a dead baby inside of me for several days, and then having to have it vacuumed and scraped out of my uterus. I believe that God has a plan for me, but it didn't include this tragedy. This tragedy just happened, and though I'm sure someday I'll see how it fits INTO the plan, the phrase, "God has a plan," does not help me or comfort me in this saddest of times. Silence is better.
You'll get pregnant again. No one knows that. And really, people don't know that's even what I want. It is what I want, but people don't know that. What if I never wanted to try again because I was too fearful? Or what if my doctor had told me that I was unable to have another baby? Saying this is proclaiming that you know more than you could possibly know about both mine and God's 'plan'. It's also dismissive of this pregnancy, this baby, as something that can easily be replaced. This baby was special to me, not just a poor shot for which I've been given a mulligan.
Without my miscarriage, I wouldn't have the children I have now, so in a way I'm thankful that it happened. Several women have expressed this feeling to me, and I completely understand the logic. For me personally, I had not planned to have three children. Therefore, if I am lucky enough to get pregnant again and have a healthy baby, I know I will look at that baby and see it for the miracle that it is, just as I do my first child. I know at some point I'll look at that baby and feel thankful for him or her, no matter the circumstances that led to his or her existence. I also know that this is a gesture of sisterhood from women who have been in my shoes before. However, to me, at this moment in time, these words imply that one baby's life is more important or worthy than the other's, and I just can't reconcile that with my feelings for my angel baby.
It wasn't meant to be. Would you say that to a woman who lost a living child? Because really, anything you wouldn't say to someone who lost a living child, you shouldn't say to someone who has miscarried. It's completely understandable to me that others may not see a fetus as a living child, but to me, it was. I formed a bond with that baby from the moment I discovered the miracle growing inside me, and every day of those blessed 16 weeks, I read about what my baby was doing developmentally inside me. I talked to the baby, sang to the baby, rocked back and forth with my hand on my belly and prayed over the baby. Before my baby stopped developing, he or she had a beating heart, fingers and toes, the ability to insert his or her thumb into the mouth, eyes that could move side to side, the beginnings of a developing voice, and next to come were fingerprints. So to me, this baby existed, and therefore was meant to be.
The timing just wasn't right. Actually, the timing was perfect, or I wouldn't have been pregnant in the first place. Saying this dismisses the perfectly timed miracle that was growing inside me. It implies that something just quit working because of a mechanical defect or because it was throwing God's plan off schedule.
You'll see your baby in Heaven. While I believe this to be true, it does not comfort me now, here on earth, while I'm aching to hold my baby in my arms.
At the end of the day, I realize that people need to say something to make themselves feel better, to feel that they have comforted a friend in need. In light of that, here is a list of things that HAVE comforted me through this loss.
I love you.
I'm so sorry for your loss/pain/grief/etc., or just I'm sorry.
I understand, because I've been through it before. Caution: This line only helps if you actually have been through the same experience before. Be cautious with this line.
If you need to talk, I'm here.
I know there is nothing I can say to ease your pain. It helps to know that people recognize this fact.
How are you doing? Someone who has experienced this type of loss doesn't get over it as quickly as you forget that it happened. Especially a mother who has lost a baby who once grew inside her belly. Her heart will ache even when she gets back to living life, when she goes to dinner parties, when she laughs and plays with her precious first child. Her heart will ache, she will feel empty inside, and she will feel alone in her pain, so don't forget to check on her.
If you have a loved one who has experienced the loss of a child, say something, but be careful and thoughtful with the words that escape your lips.
If you are a parent who has lost a child, I welcome you to comment about words that have hurt or helped you along the way.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
God Speaks
God spoke to me today.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
But before I go forward, I must go back.
Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband and I waited expectantly while our doctor tried to locate a heartbeat for our sweet second baby at our 16 week appointment. When he was unable to find the heartbeat using just the Doppler, he assured us everything was fine, but sent us to a second room for a scan to get a better look at the baby.
Looking back now, I knew at that point that something was wrong.
This pregnancy was completely unlike my first, with morning sickness and general discomfort that lasted through each of my waking hours until the 14th week. During the 12th week, I began to experience pain in my hips and groin that made it uncomfortable to walk, sit, lay, pick up my first child, and perform normal daily functions. I assumed all those discomforts were due to the relaxin that was preparing my joints for my second childbirth, only a short 16 months after the first. I assumed all the new pains I experienced were due to the close spacing between my pregnancies, and the fact that my body had never fully recovered from the first.
But looking back, I knew. I had spent countless moments during this pregnancy worrying that I was robbing my first son of his well-deserved alone time with mommy and daddy. I had fretted that I would never have enough room in my heart to love a second child as much as I loved my first, perfect child. I was concerned from the beginning that my morning sickness was a bad sign, but I chose to believe rumors I'd heard that morning sickness was an indication of high levels of good hormones, and was a confident predictor of a healthy pregnancy. I had never felt quite settled throughout this pregnancy, but I chose to ignore the signs and feel hopeful and positive, because surely nothing could happen to my baby.
But looking back, I knew. Just that morning, in the restroom mirror at work, I had paused briefly and thought how strange it was that I could see the outline of my belly button, where just the day before it wasn't visible because of the tightness that had developed due to my growing baby. And only days before this doctor's visit, I had told my husband I wished this visit was a sonogram visit, because I felt the need to see, rather than just hear, our baby. I knew something was amiss, but again I chose hope and positivity.
When our doctor brought the image of our baby up on the screen, I had one last fleeting moment of hope when I saw the outline of the human form, including a beautiful profile of his or her face that I'll never forget. But my final moment of hope was quickly destroyed, replaced with a cascade of emotions and events that spiraled out of my control before I could even take a breath. According to the doctor, our sweet baby had stopped developing around 14 weeks, and now had no heartbeat.
I had been walking around with a dead baby inside my belly for two weeks. Aside from the devastation and sadness I felt at that moment, I'll never forget thinking how strange it was that I was certain I had just felt the baby move that morning, and several other times in the past two weeks. I was certain of these baby flutters, and I never questioned myself because I had so recently gone through the first pregnancy.
Over the course of these last two painful weeks, I have felt more coinciding emotions than I thought possible.
I have felt guilty...for not recognizing something was wrong and insisting the doctor check on my baby sooner. For not being as excited about this pregnancy as I was about the first. For not watching how I ate, drank, slept and exerted myself as carefully as I did with my first. For not spending as many hours with my hand on my belly in prayer as I did with my first. For dancing with my fifth graders when I knew I needed to rest. For any moments of fear or panic that my sweet baby might have felt when in distress. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt embarrassed...for not being cognizant of the fact that something was wrong. For thinking there was a baby moving inside me who was actually dead. For having a body that failed me and my sweet angel baby. For grieving the loss of a child I never even got to meet in person. For not being able to save my baby.
I have felt angry...for being forced to walk around with a dead baby inside me for three more days while I waited for a D and C procedure. For having to have a baby vacuumed and scraped out of my womb. For listening to the non-cynical, optimistic side of myself who told me everything would be fine. For believing that God wouldn't let anything happen to my baby. For all the well-intentioned but insensitive things people say to someone who has lost a child. For the fact that my baby wasn't big enough for the remains to leave any ashes for us to cherish. For not being able to hold and love on my baby before sending him or her to Heaven. For not being able to save my baby.
BUT...I have also felt thankful...for friends and family members, even distant acquaintances, who have reached out in this saddest of times to offer condolences, words of comfort, acts of service, and countless other blessings. I have felt humbled by friends who have lost living children, who have graced me with the honor of considering my loss in any way comparable to theirs. I have felt blessed every moment of every day by my sweet, first baby boy and my loving husband, without whom this experience might have consumed me completely.
I know I have barely begun to grieve, and I know there are so many more ways in which I will feel all of these emotions and more that I can't yet comprehend.
But through all the sadness, the shame, the anger, and the blessings, I have so wished I could lean on my God. I have so wished I could reach out to Him and ask Him for guidance. That I could count on Him not to let me down, and that I could trust that He would lead me, comfort me, protect me, and more importantly, welcome my sweet angel baby home.
But I haven't been able to do this, because I've been struggling with my faith for several months now. Through a progression of tragic events, my faith has been chipped away, dulled by the realization that this God in whom I have so blindly trusted and who I have so faithfully followed, doesn't exact His power to stop bad things from happening to good people, even those I love and even those who are too tiny and defenseless to protect themselves. This realization has caused a rift in my relationship with God that I have been unsure could ever be repaired.
I have spent countless hours in the last year arguing with and pointing my finger at God, and then apologizing for my lack of faith, and for the fact that I am too hurt and angry and confused to speak to and believe in Him. (I have wondered in the last two weeks if all of this arguing and finger-pointing is what caused my baby to be forsaken, which has led to more guilt and anger.)
But today, in my car, God spoke to me.
It needs to be said that though I am not a cynic, I am hesitant to believe in God's ability to speak directly to us. For example, I believe that God places the sunset in our view to remind us of His glory, but I do not believe that God would place a note in my mailbox written by His own hand (a la The Shack). For this reason, what I tell you here seems hokey even to me, but I implore believers and non-believers, cynics and optimists alike, to allow yourselves to be inspired by my story and reminded of His grace, presence and power in our lives. (Disclaimer: HIS refers to God in any form you choose to accept.)
Through the last two weeks, I have had little time to feel my pain. I have had little time to sit and cry, to dwell in this dark place, to be consumed by this all-consuming grief. There have been unforeseen circumstances that have forced me to step up, be strong, and power through each day as though nothing has happened. I personally think I've done a stellar job. ;)
But sometimes, I cry. When I'm in the bathroom alone, I cry. When I'm up and no one else is awake, I cry. When I'm in the car, I cry. I allow myself a few moments to fall apart, and then I pick up the pieces and finish the day.
Today, God found me in my grief, spoke to me, and then moved on to finish His day.
As I drove to a hair appointment, I stared blindly ahead, ignoring the lines on the road, but somehow staying inside them safely enough to get me where I was going; a fine analogy for the last two weeks of my life. I turned on Kari Jobe radio on Pandora, because I felt in need of some spiritual therapy, and music is always my best medicine.
The first song playing was, "You Are For Me," by Kari Jobe. Aside from the fact that this happens to be one of my favorite faith ballads, the words were exactly what my heart needed to hear. "I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me, I know that You would never forsake me in my weakness. I know that You have come here, even if to write upon my heart, to remind me who You are."
I began to cry, unable to sing along due to my failing voice of faith. I cried through most of the song, and as it ended, I whispered a begrudging apology to God. "You took my baby, and this pain, it is so all-consuming, I can't breathe. This grief is filling me until there is no room for You, and I don't know what to do."
As the next song began to play, I actually laughed through my tears. I laughed, because I knew in that moment that God had found me, listened to my cries, and spoken to me.
The next song that played was, "I Will Carry You," by Selah.
The night before I heard this song for the first time, these are the words I read on Amazon as I searched the internet for books of faith on grief. The book I read about was titled "I Will Carry You: The Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy," by Angie Smith.
As I read the book's review, I again felt guilt as I pondered how much harder this woman's journey must have been than mine. I decided to order the book because it seemed such an inspiring story of faith, but I was unaware there was a song by the same name.
In 2008, Angie Smith and her husband Todd (lead singer of the group Selah) learned through ultrasound that their fourth daughter had conditions making her “incompatible with life.” Advised to terminate the pregnancy, the Smiths chose instead to carry this child and allow room for a miracle. That miracle came the day they met Audrey Caroline and got the chance to love her for the precious two-and-a-half hours she lived on earth.
When I saw the title of the song on my console and heard the first few words, I thought to myself, "No. Way." I was still in tears over the last song, and as the song began to play, I listened intently to this woman's journey through the birth and loss of her child, and how her faith is still centered on God, even though her dreams had been crushed by this tragedy.
I continued to cry then because I knew God had found me in my weakness, and had reached out and handed me a song, not to heal me or make my pain go away, but to let me know that He was still there, still watching me, still loving me. God knows me, and He knows that music is the place where I linger for every blessing, celebration, tragedy and sorrow in my life. Music is my heart, and God came to me, in my heart, and spoke to me.
In the smallest of ways, this began to dissipate my anger, my hurt, and my finger-pointing, and it opened the door for healing and the rebuilding of trust. In no way does this make the pain of my tragedy less present or more bearable, but it does provide me some comfort in knowing that even though my faith is being tested, God has not forsaken me. God still believes in me, even if I'm having trouble believing in Him.
For the believers, optimists, cynics, and non-believers alike, I hope you can put aside the hokey evangelicals, the big business of church, the hypocrites, and the crazy-talk of someone who just lost a child, and believe for just a moment that the same God who spoke to me today is there, watching you and loving you too.
-Dedicated to our sweet Angel Baby ('Avocado' Henry). We will miss you always.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Breathe
Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe. When I inhale, it catches halfway, and my eyes well with tears. Most of the time, I don't exhale all the way, because I can sense that if I do, I'll cry.
Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.
Breathing has become such a delicacy to me that I actually focus on it. I actually concentrate on making sure I'm doing it right. This futher hinders my ability to breathe.
Yogic practice dictates that I should breathe in such a way that I can feel it in the back of my throat, Darth Vader-esque; that I should breathe so deep that it fills my belly. This is where peaceful breathing happens.
I rarely feel peaceful.
My yogic breathing happens only when I'm concentrating in the car while driving, after having realized I've been holding my breath and I tell myself "...inhale2, 3, 4...exhale2, 3, 4...". Or while I'm following an instructor during a yoga or pilates class. Unfortunately, driving in the car and exercising are two necessities that are obligatorily squeezed into the vise that has become my daily existence, and therefore provide neither the escape nor relief intended. As a result, I often experience a lack of quality sleep.
Sometimes, when I can't sleep at night, I realize I'm again holding my breath, at which point I revert to the aforementioned car methodology.
Oftentimes, when I catch myself holding my breath, I wonder how long I've been doing it. I wonder, "How long can I actually hold my breath?" But when I concentrate and actually try to hold it, I feel like I'm falling short of the time I might have achieved when just forgetting to breathe, and it frustrates me.
Do I just forget to breathe?
Or is it just that sometimes it seems like holding my breath will put life on hold for even the briefest of seconds? That maybe then, I could catch up.
I blame my genetic makeup. It makes me feel better to think that my inability to breathe is the result of a genetic flaw, rather than to believe that I have created an oxygen-consuming, smothering existence for myself.
Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.
Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.
Breathing has become such a delicacy to me that I actually focus on it. I actually concentrate on making sure I'm doing it right. This futher hinders my ability to breathe.
Yogic practice dictates that I should breathe in such a way that I can feel it in the back of my throat, Darth Vader-esque; that I should breathe so deep that it fills my belly. This is where peaceful breathing happens.
I rarely feel peaceful.
My yogic breathing happens only when I'm concentrating in the car while driving, after having realized I've been holding my breath and I tell myself "...inhale2, 3, 4...exhale2, 3, 4...". Or while I'm following an instructor during a yoga or pilates class. Unfortunately, driving in the car and exercising are two necessities that are obligatorily squeezed into the vise that has become my daily existence, and therefore provide neither the escape nor relief intended. As a result, I often experience a lack of quality sleep.
Sometimes, when I can't sleep at night, I realize I'm again holding my breath, at which point I revert to the aforementioned car methodology.
Oftentimes, when I catch myself holding my breath, I wonder how long I've been doing it. I wonder, "How long can I actually hold my breath?" But when I concentrate and actually try to hold it, I feel like I'm falling short of the time I might have achieved when just forgetting to breathe, and it frustrates me.
Do I just forget to breathe?
Or is it just that sometimes it seems like holding my breath will put life on hold for even the briefest of seconds? That maybe then, I could catch up.
I blame my genetic makeup. It makes me feel better to think that my inability to breathe is the result of a genetic flaw, rather than to believe that I have created an oxygen-consuming, smothering existence for myself.
Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Who says???
Who defined our current philosophy of how best to develop a lifelong relationship?
Today's philosophy is largely built around the concept that everyone has someone with whom they are completely, incomparably, and unequivocally 'meant' to be with from day one. Their likes and dislikes are in complete harmony. They understand each other completely. They never doubt one another and never put less than perfect respect and love into their relationship, and there is not turmoil until babies and bills come along. Things just 'happen' easily, and that means it's perfectly in harmony with the plan of the universe. (Nevermind that half of these people in today's reality find each other by searching endlessly on the internet before they find the person they were 'meant' to be with.)
But in centuries past, women married men in order to strengthen bonds between country leaders, to gain financial stability, or simply to make a family. They disregarded things like social and intellectual compatability, and looked instead for a mate that would provide a solid, stable partner with which to raise a family. They allowed their husbands to be the sole provider, the decision maker, and essentially the ruler of everything that transpired in their life. It was more like a business partnership than a relationship. It doesn't sound very inviting to me, but it worked, didn't it?
In more recent years, my own mother fell in love with my father at first sight, and signed up for a romance that would involve 13 months of separation during the very months of their courtship, due to my father's deployment to Vietnam. She married him and began a life as the wife of an airline pilot. Her expectations, outside of the fact that she loved him, were grounded in financial stability and the ability to raise a family with this man. She did not spend countless hours dwelling on how compatible their interests were, whether or not he held the same religious and political beliefs as her, or whether or not they would want to travel to the same places. And over the years there have no doubt been moments when they both have stopped and thought, "who is this person, and why do I put up with this?" But somehow, without all the training that we have in today's society of compatibility ratings and high expectations, my mother and father have made it through almost 41 years of marital success. (I say success instead of bliss, b/c bliss is an unrealistic expectation we have put on the institution of marriage.) They love their life together. They have learned to appreciate each other's interests, even though many may not have been compatible in the beginning. They travel together, sing together, cook dinners together, and are most certainly happier and more comfortable now, after 41 years of getting to know each other, than they were when they met.
Don't get me wrong. I wholeheartedly believe in finding someone who inspires you to be a better person, who accepts you with all your flaws, who enjoys your company as much as you do theirs, and who shares a good number of interests with you...
But isn't it harder than simple harmony for most? Don't most people have to experience some level of discomfort in either the process of finding a mate or in the process of keeping one? Surely every story can't be a Cinderella story. As the saying goes, relationships are work. Period. (And I believe this to be especially true for a woman such as myself, at the age of 33, with 10+ years of relationship baggage to bring to the table...)
And no, I don't believe that people should just put up with their mate, or that anyone should just take what they can get. But I do believe that for each individual, the situation, the love, the journey...is different. And just because it's different for me than it was for you, or her, or them, doesn't mean it will be any less wonderful or breathtaking or 'meant to be' in the end. It just means it's different, because I'M different from you, and her, and them.
Sometimes it takes more work for one man to build a bridge than it did for the man before him, simply because the second man had to teach himself. Sometimes it takes more work for one woman to raise a child than it did for the woman before her because the second woman's child came with unexpected challenges that surpassed those of the first woman's. But that doesn't mean that the second man shouldn't have built a bridge or the second woman shouldn't have raised a child. It simply means that one had to work a little harder to get what they wanted. But in the process, make no mistake. The second man and woman undoubtedly experienced an equal if not greater amount of joy, satisfaction and success along their journey than their predecessors, and are likely not sorry they made the decision to follow it through to the end.
Who knows?
Today's philosophy is largely built around the concept that everyone has someone with whom they are completely, incomparably, and unequivocally 'meant' to be with from day one. Their likes and dislikes are in complete harmony. They understand each other completely. They never doubt one another and never put less than perfect respect and love into their relationship, and there is not turmoil until babies and bills come along. Things just 'happen' easily, and that means it's perfectly in harmony with the plan of the universe. (Nevermind that half of these people in today's reality find each other by searching endlessly on the internet before they find the person they were 'meant' to be with.)
But in centuries past, women married men in order to strengthen bonds between country leaders, to gain financial stability, or simply to make a family. They disregarded things like social and intellectual compatability, and looked instead for a mate that would provide a solid, stable partner with which to raise a family. They allowed their husbands to be the sole provider, the decision maker, and essentially the ruler of everything that transpired in their life. It was more like a business partnership than a relationship. It doesn't sound very inviting to me, but it worked, didn't it?
In more recent years, my own mother fell in love with my father at first sight, and signed up for a romance that would involve 13 months of separation during the very months of their courtship, due to my father's deployment to Vietnam. She married him and began a life as the wife of an airline pilot. Her expectations, outside of the fact that she loved him, were grounded in financial stability and the ability to raise a family with this man. She did not spend countless hours dwelling on how compatible their interests were, whether or not he held the same religious and political beliefs as her, or whether or not they would want to travel to the same places. And over the years there have no doubt been moments when they both have stopped and thought, "who is this person, and why do I put up with this?" But somehow, without all the training that we have in today's society of compatibility ratings and high expectations, my mother and father have made it through almost 41 years of marital success. (I say success instead of bliss, b/c bliss is an unrealistic expectation we have put on the institution of marriage.) They love their life together. They have learned to appreciate each other's interests, even though many may not have been compatible in the beginning. They travel together, sing together, cook dinners together, and are most certainly happier and more comfortable now, after 41 years of getting to know each other, than they were when they met.
Don't get me wrong. I wholeheartedly believe in finding someone who inspires you to be a better person, who accepts you with all your flaws, who enjoys your company as much as you do theirs, and who shares a good number of interests with you...
But isn't it harder than simple harmony for most? Don't most people have to experience some level of discomfort in either the process of finding a mate or in the process of keeping one? Surely every story can't be a Cinderella story. As the saying goes, relationships are work. Period. (And I believe this to be especially true for a woman such as myself, at the age of 33, with 10+ years of relationship baggage to bring to the table...)
And no, I don't believe that people should just put up with their mate, or that anyone should just take what they can get. But I do believe that for each individual, the situation, the love, the journey...is different. And just because it's different for me than it was for you, or her, or them, doesn't mean it will be any less wonderful or breathtaking or 'meant to be' in the end. It just means it's different, because I'M different from you, and her, and them.
Sometimes it takes more work for one man to build a bridge than it did for the man before him, simply because the second man had to teach himself. Sometimes it takes more work for one woman to raise a child than it did for the woman before her because the second woman's child came with unexpected challenges that surpassed those of the first woman's. But that doesn't mean that the second man shouldn't have built a bridge or the second woman shouldn't have raised a child. It simply means that one had to work a little harder to get what they wanted. But in the process, make no mistake. The second man and woman undoubtedly experienced an equal if not greater amount of joy, satisfaction and success along their journey than their predecessors, and are likely not sorry they made the decision to follow it through to the end.
Who knows?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Good for you stuff that I love!
HOT TEAS (though I also love to pour them over ice during the day)...
Tazo Zen (green tea with a hint of mint)
Bigelow Constant Comment (green tea with orange and spice)
Twinnings Peppermint (caffeine free; said to calm a bloated or upset tummy, and also refreshing!)
Bigelow Sweet Dreams (chamomile and mint; relaxing and fruity)
FRUIT/VEGGIES/NUTS
Most recent recommendation that I LOVE is cucumber slices with lime juice yum yum!
Roasted chickpeas - roasted for 30 min at 350 (tossed with olive oil and seasoning of choice)
Roasted nuts of any kind on almost anything, and especially in tuna/chk salad
Lemon juice as the dressing for my salad; if you're sensitive to sour, mix in a little olive oil and a drop of honey
Raw asparagus - so crunchy and yummy by itself, but also good with a little dip (esp. hummus b/c it's so good for you!)
SWEET TREATS
Lindt dark chocolate truffles - 73 calories and 6 grams of fat ea., but they're extremely rich and 1 usually satisfies my sweet tooth and chocolate craving for a while
Sliced bananas with chocolate frozen yogurt or ice cream (I like Haagen Daas FIVE - all natural, only 5 ingredients)
Sweet homemade snack mix - roasted walnuts/dried cherries/dark chocolate chips
Tazo Zen (green tea with a hint of mint)
Bigelow Constant Comment (green tea with orange and spice)
Twinnings Peppermint (caffeine free; said to calm a bloated or upset tummy, and also refreshing!)
Bigelow Sweet Dreams (chamomile and mint; relaxing and fruity)
FRUIT/VEGGIES/NUTS
Most recent recommendation that I LOVE is cucumber slices with lime juice yum yum!
Roasted chickpeas - roasted for 30 min at 350 (tossed with olive oil and seasoning of choice)
Roasted nuts of any kind on almost anything, and especially in tuna/chk salad
Lemon juice as the dressing for my salad; if you're sensitive to sour, mix in a little olive oil and a drop of honey
Raw asparagus - so crunchy and yummy by itself, but also good with a little dip (esp. hummus b/c it's so good for you!)
SWEET TREATS
Lindt dark chocolate truffles - 73 calories and 6 grams of fat ea., but they're extremely rich and 1 usually satisfies my sweet tooth and chocolate craving for a while
Sliced bananas with chocolate frozen yogurt or ice cream (I like Haagen Daas FIVE - all natural, only 5 ingredients)
Sweet homemade snack mix - roasted walnuts/dried cherries/dark chocolate chips
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Martyr Much?
Thoughts on being a giver...
I've always been a giver. My sister describes it as a 'save the world' mentality. I want to do for others and take care of others, no matter what the cost to myself. It's instinctual for me, so it's the only way I feel comfortable. However, it's a catch 22, b/c I also have an inherent need to have my efforts acknowledged. I wonder, does that make me a martyr? I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to be someone who only gives to others for the accolade. On the flip side, I want to be selfless without being a doormat. So I wonder...Where, exactly, is the line drawn? I have a terrible fear of being taken advantage of and being someone's fool, to the point where it lessens my desire to give when my efforts are not reciprocated or acknowledged. However, I sometimes give at the cost of my own happiness or desires, and as a result I become resentful of those for whom I'm caring. It's so frustrating, and there is no other time than when I struggle with this vice, that I wish more wholeheartedly that I could be more like Jesus.
So that's my goal for tomorrow, to fix my eyes on Jesus, to open my heart to caring and giving selflessly and cheerfully. At the end of the day, isn't Jesus a bit of a doormat for mankind?
I've always been a giver. My sister describes it as a 'save the world' mentality. I want to do for others and take care of others, no matter what the cost to myself. It's instinctual for me, so it's the only way I feel comfortable. However, it's a catch 22, b/c I also have an inherent need to have my efforts acknowledged. I wonder, does that make me a martyr? I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to be someone who only gives to others for the accolade. On the flip side, I want to be selfless without being a doormat. So I wonder...Where, exactly, is the line drawn? I have a terrible fear of being taken advantage of and being someone's fool, to the point where it lessens my desire to give when my efforts are not reciprocated or acknowledged. However, I sometimes give at the cost of my own happiness or desires, and as a result I become resentful of those for whom I'm caring. It's so frustrating, and there is no other time than when I struggle with this vice, that I wish more wholeheartedly that I could be more like Jesus.
So that's my goal for tomorrow, to fix my eyes on Jesus, to open my heart to caring and giving selflessly and cheerfully. At the end of the day, isn't Jesus a bit of a doormat for mankind?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Teacher musings
On the subject of teaching kids to fight...
To each his own. My father taught me not to take crap, and to always stand up for what I believe. And if I'd have been a boy, he likely would have taught me how to throw a punch in case I ever needed to. However, he would have FIRST taught me to follow the appropriate steps, such as verbal communication and asking for help, before resorting to physical violence as a last resort, to be used only if all else had failed. I don't think there is anything wrong with teaching kids to stand up for themselves. I do, however, think it's wrong to teach a kid that they can whine and cry behind closed doors, never approach authority for help, and then punch somebody in the face and be patted on the back for it. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
On the subject of 'what'...
I know we here in the south are oddballs, and the only ones left in the free world who think it's necessary to use yes ma'am, no ma'am, yes sir and no sir. However, I would like for parents to at the very least teach their kids that the following are not appropriate responses to give the teacher, or anyone else for that matter... What? Huh? Why? Why not? Do I have to? No.
I can't count the number of times in a day I call a student's name, only to be retorted to with, "Whuut?" I'd prefer, under almost any circumstance, that when I ask a question, call a student's name, give a set of instructions, or ask for a favor, that the students would simply and to the point say, "Yes ma'am" or even just a simple "Yes" would do fine. Yes ma'am it would.
On the subject of whole class punishments, for those who are against it...
Compare it to team sports. During a football game, when there is a foul resulting from the actions of one player, the entire team is penalized with lost yards. Nobody seems to mind when they're watching the Super Bowl. Just sayin'...
To each his own. My father taught me not to take crap, and to always stand up for what I believe. And if I'd have been a boy, he likely would have taught me how to throw a punch in case I ever needed to. However, he would have FIRST taught me to follow the appropriate steps, such as verbal communication and asking for help, before resorting to physical violence as a last resort, to be used only if all else had failed. I don't think there is anything wrong with teaching kids to stand up for themselves. I do, however, think it's wrong to teach a kid that they can whine and cry behind closed doors, never approach authority for help, and then punch somebody in the face and be patted on the back for it. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
On the subject of 'what'...
I know we here in the south are oddballs, and the only ones left in the free world who think it's necessary to use yes ma'am, no ma'am, yes sir and no sir. However, I would like for parents to at the very least teach their kids that the following are not appropriate responses to give the teacher, or anyone else for that matter... What? Huh? Why? Why not? Do I have to? No.
I can't count the number of times in a day I call a student's name, only to be retorted to with, "Whuut?" I'd prefer, under almost any circumstance, that when I ask a question, call a student's name, give a set of instructions, or ask for a favor, that the students would simply and to the point say, "Yes ma'am" or even just a simple "Yes" would do fine. Yes ma'am it would.
On the subject of whole class punishments, for those who are against it...
Compare it to team sports. During a football game, when there is a foul resulting from the actions of one player, the entire team is penalized with lost yards. Nobody seems to mind when they're watching the Super Bowl. Just sayin'...
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