Things I Can't Say...

Tears fall and I can't help it. My heart aches and it hurts to remember, to feel, and yet 

I can't stop feeling. 

I've tried over the years to not let this part of my heart hurt, or remember... 

but how could I ever expect it to forget?

And so, when it is three days after my own daughter's birthday...

five days after Ryan's...

the 20th of July, October 6th, each January, every August...

always when it is the week of Thanksgiving... 

and with every Cowboy Christmas Tree I see...

and again tonight, and so many nights, when I have just looked through pictures of her boys with their grins and girlfriends and new fiancee, and her daughters with their beautiful faces, beautiful hair and beautiful eyes...

I cry. 

I cry, I cry, and I cry.

You see...

many years ago I had a friend, a beautiful friend. She was good, and strong. She was determined, and worked hard to do what she felt was right. She was a good mommy and fiercely protective of her babies. She put up with me because I married her husband's best friend... and then as time went on, there came a time when she actually loved me for me, and was a friend as friends should be. 

And then, 

her heart broke.

How could it not? Her babies went to heaven and part of her heart went with them. 

But what she didn't know was that my heart was broken too. 

I loved her babies, I loved her children. I loved her, and didn't know how to help her, didn't know how to take away her pain. How could I? How could anyone? 

Nobody can understand the pain a mother feels who has lost a child until one of their own returns home to heaven's arms. And nobody could understand my friend's pain, for she lost three. 

And so, as much as I tried, I didn't help her. I couldn't help her. And the more I tried, the more I hurt her. The more I reminded her that her babies were gone, and mine were still here. The more I reminded her that she was hurt, and that there was no way I could know, could understand, or could ever be enough of a friend.

She had been there for me through some of my own tough times, and now she needed a friend and 

I wasn't enough. I couldn't be.

In fact by trying, I pushed her farther and farther away. 

Her memories are different than mine. She remembers I put my baby down in front of her, hurting her more, twisting the knife that was already slicing through her heart, searing her with pain. 

I remember I left my baby home, even arguing with my husband because I refused to bring the baby with us. He didn't think it would matter, but I knew it would. 

I didn't want to hurt her, and so I wouldn't bring the baby. 

But in her memory, my baby was there anyway. 

She remembers that I left dishes in the sink, laundry on the floor, and folded the towels wrong. 

I remember that I cleaned the kitchen counters, folded the baskets of clothes, and cleaned up after 

her baby was born.

She remembers that I upset her kids, ruined her mop, and was tempted to leave my marriage, my love.

I remember that I babysat so she could have a break. I held her little boy while he whimpered in pain with a tube in his belly, praying for Jesus to help him know how much he was loved and to ease the pain. I remember that I worked hard to mop the floors and have her house clean when she came home, so that she could rest some more before their family came over to barbecue.

I remember that I didn't leave, that I learned to love more, and that 

I never once gave her reason to be ashamed.

I can't change her mind. She never thought to ask what I remembered, why, or what I was thinking. 

It doesn't matter.

But it does hurt. Still. 

How can I change her memory?

How can I take away that pain?

How can I take heal those hurts? They are bigger than me.

I tried. Believe me I tried. I tried everything from talking to her, to not talking to her, to reaching out to her, to staying out of her way, and everything I could think of in between. 

And that seemed to work the best. To stay away. To just stop coming around. To say hi from a distance, if we happened to meet. To stay away from her memories, away from her pain. To leave her to her hurts, her healing, and her new friends. 

And she has healed. She is still healing. 

She still loves, she still aches, but she is happy.

She enjoys life. 

She enjoys her kids.

She is still a good mommy.

And still fiercely protective. 

She is healthy, and beautiful, and loved.

Jesus brought her peace. He rocks her babies, and holds her heart in His hands when it feels like shattering. At least, that's what I believe.

She still doesn't understand me, and still doesn't believe that I didn't bring my baby to the viewing. 

In her memory, I still taunt. 

I still represent pain. 

I would suppose seeing me brings back waves of emotion, but I know better. 

She is past me. Past my friendship, however weak and meager it may have been. 

But there is one thing I cherish. A card she gave me with a floral wreath 

made into the shape of a heart, before her babies went to live in Heaven. 

Before I caused her so much pain.

Inside, it simply says, "Just because I love you. Thanks for being my best friend."

And if there is one thing I could say to her still, it would be this...

"I love you too. 

Thanks for teaching me so much.

I am glad you are happy. I am glad you found peace, and smiles, and joy. 

 I miss you."

With love,

Your Friend

Baby K with his Dad

Though I wish circumstances were different for this baby and his parents, I fully support his parents in giving him the best life they can, full of love and nurture, involvement and respect. Brig - you're holding a little bit of innocence. Make the best life you can for him, brother. And let me know if there is something I can do to help you on your new journey as a Dad.

Love you, Rachel

Baby K

 Maybe it is simply the innocence of a newborn child, or perhaps it is that the love between a mother and a child is one of the strongest bonds of love there is... 

whatever the reason, a mother in love with her child is a beautiful thing.  

Quilla asked me to take some pictures of her with Baby K. 

She had some of him individually -- but no pictures of them together. 

Here they are Quilla... may you always gaze into your baby's eyes like he is brand new.

Enjoy the pictures.

 - Rachel

Bricks

It's no secret, I get depressed. Have for years. Had a hell of a time over the past couple years fighting it and dealing with it. You probably get sick of reading about it on this blog. Guess what. I get sick of living it.

I was diagnosed as "clinically depressed" 9 years ago. And for 7 years, I fought that diagnosis and fought the reality of what I was facing. I fought and fought and worked and worked and took the herbal remedies and the natural solutions and the vitamins and the oils and the homeopathics and the advice and helpful suggestions wherever I could. I changed my diet, I ate this instead of that. I cut out sugar. I ate protein at every meal. I balanced my electrolytes, my iron, my vitamin C. I got vitamin b shots. I took vitamin b drops. I pounded omega 3's, 6's, and 9's. I had lavender baths. I worked on the contributing factors where I could recognize them. I read books and took walks and worked out. I exercised daily, and put more miles on my stroller walking around the small town I lived in one summer than I did on my van.  I took supplements of this and supplements of that, vitamins and minerals and calcium and got lots of sunshine and breaks from the kids and took time for me. I sought help and solutions in every way shape or form I could find them, except for the drugs that the doctors offered.  I did mental reconditioning and surrounded myself with positive reinforcing statements and affirmations posted all over my house and even inside my cupboard doors.  I prayed and I prayed and I prayed and I read and I did everything I knew how to do. For seven years.

And then, I snapped.

There were definitely a lot of contributing factors. As much as I did to try to reverse the situation and make sure that with each baby I wasn't going to have to deal with postpartum depression... in the end, real life kicks in. The icing on the cake, of course, was the new baby and all that came with him.  And while it helps to define the factors involved, the end result is what I have to deal with on a daily and consistent basis. This new me. This me post-baby-number-seven. This me post-mental breakdown.

I was forever changed.

I needed help. I knew it. I could feel myself at the edge of a cliff and knowing that if I didnt' get help soon there would be no more Rachel. There would be no more me. At the time, I was inexplicably terrified of driving, or I would have gotten in the van, drove off, and never come back. I don't kno were I would be. I have no idea. And I don't ever want to find out.

I couldn't handle the baby. I couldn't handle the kids. I couldn't deal with the stress. I was shutting down more and more and more. Like quicksand, it was surroundg me, pulling me farther in, and every effort to not surrender to it sunk me farther and farther.

My last ditch effort to have Ryan finally understand where I was at, was a miracle that at that point I could even express it to him adequately.  I knew that if I didn't get help, I would die. I knew I was cracking, splintering, and that if I didn't get help I would be in a million pieces on the floor and there would be no way to fix what was wrong. I had been bad off before, but this was nothing like I'd ever experienced.

I remember just bawling and bawling and saying over and over "I need help." It was three in the morning, I think, before he realized the extent of what I was saying. And to his credit, he got me help. He drove me to the doctor's office the next day. He filled my prescription, and held me as I went through the rollercoaster from hell that comes with getting on, and off, those drugs.

He has been amazing, and I rely on his strength and fortitude. It is no wonder I miss him so much when he is gone working.

Now, it's two years later, and I still hate the drugs.  I worked hard, and with the help of my husband, my family, and my friends, and especially with the help of beautiful priesthood blessings, I was able to get off the drugs and stay off of them. It has been 11 months since I last took my prescriptions, and I'm proud of it. But I still can't throw the rest of them out. They are expired, and I don't ever want to take them again, and yet I can't throw them away. I panic.

Partly why I panic is because of days like today. Days when I should be fine, when there is nothing "wrong", and definitely nothing to be crying about. And yet I do. Even more than crying, I sit, with a weight upon my back, like forty tons of brick pressing down on me. I curl up and tears stream down my face and my head swirls round and round.  I can't move. I can't vocalize. I don't function.

What I've found I have to do is label the bricks. Try to identify them. And visually, forcibly, remove them from my back, off my shoulders, out of my lap, and set them down. Sometimes I can set them aside. Sometimes I don't know where to put them, and I have to give them to Father in Heaven and ask Him to take care of them for me. I have to recognize if I'm carrying the bricks that belong to someone else, taking on their stress or responsibility.

Sometimes the bricks are fragile and whe I go to pick them up, the bricks in that particular pile will break apart and fall back down on me, and I have to pick each piece up carefully and set it aside gently, because those feelings are so real and so raw.

And if someone comes along and asks "how are you?" I smile cheerfully. I answer the phone as though nothing is wrong. Even if they could see the bricks, they would not recognize what I was doing. I just try to shrug and make it look like there is nothing wrong.  I'm quite good at it actually. There probably isn't anyone I came in contact with today that realized just how much I was struggling. 

At least, until Joe called. Somehow he could tell, even before he called.  Maybe he read my last post, maybe he was just prompted.  I don't know. But I hope he also knows how much it means that he did call. That he does care. That he listens to me and doesn't make me feel bad for being weighed down by my load of bricks today. That he doesn't remind me it's all just in my head. That he doesn't make me feel like I'm just wrong for how I feel.

Thank you Joe. And thank you Father, for a brother who loves me so much. And for helping me to know...

I will be okay. One brick, one day, at a time.

A Good Day With PPD

Originally Posted January 10, 2009

If you've ever had a kid then you know people always ask about the baby.  "How is the new baby?"  they'll say.  "How are you liking that new baby?"  and "Aren't you just loving that new baby?" 

My response "Oh, he's so cute!"  And he is. The truth is, the baby is fine.  I like the baby. I love the baby. 

Some very thoughtful people who know I've struggled with postpartum depression in the past even ask about me.  "How are you doing?"  they'll say.  "How are you holding up?"  And I say "I'm doing okay!  Ryan's been awesome and we're lucky he's been able to be home with the kids to help so much."

And, that's the truth.  Ryan is awesome, he has been SO very extremely helpful. And I am okay.  After all, I'm not drowning the kids like you sadly hear about sometimes in the news.  I'm not even stabbing myself like 'this woman' did.  And, the very fact that I am talking to them in person or on the phone means that I really am doing okay - that day.  There are, after all, times when I can psyche myself up to function and talk myself into doing something fairly normal like having a conversation with someone.  But for those who really dig deeper, and I mean dig because I'm not the one to usually spill my guts unless you do dig... here is the bigger truth.

The bigger truth is that indeed, I have PPD again.  I thought I was doing pretty well.  I think I was really.  And then I had trouble nursing the baby because I got some flesh eating bacteria and nursing was out of the question, so I started pumping when absolutely necessary and bottle feeding formula the rest of the time.  The result?  My hormones shifted WAY to fast and furious I guess... because I got slammed and knocked on my rear and PPD this time took on a whole new form of torture. 

I have good days.  These are the days where I spend most of my time in my bedroom but I'm not crying the whole day, just part of it.  The children will run in and out of my room and talk to me and I can handle it for the most part or at least for short periods of time before I redirect them to "go get a drink" or "go check on your brother" or "go... whatever."  I do enjoy them around me, just for very short periods of time and not all at once and not if they are talking much above a loud whisper.  

I know that it is crazy to have this many children and yet not be able to tolerate them around me and I have to remind myself that again it is the rollercoaster of hormonal and chemical imbalance raging within me that causes me to be so sensitive to overstimulation because that's not how I feel.  I feel completely wound up and like a horrible mother because I am and because it takes so much work for me to have them around me for more than 30 seconds before I want to freak out on them.  Everything is magnified. Smells, feelings, and sounds especially.  But I am grateful too.  Grateful that I have learned methods of coping with this from past experiences so that even though I am feeling like a crazed psychotic woman -- at least I am not acting like a scary mother from hell. Odd yes, and they do notice that I'm different... but still I'm grateful that I have learned that I can close my eyes and breathe instead of scream and yell.  I can ask them to leave when I first feel the keyed up feelings instead of waiting til I'm past my blowing point. I'm grateful that I have children who still run back in a few minutes later because they love me. 

Today is a good day, and I'm glad for it.  Now if I could only get my good days to be my bad days I'd feel much better.  

(As always, I love to hear your comments.  Drop me an email at bookwishlist@myubah.com)

A Single Rose...

Originally posted January 10, 2009

Bouncing a screaming baby as you walk up and down the hall isn’t anything new.  Anyone who has ever had kids knows what I’m talking about.  Well, that’s what I did tonight. At 8:30 I said prayers with the children and put them to bed. At 8:31 Jonnie started screaming because ... a bubble?  I’m not sure but I think that’s why. (If you are one of those really great moms who has it figured out why the baby is screaming this time... feel free to leave me your great wisdom.)

Walk down the hall bouncing my screaming baby.

Walk back down the hall and put Braelin back in bed.

Walk down the hall bouncing.

Walk back and put Braelin in bed again.

Bounce the baby.

Put Braelin in bed.

Bounce the baby.

Put Braelin in bed.

You get the picture.  This continued from 8:30 til 10:00 when the baby finally fell asleep.  Then I picked Braelin up and started walking him up and down the hall.  I know, I should be firm and make him stay in bed, but what can I say?  He just had his world rocked with a new baby too, so I’m a pushover. 

Well, that worked great til 10:10 when the baby woke back up screaming. Braelin went back to bed, I bounced Jonnie again and we started the process all over.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed. 

At 10:30 I finally gave up on keeping Braelin in bed. Jonnie went back to sleep at 11:05.  At 11:10 I could hear Ryan walk in the door from a late night at work. And, at 11:11, the baby woke back up. I put my head in my hands and let him cry for a minute before I picked him back up and started bouncing again... but as I reached the end of the hallway, Ryan was there holding a single red rose.   

And that’s how I’m able to still keep doing what I do...   Thanks Ryan.

(To my readers: As always, I love to hear your comments!  Drop me an email at bookwishlist@myubah.com)