The Power of I Love You

You might think, after 23 years, that celebrating my older son's birthday would be easier. That it would be a happy blip on February 20th that involved a little singing and a special dessert. You might think that and have every reason to believe it is true. But it is never easy. It is never just a "blip," never involves singing, never involves dessert. It is bittersweet, not just happy.

When Benjamin was born, at 12:30 a.m. after 32 hours of labor and, ultimately, a caesarean section, I was freezing. I had never been nor would I ever be, so cold. While I was exhausted from being in labor and tired of being pregnant (he was 18 days late), I was not ready to relinquish him. My body tried to hold onto him as long as it could.

Ben was adopted. He grew up in a home where he was loved and adored and cherished. He wasn't very far from me geographically. His parents provided me with detailed letters about his life and included photographs so I could see his smile and the cicada on his nose and how many people around him were beaming at him. Through these letters I learned about the technology being used to combat his hearing loss and that he loved batman and skateboarding and playing the drums. But I didn't know what his voice sounded like or what his favorite food was or if his hands still looked like my mother's.

I am lucky that I am able to communicate with Ben. We send text messages to one another and, recently, photographs. He sent one yesterday with his mother and thanked me for being gracious in receiving it and asking about his family. I tried to explain that it was gratitude, not grace, that fueled my interest. I shared with him a bit about my first interactions with his parents, that they had a "baby" phone and that he often had the hiccups while I was pregnant. And I thanked him for sending a recent photo that included his hand because one of the things I wondered was if I would recognize them. His response was one of the greatest gifts I could receive; he not only said "I love you" but he showed me. And his hands still look like my mother's.

What I learned from Grace

I never met Grace... I never even knew she was sharing my world other than the peripheral knowledge that my coworker, my friend, had a daughter. But in the two weeks since Grace died, she is someone from whom I learned very much. And someone I wish I had known. Grace was loved... adored even. She shared laughter and joy and silliness with those around her.

At her memorial, I was touched - literally - by other people in attendance. I hugged and held hands with people I hadn't seen in months, years. I was struck by the admiration for Grace by those who knew her. And struck by the impact she had on so many. I smiled when I learned she was a "Whovian" and wondered who her favorite Doctor was?

Her mother called her courageous, brave and while I don't doubt she was, I thought that most certainly her parents are brave. I don't know that I would have the strength to survive such a loss. And I thought of my parents and my struggle. I remembered my father gently telling me all he could do was hope I would hold on but he couldn't make me do anything.

Mostly I hoped that Grace could feel the love that those gathered had for her. That she knew she had made a difference and would be remembered, even by those who never had the privilege to meet her.

Ouch!

If asked, I would tell you that I have grown a lot in the last five years. That I have become more accountable, more confident, HAPPIER! I am most certainly a work in progress but have come a long way. Crying under my desk? Not on your life! Crying AT my desk? Only if I have been laughing a lot. Hiding in my closet? Nope. But there are some mistakes I am evidently destined to repeat until the lesson is learned... but I thought it had been?

Can progress only be measured by an absolute? Or do we allow ourselves the opportunity to re-examine and re-process events? Is anticipation of a different outcome a sign of maturation? Maybe there are no answers. Or maybe these questions are merely an excuse not to call myself a dumbass who did it again.

I want to argue that baby steps are still steps. And that each experience does build character and provide answers that we previously did not have. I want to soothe my hurt feelings by making note of all that is actually, really, I can prove that this is different, different.

But if I sit with how I feel, if I acknowledge my actions that were the catalyst for all this introspection, I have to take responsibility. I am in charge and I allowed my ego to get bruised.  And I walked in with eyes wide open (even if I was ignoring the little voice in my ear). And, in some ways, this is different because I can see that there is still room for growth. And accept that, maybe, I am not all the way there yet. Which gives me hope that one day, I will be.

What "thank you" can mean

Yesterday was my ten year anniversary at my job. It is the longest I have worked anywhere. Compared to many at my place of business, I am still a newbie; there are those here who have worked more than 20 years, a few more than 30. It is a good place to work and I count it as one of my blessings daily.

Something pretty special happened today though, I was able to say thank you to the woman who helped me get this job. Ten years and 3 months ago I had just been laid off and was a bit frantic. One of the first things I did was register with the Job Employment Center and Program offered by the County where I work. I met with a woman there weekly for three months. We revamped my resume for every different application I submitted. We practiced interviewing and I "checked in" with her. When I was my most discouraged she reminded me that I wasn't doing this alone and offered me encouragement. And today she walked into my office. And today she gave me a high five. And today she told me I made her day.

I hope she knows all that she made of me 10 years ago. I hope she knows that I learned from her and that I appreciate how well she balanced encouragement and "sticktoit-tiveness." She never let me wallow or feel sorry for myself but she never chastised me or treated my situation as something of my own making. She helped me better myself. And she helped me get a job I truly love. And today, today, I had the privilege of offering a belated but very heartfelt "thank you."

Domestic Violence is Deadly

It is time for my annual post about Domestic Violence. Some may classify it as a rant but really, it isn't. What it really is is an attempt to open people's eyes. Educate people about something that isn't talked about nearly enough. To make the struggles women have bigger than their breasts and the ubiquitous pink that is more prevalent than even Pumpkin Spice EVERYTHING. Okay, maybe there is a little ranting but not much, I promise.

Domestic Violence Awareness month began as a "Day of Unity" in 1981. It was aimed as connecting advocates who work to end the violence against women and their children. It was a nation-wide observance that evolved into week and focused on:

• Mourning those who have died because of Domestic Violence
• Celebrating those who have survived
• Connecting those who work together to end violence

Fast-forward 6 years to October 1987 and the first Domestic Violence Awareness Month. The "Day of Unity" is still celebrated, now on the first Monday of October (this year it is October 5).

The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer during her lifetime is a little less than 1 in 8, but the likelihood of a woman being the victim of domestic violence is 1 in  4 - so twice as many women suffer at the hands of an intimate partner as do from breast cancer. Viewed through a different lens, not quite a quarter of million will get breast cancer, but 1.3 million will suffer at the hands of an intimate partner.

I am not trying to say that breast cancer is easy. Or should be forgotten or break-throughs neglected. What I am trying to say is that women are stronger when they are helping other women and a wonderful way to do that is to bring attention to domestic violence so that it decreases. When Susan G. Komen's family started advocating for breast cancer research and a cure it was a much more devastating disease. But pink-lidded yogurt and pink-ribboned NFL teams have opened many eyes - think what a wave of purple can do to open eyes to Domestic Violence!

While inundated with pink this month give a little thought to her cousin, purple. Wear purple on the 6th for Purple Day - any shade will work. And while you are building camaraderie and increasing awareness on your breast cancer walk, share some domestic violence facts with those who may not know. And maybe one day we will be celebrating that Domestic Violence has been cut in half. Maybe. One day.

Just a nurse?

I haven't written in a long time. Not that there haven't been many things on which I could expound. Not that there haven't been endless things about which I have an opinion. Not for any reasons other than being busy and enjoying summer and a teensy bit of writer's block that I am pretending to ignore.

But yesterday I caught up on the #showmeyourstethescope movement and I was awed. Stunned. Moved to tears and laughter. And not by the stupid women on "The View" who seem to be living under a rock of entitlement and idiocy but by the OUTPOURING of support for those that provide nursing care. I spent hours, literally hours, reading the posts on the facebook page  Show Me Your Stethoscope and learned a lot. About people who care and give and devote their lives to making other people's lives better.

You should visit the page. Read some of the stories, especially those by family members who have been touched by the kindness of a nurse. Or those from doctors who make it very clear how much they depend on nurses. I especially loved the one where the doctor stated he was a physician because he wasn't brave enough to be a nurse.

My mother is a nurse. She is now a provider (a nurse practitioner with lots of letters after her name) but the fundamental part of her training is still that on which she relies every day - caring about each and every patient. When my son was born and I was struggling to learn to feed him, he couldn't swallow all the milk in his mouth. I was 25 and terrified and pushed the call button. And I still get teary-eyed remembering the stampede of people who ran to my room, so many nurses they couldn't all get into the room. But I needed help and they came. Immediately. The nurses in the Emergency Room who knew my grandmother was dying but treated her like a queen anyway because dignity is a given for patients, not something reserved for only a few. And we, her family, were included in that treatment. I have a multitude of stories about the nurses who have touched my life and who I admire. And I couldn't do it, not for an hour much less a lifetime. It isn't that I don't care but I just don't have what it takes to do what they do - it is a calling.

So hug a nurse today, or say thank you to one. Support the companies that are supporting our nurses by not advertising on "The View" (Johnson & Johnson, McCormick, Party City, Snuggle, Eggland's Best to name a few). And read the stories on "Show Me Your Stethoscope" and be awed.

Just the beginning

MAXIMO: The greatest. 

When I was pregnant with Max, one of the definitions I read said "will do great things." We chose to name him after a grandfather and a great-grandfather. Not to burden him with expectations, but to bestow on him a connection to two men who personified being a gentleman's gentleman, men who had qualities we admired and thought would serve him well.

All that seems so long ago. The tiny person whose feeding and sleeping I agonized over is now 18. He went to his prom last week. He graduates from high school a week from today. He has a job and could care less about my opinion of the clothes he wears. He has learned to navigate (mostly) on his own. And I am awed.

A friend asked me yesterday how I dealt with my boy being all grown up and I realized I was doing much better than I thought I would. I am spending more time looking at his little boy pictures, but I also am thrilled by the young man who proudly picked out birthday presents for me (ones I really liked!). Remembering his pudgy hand in mine is bittersweet, seeing him in a tuxedo is awesome in the truest sense of the word. And as I told my friend yesterday, that grown up façade cracks now and again, particularly when he is sleepy or a bit overwhelmed. And he props his head on my shoulder - even though he has to duck to do so - and lets me be mom for another few minutes.

I take no credit for this wonderful young man, one who truly is the greatest and will continue to do great things. I can only continue to love him fiercely and be proud of all he is and will be.