Life in Chaos: Depression's Ugly, Insidious Tentacles

This is a melancholy day for me.

           

            My youngest, and last child begins his freshman year of college today. He transferred his residence from our home to a little dorm room—16 miles away. (Actually, I saw it yesterday, and it's not so little. He's definitely got it better than I did my freshman year!)

           

            I know, I know! You’re thinking, or muttering under your breath, “Gee, Andrea, what’s the big deal. Stop whining. He’s practically still living in your backyard. Get over it! He’ll be home for all of those holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. And then there’s spring and summer vacations.”

           

            But it’s a BIG deal for me. For most mothers, I think. My husband’s excited about this empty-nester thing, and I’m looking forward to being alone with him again, too. It’s almost like getting a chance to “start over.” But this transition is going to be harder on me than him.

           

            We had a Bar Barakah ceremony, a “Christian Bar Mitzvah” for our son when he turned 13, recognizing his transition into the male community and exiting the female, or motherly one. So, technically I’ve been preparing my heart for this for the last five years.

           

            But you know how it is when you’ve lost one; you tend to love a little harder, hang on a little tighter. I homeschooled him until he was 15. That transition was tough enough. This next transition for him also means a HUGE transition for me. Life will never again be the same: the daily blast through the front door after school, the impromptu discussions about his current weight lifting program, (I hold a Master of Science degree in a sports medicine field, so I helped him put together his program, and reminisce with him about my old body building days), laughing about the dogs’ and cat’s antics, big wave surfing in Hawaii (or anywhere), new trivia learned about science or history, discussing Scripture passages, or, just simply talking.

           

            This day—actually last Thursday—begins a new season in my life too. I’m not sure I’m ready for it. But I guess I don’t have much choice. I want to do this well, so I better pull myself together.

           

            Because the ground beneath me seems to be shifting, I’ll need to stay extra close to the Rock.

           

            I think I’ll be spending a lot more time on my knees…

Thanks for indulging my sniffling. Let the story continue…

            My emotions remained frighteningly unpredictable. So did my reactions to people’s comments.

           

            In weak moments the pain left me shattered, angered. In strong, resilient moments, their foolish words roused deep compassion in me. Forgiveness swamped my heart. Sometimes, when I looked honestly at myself, I found I was deliberately unwilling to move beyond the grief, choosing to dwell on my anxiety and bitterness. Envy ignited my soul’s recesses and lay there, content to smolder. Unconsciously, I may have enjoyed the attention I received, averse to anyone dismissing my suffering.

           

            Sometimes pain makes you very self-absorbed.

            At times I felt as if I were bouncing out-of-control on an eternal trampoline, only to have the thing jerked away during a mid-air maneuver, leaving me to crash to the concrete floor below. I was in consummate control one day then thrashing wildly in emotional quicksand the next. Sometimes I thought it easier to stop fighting and let the quicksand slowly, resolutely slip quietly over my head, allowing me to drown in silence. But just as it threatened to envelop me, I’d gain resolve to fight on and claw my way to the top for air.

           

            Being a trained competitor, fight on I did—by side stepping my emotional pain: returning to school in the summer and resuming my former work schedule after the standard six-week recovery hiatus.

           

            Then I experienced a psychological setback. Somehow my beloved cat, Pumpkin, who Chris and I—pre-marriage—had rescued as a kitten eleven years earlier, managed to slink, unseen, through an open door. Chris kept reassuring me he’d be back, but I knew he wouldn’t. I’d heard the all-too-familiar, eerie, piercing wails of a coyote pack hunting that night near our house. I knew Pumpkin wasn’t coming home. Ever.

           

            He didn’t. And for the first time in weeks, Chris wrapped me in his arms and held me firmly, lovingly, while my body convulsed and tears spilled.

           

            Pumpkin had been such an important part of our lives, our memories, both pre and post marriage. He’d been my faithful companion during my confinement to bed with severe morning sickness, making periodic nose-to-nose checks, sleeping curled—for hours—in the crook of my arm or warming my oxygen-starved feet. He’d followed me around the house, talking, rubbing figure eights around my ankles.

           

            When I arrived home from the hospital following Victoria’s death, he galloped up the driveway, barraging me with rapid-fire cat chatter before plastering cat smooches and rough licks on my head and cheeks. For weeks he languished in my arms all day and all night, heaving big sighs, acting as though my being home meant all was now all right with the world again.

           

            The last time I saw him he was perched in our kitchen, winking at me, inspecting my bustling movements as I prepared to feed the family then rush out the door to class. I made a mental note to stop and give him a head pat or chin scratch. But I didn’t. I was late. I told myself I’d be able to give that scratch later, when I got home.

           

            But later never came. Now he was gone, and my fragile mind and heart couldn’t sustain the blow. Unanticipated collapses into hysterical sobbing wasted me physically and emotionally.

           

            I was self-destructing. My healing progressed backwards rather than forwards.

           

            And I was having tremendous difficulty with God’s timing.

___________________________________________

NEXT WEEK: Depression wins, and I make the decision to abandon my career…

___________________________________________

Until next week.

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

PS I confirmed yesterday that their child moving out and moving on IS a BIG deal for mothers. I saw one come out of son's dorm, in which she had just moved her daughter. She couldn't control her tears as she walked down the steps; she kept turning around, giving the Corinthian-columned dormitory building melancholy, longing look. Her husband smiled as he wrapped his arm around her and gave her a forehead kiss. She wiped her eyes, folded her arms and shook her head. Ah, the depth of a mother's heart. Who can truly appreciate what transpires in its recesses? Except another mother...

Stupid Comments That Make a Grieving Parent's Heart Bleed

And the comments kept coming…

            Another church friend lamented to Chris and me the challenge of having two children. “The dynamics of having two is an experience! You only have the one.” 

           

            We were too stunned to reply, to move. Not by choice our hearts screamed in tandem. Oh, how I wished we hadn’t been robbed of that adventure; how I wished our friend hadn’t reminded me—and in such patronizing words—of the theft. Oh, how I wished people more carefully considered their words’ impact before they set their lips moving. The unexpected, poorly chosen utterance struck me as firmly across the face as a succinct hand slap. 

            This man and his family were intimate friends. They had lived through our tragedy with us. What was he thinking? Maybe, like so many others, he wasn't.

           

            And the comments never seemed to end. Months after my second son was born, I stood in line at the post office with my two boys, Parker held my hand, Cory reclined in his stroller. The woman in front of me turned around and launched into generous, congratulatory remarks about how adorable my sons were, that boys are so much fun, etc., etc. Then she ruined it; effectively trampled on and dirtied all her sweet, lavish words when she cocked her head, flipped her hand toward me, smiled broadly and said, “You should try again for a girl!”

           

            My back went rigid; the smile vanished from my face. My eyes narrowed, and no doubt glazed over with a menacing glare. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they ejected blistering flames. I’d had enough of stupid comments, and this poor, unsuspecting woman received the brunt of my unleashed anger at her thoughtlessness. I showed no mercy. “I already had a girl, and she died. And I can’t have anymore children.”

           

            Her eyes cranked open as she reared back on her heals like she’d been shot. Her face paled. I thought she might faint, collapse backward onto the cold, tile floor. Then her shoulders hunched over as she tried to make herself smaller, invisible. She squeaked out an, “Oh,” then slowly turned away from me and stared at the service counter until it was her turn to approach it. Thankfully—for both of us—she didn’t have to wait long for that to happen.

           

           

           

            Yet nearly twenty years ago—while still thrashing around in the midst of my raw turmoil—how could I consider trying to have another child so soon after my loss? My doctor insisted my uterus would be physically ready in just three or four months. Even a friend who was an obstetrician made an immediate pronouncement: “You should get pregnant right away. Forget about it and try again.”

           

            Forget about it? Deny it? Miraculously erase all the memories and pain by rushing into another pregnancy? Is that the advice they solicited in medical school and permeated throughout the medical community? I’d be trying to replace Victoria. That wasn’t going to happen; we couldn’t retrace our steps. I’d be living in a fool’s world to try. And it would be all about me competing, trying to succeed. All about me…

           

            

             Both Chris and I needed to be strong enough mentally to confront the past. We needed to be resolute and emotionally, spiritually and physically healthy enough to approach the future without demanding to know its hidden secrets.

           

            With my ambivalence and trepidation, and Chris’s reluctance—actually, refusal—to discuss it, the mere consideration of attempting a third time to enlarge our family was shelved.       

           

            At that point in my life, I could only hope the shelving was temporary.

________________________________

NEXT WEEK: Volatile emotions, deepening depression, and added grief...

________________________________

Thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

One Boy and One Girl: The Perfect 21st Century Family (Part 2)

            I was holding another friend’s year-and-a-half-old daughter following a church service one day when a seventies-something friend approached me. She leaned in close then whispered in my ear, “Wouldn’t you just love to have one of those?” Bull’s eye! I gasped for breath. My whole body felt skewered, bloody, weak. Physically sick.

            

           I’m certain—God, I hope—it was a mere slip of the brain and lips; that she never would have uttered those words had she remembered. Aftershocks reverberated like knife pricks to my heart’s core as I smiled weakly, lowered the toddler to the floor, shrugged indifferently and replied, “Oh…I don’t know.” It was a defensive tactic, a fake ambivalent demeanor I resorted to when I teetered dangerously close to losing control. Otherwise I risked dissolving before her eyes into a heap of sobbing, quivering flesh.

           

            Ten months after our loss, a friend brought her beautiful two-week-old baby girl to Sunday service. Naturally the baby drew the attention of everyone in our small congregation, from children to seniors. I briefly admired her soft, delicate beauty from a relatively safe distance and congratulated my friend.

           

            Then she stunned me. “Do you want to hold her?” she asked. I momentarily gaped at her. Retreating quickly, I waved my hand and choked on my words, “I can’t…I just can’t.” Then I pivoted to flee the throng of happy onlookers. My feet didn’t stop moving until my slumping against our car stopped them.

           

            Nowhere could I retreat to hide from it. Within days of our loss, my favorite television anchorwoman beamed radiantly through the airwaves from her hospital bed—holding her newborn infant daughter. My mind flooded with questions—jealous, accusative thoughts—about whether she knew how precious that miraculous gift was lying in her lap. Disgust rattled me as I envisioned her taking a standard six weeks maternity leave then returning to work, leaving someone else to raise her precious infant. Don’t you know what you’ve been given? I wanted to yell at the screen. How can you just pass off that beautiful miracle into someone else’s arms so soon after birth, especially by choice? I wanted to pound the couch and holler, You don’t deserve her! (Your thoughts and heart can get pretty ugly when mired in despondency.)

           

            To further complicate my grief and stall my healing, four friends expected children around the time of Victoria’s original, August due date. My anxiety elevated as the date neared, then passed, and one-by-one, announcements arrived in my mail. As they each celebrated safe deliveries and new additions, envy and disabling sadness pried open my still-healing wound. Two out of three had boys, giving them their “perfect” families: one of each—a boy and a girl. A complete set.

            

            One friend, however, didn’t mail us an announcement of her daughter’s birth. I really did want to know how everything went, and when the baby arrived, but my heart was secretly thankful it had escaped another assault. It was almost a full year before I gathered enough mental strength to shop for baby gifts.

           

            Would it ever be my turn again…?

________________________________________________

NEXT WEEK: Stupid Comments That Make a Grieving Parent’s Heart Bleed

________________________________________________

Until next week.

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea