the red thread

This is going to be a very short post, just an update on our baby situation.

To make a long story short, we are no longer trying to get pregnant. As it turned out, I simply couldn't handle being off of my fibromyalgia medications. My muscle relaxers, Advil, Excedrin, and trazedone (a sleeping medication commonly used to treat fibromyalgia) are all, without question, definitely verboten for anyone trying to get pregnant. And without them, I've wound up in one of the worst fibromyalgia flares in years. I've been in too much pain to function: unable to dress myself, drive the car, cook, get myself to class, type on the computer. So, after talking it over with my husband and my physician, the three of us made the decision that, for me, pregnancy is simply not an option. (If anyone has any doubts about whether or not fibromyalgia is a real, debilitating chronic pain syndrome, check out the mayo clinic website or web md.)

I feel as though I have lost an actual baby, not just the hope of one. I loved this sweet, precious little child, our little red-haired girl; she was planted firmly in my heart and mind, in my very being, and the grief of knowing that she will never come to exist is overwhelming right now.

But I know that I will survive this. And George and I KNOW that there is a child out there, waiting for us, waiting to become part of our family. In a funny way, being adopted myself, adoption, rather than pregnancy, seems like a normal way of becoming a family. So that is the plan.

I'm going to close with a quote I have propped up against my keyboard as I write; it was sent by a good friend when she and her husband adopted a little honey from China, and I have a feeling it's going to be my mantra for some time to come.

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break."
--An ancient Chinese belief

Please keep us in your prayers, if you are so inclined.

a window opens

There is an old saying that when God closes a door, He opens a window. And every once in a while, it seems to come true...

I went in to see my doctor a couple of weeks ago for a medication recheck and, somehow, the conversation drifted to babies. Our Philippines adoption plans fell through earlier this summer--not only are they no longer accepting applications for toddlers, but, according to our adoption counselor, they are about to add medical restrictions. Just about every country we've looked at now refuses to accept parents on anti-depressants. The only country that would possibly accept us is Russia--for a price tag of 30 grand+ and therefore not even within the realm of possibility for us.

So I'm crying, sharing all of this with my doctor, when suddenly she said, "Barbara, have you thought about trying to get pregnant again?" (I should explain here that we did try for a few months about two years ago, after consulting with a genetic counselor and a perinatologist. However, at the time--this was before I went to my beloved pain clinic--I was having chronic migraines. Not exactly conducive to babymaking. So we quit and decided adoption would be easier. Little did we know.)

According to my doc, all the signs indicate that I'm still fertile (I'll spare everyone the gory details) and, despite my seizure disorder, history of depression, asthma, etc., the risks are manageable. I'd still be considered a high-risk pregnancy and need to be under the care of a perinatologist, but chances are more than good that we'd have a HEALTHY BABY!!!!!

IN PRAISE OF FOLIC ACID
The biggest risk to the baby is neural tube defects, such as spina bifida. This is thanks to my anti-seizure medications, which change the way the body uses folic acid; however, taking 4 mg of folic acid by prescription drastically lowers the risk. Yes, gals, that's 4 MILLIGRAMS. And it's been proven to work! (Otherwise I would never even consider pregnancy.)

So our quest begins. If anyone has any advice for me, PLEASE don't hesitate to share!!! I figure that in a way I'm lucky after all that all of my friends have had babies before me--lots of experienced women out there for support!!

And if we can't have a baby this way, then we'll adopt through the MN Waiting Children Program. So come hell or high water, we are going to have a family!

top ten things i learned from my mother

THIS IS FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO KNEW AND LOVED MY MOM:

Top Ten Things I Learned From My Mother
(In No Particular Order)

1. She always told me that love is the only thing that really matters. You can lose your possessions, your job, and your health, but you can always hold on to the love. And in the final analysis, it's the only thing that makes life worth living.
2. Decorate your house with bookcases, because you can never have too many books! Nothing ever seems quite so bad if you can curl up with a good book and a cup of hot cocoa.
3. Class is not determined by money or social position; rather, a truly classy person is one who goes out of her way to make others feel comfortable and special. Classy people are warm and gracious.
4. You'll never get old if you are always interested in other people and continue to learn new things.
5. Life isn't fair. But that doesn't mean it can't still be good, even wonderful, if you retain a sense of gratitude and remember what really matters.
6. God does not send us tragedy and pain. But he does give us the strength to bear them, the courage to face them, and the grace to learn and grow from them.
7. Listen to your heart and follow your star. You never know where they might lead you!
   
8. Yes, you are your brother's--and your sister's--keeper. Always remember that "whatsoever you do unto the least of them, that you do unto me."
9. What others think of you doesn't matter. It's what you think of yourself that counts.
10. It takes more muscles to frown than to smile--and holding a grudge takes too much energy.

Plus Two Extra:

1. Never, ever, take the people you love for granted. And never hesitate to say "I love you."
2. Tough times don't last. But tough people do.

(NB: This is from the eulogy I gave at my mom's funeral on April 19, 2007)

friday five: the fork in the road

This week's Friday Five come courtesy of Singing Owl from RevGalBlogPals. She writes:

Friday, February 27, 2009

Friday Five: The Fork in the Road

"I am at a life-changing juncture. I do not know which way I will go, but I have been thinking about the times, people and events that changed my life (for good or ill) in significant ways. For today's Friday Five, share with us five "fork-in-the-road" events, or persons, or choices. And how did life change after these forks in the road?"

Okay, Singing Owl, here are my five forks in the road:

1. I didn't have a lot of say in this one, being five weeks old at the time, but the first big fork in my road came when I was adopted by Millie and Leonard Resch on October 24, 1968. It turned out to be a 38-year-long love story, lasting until my mom's death in 2007. I could not have been more blessed, both by the mom and dad who loved me and raised me, and the mom who loved me so much she was willing to give me up. I love all three of them, my wonderful parents, more than words can express.

2. At 19 I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and severe clinical depression. This led to years of therapy and, even more important, much painful soul-searching, trying to figure out where God was speaking to me in my suffering. And I found out that not only was he there, he was holding me, lovingly, and feeling my pain as his own.

3. At 27 I did a unit of C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education), which is, basically, an intensive chaplaincy internship. It's impossible to sum up in only a few sentences what that summer meant for the rest of my life...suffice it to say, I fell in love with the work, am finally back in grad school (after years of struggling with fibromyalgia), and hope to work as a hospice chaplain once I get my degree.

4. When I was 32 I met my husband through mutual friends at the Basilica of St. Mary. Can you say instant lightning? We've been married for five years and he's my rock, the light of my life, and on many days, especially when my depression is bad, the reason I get out of bed. Our marriage tells me a lot about God's love for us--steadfast, constant, always forgiving. We want to adopt so we can share the love with which we've been graced with a special child.

5. Two years ago in April my beloved mom died of emphysema. I am still so lonely for her. But in the midst of her dying, she taught me, by example, what it means to have lived a good life, and what it means, for a person of faith, to go to meet her Creator. (Check out "top ten things I learned from my mother" under "select posts" near the top of the right-hand sidebar.)

Come on ladies, play along with me! Either on your own blogs, or in the comments box. :)

RevGalBlogPals Friday Five: Pets

Friday Five: Pets

(Per Sophia over at RevGalBlogPals...) My son's tiny beloved lizard, Elf, is looking and acting strange this week. His skin/scales are quite dark, and he is lethargic. We are adding vitamin drops to his lettuce and spinach and hoping and praying that he is just getting ready to shed his skin--but it's too soon to tell. Others in the ring have also been worried about beloved pets this week. And, in the saddest news of all, Songbird has had to bid farewell to her precious Molly, the amazing dog who is well known to readers of her blog as a constant sacrament of God's unconditional love.

So in memory of Molly, and in honor of all the beloved animal companions who bless our lives: tell us about the five most memorable pets you have known.
Come play along with me--either post your answers on you blog or, better yet, in the comment box! (Sorry to post this a day late--I fell asleep too early last night to finish.)

Barbara's Memorable Pets:

1. When I was about six, I adopted an earthworm from my dad's garden and named him Casey, after the boy at school I had a wild crush on. I loved Casey (both of them, actually.) One hot summer day, I devised a raft for Casey (the worm) on a small piece of torn-up shingle, and took him for a boat ride in a mud puddle in our driveway. My parents, watching from the window, decided it was about time for me to have a real pet, and that's how Bridget came into our lives. The Casey story does not have a happy ending, though: Casey the boy moved away, and Casey the worm received a ceremonial burial in the rose garden.

2. We got Bridget, a miniature poodle (almost big enough to be a standard) through a group called Pet Haven, almost immediately after the Casey incident. She was, truly, my best friend for all of my growing up years; talk about representing God's unconditional love. We took her everywhere with us. She was also brilliant--my dad loved teaching her tricks. One of his (their, I should say) favorites was teaching her to scratch fleas on command. She didn't have fleas, you understand. I thought about trying to get her on David Letterman's Stupid Pet Tricks, but never got around to it. When I came home from my scoliosis surgery, in terrible pain I went to bed immediately, and Bridget hopped up on the bed and very carefully and gently arranged herself so that she was nestled against me, head on my shoulder, magically, without hitting any of my painful spots (and there were plenty, believe me.) We had to put our beloved Bridget to sleep right after I graduated from college; she was 15-years-old.

3. About a year later we (mom and I) found my darling Molly, a cocker spaniel, at the Golden Valley Humane Society. I knew from the second I laid eyes on her that she was the puppy for us. She was picked up as a stray, and had apparently been abused. Molly had the absolute sweetest nature I have ever seen in a dog, and in a special way, we were soulmates. She could always tell when I was depressed, or my fibromyalgia was acting up, and she was always right there to comfort me. She also had a thing for flowers--we were always catching her out in the backyard sniffing them. When we had to put her to sleep, at the age of 14, (she had an abdominal cancer), we spread her ashes amongst the flowers she loved so much. I love to think of her resting there, helping the flowers grow.

4. Warning: Do not let young children read this fish horror story. In my late twenties I decided I need some fish to help keep me company. So I trotted off the the pet store, purchased my little tank and fish goodies, and then selected my fish. I don't remember the name of the breed (Bellas, maybe?), but they were stunningly beautiful, and the store owner assured me they were a very passive breed of fish, and not likely to harm each other. (Does anyone sense some foreshadowing here?) I enjoyed watching them swim about in their tiny tank, weaving in and out of the fronds of the plants I had so carefully purchased for their swimming pleasure. But soon, I began to notice that a few of my fish seemed to have disappeared. Then, one traumatic day, I caught the fish villain in the act: he was devouring another fish. The story only gets worse from here. A fish execution by toilet, remaining fish obviously suffering from PTSD. I'm not sure what this was supposed to teach me. That fish can be possessed? That the reality of evil extends even to little aquariums?

5. Luckily, my last pet story reaffirms my belief in the goodness of creation. My darling Fiona, the Uber-cocker spaniel, curled up against my bare feet as I type, is my best furry friend and provides me with all the loving, unconditional care anyone could possibly need. When my mom was dying, and I'd come home from the nursing home in tears, Fiona was right there waiting for me. And after mom died, for weeks the little fluffy creature wouldn't leave my side; she clung to me, staring up at me with her big brown eyes that telegraphed her doggly love and concern. Fiona also loves to play; every single day, without fail, we must--and I do mean must--play with each of her toys in turn. She so loves her toys. She is my cuddly darling, and I hope to someday be the person she thinks I am.

check out my new widget!

For all of my friends, bloggy or otherwise, I would like to draw your attention to my new and exciting widget, near the bottom of the right-hand sidebar. It's a nifty little tool that indicates to the world that people actually read my blog. So if you occasionally stop by, or faithfully read each new post, or just come by to check it out and like what you see, I invite--no, I plead with-- you to sign up as a "Follower." Let me emphasize: it costs nothing. no obligation. You are not forced to read this darn thing at anytime. But you'll definitely be contributing to raising my self-esteem, and making my blog look more enticing. So just think of all the good you'll be contributing to the cause!

on second chances

I found out last week that I have been accepted into the Master's of Theology Program at St. Kate's! Talk about a boost! I was so terrified--convinced, actually--that I'd be rejected that getting that phone call (the director of the program notified me by phone) felt like I'd suddenly come out into light after walking in darkness for eons. For so many years it's seemed as though I've been dealing with nothing but fibromyalgia, migraines, depression, PTSD, losing my mom...it feels as though this is my reward. My second chance at life. Hopefully, the beginning of a lifetime of using what I've learned from my own personal tragedies, as it were, to help people who are hurting and in need of someone to be a loving, listening presence.

N.B. This is partially lifted from my application essay:

People often look at me strangely when I tell them I hope to work as a chaplain. They ask if it isn't depressing, if I couldn't make more money in another business [author's reply: YES I COULD MAKE TONS MORE MONEY ELSEWHERE], why I don't just volunteer at a hospital once a week, if what I want to do is work with sick people. But for me, it feels like a call, as though it's exactly the place God wants me to be, the thing that is most true to who I am as a person. What I remember most about my experiences as a chaplain intern is the sense of total honor,to be allowed to companion people during the most sacred, awe-inspiring moments of their lives--including, yes, the moment of their death.

For years, ever since I was first diagnosed with PTSD, I've longed, desperately, to somehow find meaning in my suffering by someday using my brokenness to help heal the pain of others. And when I began my first C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education, basically a chaplain internship) at St. Joseph's Hospital, working with cancer patients, and the following summer at the VA Medical Center working with WWII combat vets still carrying the emotional ravages of all they had seen decades ago, I discovered that I had a certain authenticity. Because I'd been there, too. Maybe I hadn't had cancer, but I was familiar, through personal experience, with psychic and physical pain, and many of the spiritual questions that inevitably arise from it. I found that mixed in with the sorrow, and my frequent feeling of incompetence and awkwardness, were moments of true connection, of utter holiness. The "thin places," as my Irish ancestors would say: the mystical moments when earth and heaven meet.

Over ten years ago, after my summer at St. Joseph's, I wrote a short piece for The Catholic Spirit in answer to their question "Who is my neighbor?"; more than anything else I've written here I feel this brief narrative explains why I've chosen the ministry I have. And it also shows that in this ministry, so far, I've gained far more than I've given.

Dwarfed by the hospital bed, surrounded by IVs and beeping monitors, she was a tiny, frail elderly woman with enormous haunted dark eyes dominating a white face. A native of Poland, she spoke little English, but was nonetheless able to understand the diagnosis: inoperable stomach cancer. Six months, maybe less, to live.

I was a chaplain intern with a grand total of three weeks experience, observing my first hospice consult. What could I, a 27-year-old graduate student, possibly say to a lonely frightened dying woman who didn't even speak English?

As I stood huddled in a corner of the room and watched, a tear formed in one of those dark eyes and slid slowly down her face. Then another. And another. Her fragile body began to shake; and suddenly I found myself far from the safety of my hidden corner, my inexperience forgotten, my arms around her and my face buried against her shoulder, I dug out my little blue plastic rosary, and as we wept and prayed together, the healing love of Christ transcended the gulf between us, overcoming the barriers of language and age, binding us together as fellow pilgrims walking hand in hand on our journey home.

Note: I should explain here, for those who don't know me well, that I was in the M.Div program at the Saint Paul Seminary School of Divinity for about three years in my mid-twenties. I dropped out in 1997 when my fibromyalgia, depression, and PTSD made it too difficult to function, much less handle grad school. It's been my dream, ever since, to return to school, get my degree, and become a chaplain (hospital or hospice). Incidentally, none of my classes/credits transfer to St. Kate's, because it's been over ten years since I did my coursework. This is fine with me, actually, since my memory of those days is hazy, to say the least. It feels great to start afresh!

PARASITES OF THE MIND: Healing PTSD: Ten Reasons Not to Talk About It; And the One Reason You Really, Really Should

PARASITES OF THE MIND: Healing PTSD: Ten Reasons Not to Talk About It; And the One Reason You Really, Really Should

what NOT to say to someone with depression...

Ways to Insult Someone with Depression

May 26th, 2007

There are many ways to insult someone with depression, without even trying very hard. The best way is to give them some unsolicited advice. Something that you think is simple, yet profound, and potentially life changing. But said in ignorance. Nothing cuts deeper to someone with depression, than when their illness, which is serious, is trivialized by another who doesn’t understand it.

Here are the some of the terrible things that people say:
“This is what life is like. Get used to it.”
“Life isn’t meant to be easy.”
“Just snap out of it!”
“Pull yourself together.”
“Who said that life is fair?”
“You just have to get on with things.”
“At least it’s not that bad.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You have so many things. What do you have to feel down about?”
“You just need to cheer up.”
“Quit trying to be a martyr.”
“Stop taking all those medicines.”
“I know how you feel. I’ve been depressed for whole days at a time.”
“You don’t like feeling that way? So change it!”

These are my favorites:
“What you need is a good kick up the backside.”
“Go out and buy yourself some clothes. That will pick you up.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a mental problem?”
“How about I cook you a good meal. That will make things better.”
“Have you tried acupuncture?”
“Get a job!”

And the all time best:
“Why don’t you try not being depressed.”

(I found this on the terrific blog Finding Optimism--see my blog list for more info--and thought it was so funny, albeit in a sick sort of way, that I just had to share it!)

These are my own personal favorites:
"You just need to pull yourself up by your bootstraps."
"You have to stop looking at the glass as half empty and see it as half full."
"Most people are as happy as they want to be" (or:"I'm a happy person because that's how I choose to be/see life.")
"You just need to look on the bright side."

And most recently: "You just seem to want to wallow in negativity." (This despite the fact that my so-called friend knew perfectly well I was trying to get in to see both my therapist and psychiatrist but had to wait over a month before I could get an appointment to see either.)

25 random things about me

(I originally posted this on Facebook, but I wanted something semi-fun to post here today, so I thought I'd use this.)
1.I never liked poetry when I studied it in English class, but now I love reading it on my own. In fact, I'm becoming a poetry addict.
2. I closed my mom's eyes after she died. For some reason, this was--and still is--very important to me.
3. I was the last person in my class to learn to read, and first in my class on my PSAT verbal section. Perseverance does pay off!
4. I procrastinate terribly--not because I'm lazy, but because I'm afraid I'll screw everything up. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies!
5. I think it is a disgrace that Pope John XXIII has not yet been canonized.
6. I took French in high school and college, and Spanish in college, and remember absolutely nothing of either.
7. When I was very little, I wanted to be both an astronaut and a ballerina. Simultaneously.
8. Yes, I really am a redhead. I'm partly Irish, after all.
9. I get really discouraged when no one reads my blog.
10. I've always wanted to be a writer, in addition to whatever else I do with my life.
11.I began a search for my birth mother last year. I haven't heard anything yet.
12. I feel a little disloyal to my mom for doing this, even though she always supported the idea and even offered to pay for it.
13. I make a mean homemade marinara sauce, with lots of onion and garlic.
14.I used to do lots of drawing with charcoal and pastels; I'd like to start doing it again, but for some reason I'm scared to. (Maybe I'm afraid I'll, well, suck.)
15.If I could do college over again, I'd major in history or English and philosophy, instead of political science and philosophy. And I'd take four years of Latin, for fun. Yes, fun.
16. Sometimes I feel as though I am strangely invisible.
17. I never minded being an only child, until both of my parents were gone.
18. I played varsity tennis in high school, and was also in choir and yearbook.
19. I feel very connected to both of my grandmothers, although my maternal grandma died long before I was born, and my paternal grandma died when I was 16--almost 25 years ago.
20. I have ultra-sensitive skin that requires more pampering than a baby's.
21. The only thing that REALLY makes my back feel better is massage and gentle yoga. And certain muscle relaxers, of course.
22. I would love to do freelance writing but have no idea how to begin.
23. One of the very best days of my life was the day I discovered that dark chocolate actually contains more antioxidants than green tea.
24.My biggest regret (aside from infertility) is that I was supposed to spend a college semester studying in London, which fell through when we couldn't come up with the extra cash, and I was supposed to spend a whole week over New Year's Eve staying in a friend's flat in Paris, only to wind up in the ER the night before my flight with a bad case of influenza.
25. When I was 30 I had surgery to correct a crooked jaw--my scoliosis made the lower part of my face grow unevenly.

fully human

I realize now, finally, that the pain I've endured will always be an indelible part of me. But recovery and healing aren't necessarily about erasing pain; I think it's more about using our time in the darkness to become fully human. St. Iraneus of Lyons wrote, famously, that "[t]he greatest glory of God is a human being fully alive," meaning, I suspect, that we become saints by simply becoming more of who we are, even in our brokenness. Perhaps especially in our woundedness. Happiness, I've come to believe, is overrated: joy is the thing to strive for. They are not the same thing.

I think I first began to comprehend this when I was raped at the age of 32. The grief, the overwhelming sense of shame, of self-hatred and disgust, threatened to drown me. It was like living the first weeks after my PTSD diagnosis (and the childhood rape that originally caused it) all over again. But, along with the love and support of my family, friends, and the Basilica community, one thing saved me.

I'm the last one to discount the value of my many years of therapy, and the excellent medical care I've received--which I have no doubt saved my life--but I wonder. Without my experience of Christ's healing love, would any--or much, anyway--of my treatment been successful? one of the most enduring legacies of sexual abuse and/or rape is a pervasive, all-encompassing sense of shame. And of course I know, intellectually, that the ways in which I was violated were not my responsibility. But what is slowly changing that perception of myself in my heart is the realization that I am, just as we all are, the imago dei: made in the image and likeness of God. At last, I am able to (sometimes) accept that my violation was God's violation, too, and that He wept with me in my sorrow and grief.

I often think of the Scripture story of the woman with the hemorrhage. Because of her constant flow of blood, her society considered her unclean--just as I often feel unclean. Think of the shame she must have felt. Yet she summoned the courage to touch the hem of Jesus' cloak, and by her faith, she was healed, healed in the most profound way possible, and her shame was no more. It was her trust, her utter, complete surrender to her love for Jesus, and His love for her, which made her free.

Just as I hope that someday I, too, will be made free.