Trial by Fire

Five months? Wow. Hard to believe it's been that long since I wrote a blog entry. It's a pretty good indicator of what life has been like at our house as we go through the process of adopting older kids. I'd like to promise that I'll be posting more frequently, but for now we'll just take it one day at a time.

Our kids are in elementary school. They came to us nearly eight months ago with strongly established preferences, likes and dislikes. They had a strong bond with some members of their birth family (our preferred term for their biological family), which can make bonding with a new family difficult. They also came with a set of behaviors that were ingrained deep inside them during their formative years of life.

Adopting older children is more like a new marriage than welcoming a new baby. Our challenge as parents is to get to know these new family members and find the right balance of high expectations and healthy compromise to make our fledgling relationships work. It ain't easy.

The first six months or so since the kids joined our family, we were on lockdown. As we approach the eight month mark, I feel like we're emerging from a long, dark tunnel. I'm starting to see the light on the other side. We are figuring out what works and what doesn't work for our newly merged family. We're figuring out how attachment and bonding work at this age too.

I'm thankful for everything our kids have taught me about myself, like letting go of perfection. If I don't prioritize connection over perfection, the whole thing unravels. I have a tendency to worry about what people will think of our kids' behavior rather than focusing on the joys we can experience in the midst of the chaos.

So it's been a trial, one of the most stretching things I've undertaken. In my core, I believe it will be worth it. We are already seeing the results of our hard work, but it's not an easy road to walk. It takes more compassion for myself and others than I could have imagined. And I hope to be back on the air waves again soon to share more of our journey.

P.S. - If you know our kids, please don't use their names in this public forum. Thanks!

Whelmed

I heard it say once that you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but is it possible to be just plain whelmed?

Lately I feel like I'm living in a constant state of whelmed. Things keep flying at me, and for the most part I can take it as it comes. Helping two kids process the grief of leaving the lives they have known and adjusting to our new family takes the stuff out of you. Realizing that although they are wonderful  children, they still have a long road ahead to healing and healthy functioning, is a big chunk to swallow.

We have had major meltdowns by now. The honeymoon stage of this adoption is definitely over. I read in an adoption magazine that keys for adoptive moms to not burn out are first, to make sure you are getting enough rest. And second, to take time to continue bonding with the kids. Like many moms, I sometimes feel it is impossible to get enough rest. And the bonding thing can be challenging with a kid whose emotions are all over the place.

I'm grateful that the grief process has taught me what it feels like to be in the middle of heart wrenching sorrow. It has at least given me some perspective so I can sympathize with where the kids are at. It would certainly be challenging to adopt children without going through a loss like ours.

A Mother's Day Gift

This year my Mother's Day weekend was spent doing all the things I have dreamed of doing with my kids. Making crafts for the grandmothers in our world, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk, reading stories before bedtime.

It wasn't the most idyllic Mother's Day. My hubby, who is usually a very thoughtful guy, was so completely absorbed in the joy of having our children in our home over the weekend that he kind of forgot all about the day. And I don't mind, because I so love seeing him provoke them to shrieks of laughter that we forget about everything else.

I thought a little bit about my Liza Jane, the sweet girl who first made me a mommy. I still love her deeply, and she will be precious to me always. And I love each of the new children who are joining our family with their unique and special personalities.

After losing a child, the only gift I have wanted for Mother's Day was to be a mother. Actively, with children in my home. And I'm so thankful that I received that gift this year.

Mother's Day is a day for honoring mothers. Really, though, there is no gift that can possibly represent the sacrifice a mother makes for her children. Even so, I'm glad we have the day to pause, remember, and celebrate the mothers in our lives. Whether they are with us here on this earth, or lovingly treasured in our memory, mothers are the best gift of Mother's Day.

Thankful for Liza Jane

The other day I told someone about our experience with Liza Jane for the first time. If you haven't read our story, you can learn more here.

Now that it has been a little two years since she passed away, my perspective on her life and the circumstances of her death is changing. I expect it will change even more in the future.

My little Liza taught me so much.
She taught me how to love without judging.
She taught me how to live every moment to the fullest. We don't know if it will be our last.
She showed me how important it is to love those close to us every minute of every day, because we don't know if that day will be their last.
She taught me the value of accepting without being critical. (Ok, maybe I'm still working on that one.)

Two years after her death, I do not regret the decision to give her a chance at life. I do not regret choosing not to have an abortion, which is what several doctors urged me to do.

There is much pain and suffering in this world, and what happened to us and our Liza is just a drop in the bucket.

Without her, though, my life would not be as rich and meaningful. I am forever greatful to her, and greatful to God for giving me such a gift. (Even though I am still a little mad at him for taking her away.)

Ready, Set, Go!

So, for a few months now I have been procrastinating. I need to morph this blog into something beyond my grief experience, and that is a hard thing to do. For a while I think some deep part of me felt like if I talk about other things than my daughter and how much I would always love and miss her, I would be acting as if she didn't really matter.

I overheard someone on the train to Philly a few days ago say that perfectionists are among the worst procrastinators. It is the drive to do it perfectly that makes us afraid to actually start, because it is so intimidating. I won't explain this further, because if you are a perfectionist like me, it will already be making some sense to you.

A wise person once told me that as Luke and I continue to grow our family, we will not stop grieving our daughter. We may be caring for more children in the future, but the grief process will not stop once they arrive. And her memory will not go away once they arrive.

So I'm taking the plunge right here, right now. I'm giving myself a big kick in the rear, and I'm shouting "ready, set, go!" Let's do this thing.

When I started this blog, I wanted it to be flexible. Gathering Blessings is about finding reasons for joy, meaning and thankfulness in any season of life. So future blog posts here will chronicle not only grieving our first daughter, but to muse about the process of adopting our future children.

It's a new year, and it's going to be filled with learning and challenges, laughter and tears. I wouldn't have it any other way.



Happy New Year 2013 - hopefully by next year, there will be more Martin family members in the picture!

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Some old Christmas carols have been giving me so much comfort this year. Thought I would take some excerpts and compile them together in a post. It's a meditative exercise for me, and I hope it brings you comfort and joy too.

Come to Bethlehem and see
Christ Whose birth the angels sing;
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

See Him in a manger laid,
Whom the choirs of angels praise;
Mary, Joseph, lend your aid,
While our hearts in love we raise.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy!

Merry Christmas, from our house to yours.

Time to slow down... and give thanks.

Winter is the time of year to slow down. I'm more acutely aware of this as we were without power for almost a week due to the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Without electric lighting, our house was much darker than usual, and it reminded me that we are built to take a break during the winter months. We take more time to rest and stay warm. Summer is full of busy activities, but winter is the time to step back, take inventory, and assess where our lives are going.

Thanksgiving will be a different holiday for so many this year. In the mid-Atlantic states, we are mindful of the simple blessings of modern life. Running water, a warm house, access to roads, food preserved in our refrigerators... all of these will be on my list. And more importantly, I'm thankful that friends and family have weathered the storm without injury, and that we are starting to get back into our routines.

This is a perfect parallel for all the thoughts that fill my mind this time of year. Just a week from today is the anniversary of my daughter's birth. I remember how thankful I was that she (and her fragile heart) survived the labor and delivery process. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I held her in my arms for the first time. I thought -- no, I knew -- that she would be okay in those first few moments, that she would survive the difficult path of surgery and hospitilization. Those memories of unquenchable hope still haunt me today, as that hope proceeded to be shattered repeatedly by bad news, and my heart still has not recovered from the damage.

But I am thankful for her still. Thankful that she taught me how we have live each day to the fullest, as we never know which one will be our last. Thankful that she taught me to appreciate my loved ones, for they will not be with us forever.

She taught me to refuse to take the little things for granted. This time of year is the perfect for that - a time to reflect, to remember, to be mindful and be present. That's my aspiration for the holidays this year. I want to take this time to slow down and truly give thanks.

Laughing and Crying

We have had a particularly stressful couple of weeks. In addition to my full time job, which has become more hectic than normal lately, I’ve also been working on the weekends for my husband’s company.

The other night as we prepared to leave for one of these work weekends, something snapped. Now, we’ve been married for 11 years and counting, so we’ve been through a lot of silly little laughs. It’s just been a while, because we’re both working hard during the day and we generally just crash in the evenings and try to wind ourselves down for sleep.

But on that night, Luke was asking me a question as he brushed his teeth. Something came over me and I squirted my toothpaste in a satisfying, 4 inch glob down the back of his shoulder. It was funny. He was stunned. I was laughing, my toothbrush still in my own mouth. We were tired, so he tried to take the high road, handed me a tissue, and resignedly said “get it off.” I took the tissue, but that’s where my compliance ended… I smeared it even further down his back.

At this point I am laughing myself silly, doubled over, still grappling with my toothbrush in my mouth. And as I run over to the sink to spit, he attacks me from behind. With his blue-green Gillette shave gel, which by the way is heavily scented, all over my t-shirt, my hair, my face, in my ear… you get the picture.

And I’m still laughing. I didn’t even try to get him back, we were both too tired. I just laughed and laughed as I cleaned up the mess and collapsed into bed, smelling strangely fresh and slightly masculine as the scent lingered through the night.

Now, you knew this was coming based on the title of the post. It’s the crying part. We’re coming home the next day from finishing the work we had to do, each of us driving in our respective vehicles down the highway with the blue sky overhead.  We're hauling our work supplies back home, and I’m listening to the radio for ambient noise and thinking about nothing in particular.

And that’s when the tears start. It feels like the weeks after our Liza Jane first died, the pain is intense and fresh and real. I feel like my heart is being ripped in half, the sensation continues for the rest of my hour and a half drive as I cry myself all the way home. Now, crying in the car can be dangerous, so I have to give a big disclaimer to say I didn’t let myself get completely overwhelmed by it, or double over so I couldn’t see anything. But I cried, continuously and softly, the whole way home. And I did this while driving because I’ve learned that you have to take grief as it comes. When the tears are ready to come out, if at all possible, it is a good idea to let them flow.

So here I am, thoroughly exhausted from work and grief and laughter. Thankful for the blessings that are in my life, but still aching for the baby girl who was taken from me far too early.

Our Butterfly - Part 2

Our family members did so many thoughtful things for Mothers Day. We had a lovely lunch with my parents and a chance to talk about memories of our baby girl.

My husband's family also sent us live butterflies to release in memory of our little butterfly girl. They came  "chilled" in a box - the darkness and cold puts them in a natural hibernation state.

The day of release, we set them in the shade for a while to warm up and wake up.

This area is the new butterfly garden we are planting in memory of our baby girl.

I had plans to create the garden last year, but grief really wears a person out, and I didn't have the energy to do it until this year. Anyway, after just a few minutes in the warm daylight, the butterflies started wiggling in their little box.

My husband wanted to be the one to release them, and I got camera duty. It was a precarious task as they were in between the accordian folds of this lightweight paper.

Slowly, one by one, the butterflies emerged and took flight.

It was actually pretty amazing that most of them survived the trip to our house.

We lost count, but there were probably 10 or 12 butterflies. Only one of them didn't make it, and one had a broken wing, but the rest of them quickly found the rhodedendron bush nearby and had a nice snack before moving on to other flowers in our neighborhood.

Some were a little slow to get moving, and I figured maybe they needed some encouragement, so I lifted them from the ground to help them find the flowers.

The little guy in the picture above was the one with the broken wing -- he wasn't doing too well. This brought back memories of when our daughter was so sick and there was very little I could do to help. It is a frustrating feeling as a mother.

I've grown used to those sudden painful memories that are triggered by little things and have learned to allow myself to remember the pain, to remember the love I had and still have for her, and then to take a deep breath and look forward.

At some point in the grief process, I realized that life is going to keep going, and I have to keep surviving. It is by finding the joy and the blessings in the every day things that I'm able to go on as a participant in life.

Celebrating the Resurrection

The resurrection brings hope when a love one has been lost. We believe we will see our loved ones again in heaven because of the work that one God-man did 2,000 years ago.

This video is about a beautiful painting which brings the reality of what Christ did home to me in a new way. What a precious gift, this new life. I am so thankful.

Being Okay with Nothing

Coping strategies abound after the loss of a child. I have found ways to keep my mind busy, keep myself moving, averting the imminent feeling of falling apart.

Over the last week, though, I've been practicing the art of stripping away the crutches and working hard at being okay with nothing.

Luke was away on a trip for the better part of the week. A year ago, when our loss was fresher, I booked myself solid in the evenings after work while he was away on a similar trip. I made sure I was not alone on a single evening.

This year, though, I had some important work to do for a special baby shower for my sister and brother-in-law.

And while I wanted to lean on my crutches to get through the lonely evenings (TV, friends, computer, mind-numbing distractions), I powered through each lonely, solitary evening with only the company of the radio and my mixing bowl.

Each night when I rolled into bed, I was exhausted from the effort of keeping myself focused. I started reading this book which I someone gave to me a long time ago, but I only felt brave enough to crack open this past week.

I wasn't ready until now to think about what it means to "live fully right where you are." It didn't seem right to be concerned about living fully when my precious daughter cannot live at all.

But it was time, and on several evenings it brought a flood of new tears. And that is okay. Tears are healing, and there is no way to go through the pain except to keep going.

Luke came home from his trip safely this weekend. Another time I will write about the fear that grips my heart every time he leaves on a trip. The fear that was not there before we lost our daughter, but now that we have been so close to death, brings into sharp focus the reality that when a loved one walks out the door, it literally may be the last time I see that person... ever.

Today, Luke and I were thinking about planning something special to do together, maybe a trip to the art museum to see the Van Gogh exhibit. We realized, though, that we both just need to chill and allow ourselves some time to recover from all the excitement.

I am working on being okay with doing nothing again today. Being okay with rattling around in this large, too-quiet house all by ourselves. This house that we specifically designed for our growing family during the months that I was pregnant, the same house that is now too-large, too-empty for just the two of us.

So here I am, facing the pain, facing the emptiness, and working on being more than okay with it. Working on being thankful for the quiet blessing of this moment, this day.

A Special Day

Honoring the ones we have loved and lost is an important part of grief. Today, in memory of our sweet Liza Jane, here is a shout out for 3/21. Today is World Down Syndrome Day.

This is celebrated internationally on March 21, symbolic of a third copy of the 21st chromosome that characterizes Down syndrome. This year the celebration is amplified as it is the first time that the date is officially recognized by the United Nations.

I'm joining NDSS to "do something extra" in honor of those with an extra 21st chromosome. Here I sit on my couch, tired after working an extra long day, ready to veg out. But I don't want to throw in the towel on the day without taking a moment to honor my sweet baby girl.

Just a few short decades ago, people with Down syndrome in this country were committed to institutions where they were given little opportunity to thrive. You can vist here for one person's story about how it used to be.

Today, people with Down syndrome live productive and meaningful lives. They go to school with all the other kids, and most of them graduate with their high school class. Some even go on to college, and many have jobs when they are older.

Despite all this progress, people with Down syndrome are more at risk for not making it into the world than ever, due to new prenatal tests that are now available. I think it's sad, because now is probably the best time ever for these individuals to be alive in our society. When their diagnosis is discovered prenatally, though, about 90% of mothers make a choice to end their lives.

So today, I want to send a big hug out to all those who know and love somebody with Down syndrome. And to all the people born with Down syndrome, thank you for making this world a better place, for bringing a little something extra to our lives. We are all better off because of you.

Why me?

Why me?  That is the question that has often been on the forefront of my mind as I have lived through the loss of my baby girl. Usually I ask it while shaking my fist at the sky, wondering why God couldn't just allow me to have the one thing that I wanted more than anything in the world: motherhood.

This is a very natural question to ask when tragedy strikes. And I'm not advocating that we stuff these emotions inside, denying the way that we feel.

I usually find, though, that when I start going down the "Why me?" road, I quickly get stuck in the mire of self pity which causes a downward spiral of depression. That isn't a fun place to hang around.

On the way to work I often listen to our local NPR station, and today I heard a short interview with Dan Gottlieb, Ph.D., who is a family therapist. I thought he had some really insightful things to say about surviving grief and trauma this morning. You can listen to the short interview here.

What struck me was that Dr. Dan, who has been through far more trauma than I, has learned the same lesson that I'm walking through. Changing the frame of reference of that question, "Why me?", makes all the difference. I've written about this before, but he re-stated it yet again in a new and refreshing way.

We should be asking "Why me?" all the time. When we look into our pantry and see it full of food, we should look up and say, "Why am I blessed with such bounty?" When we look at our home which provides relief from the elements, we should ask again, "Why me? Why do I get to live in such security?" The list can go on and on. This is a habit I hope to cultivate in my life - one where my thoughts naturally lean toward gratitude, where I am continually gathering the blessings around me and sending my thanks up to the heavens.

I would love to hear from you. What blessings are you thankful for today?

Love

We need love to survive. It's a basic human need. I've read some stories recently of human beings who are not getting the love they need to survive, and it is tragic.

This year at Valentine's Day I'm appreciating our capacity to love a little bit more. Sometimes that means loving the ones who are closest to us, going out of our way to let them know we appreciate them. Other times it means reaching out and loving those who are further away, or those who are not as easy to love.

Someone said that in our houses many of us have two sets of dishes. There is a set of every day dishes that are chipped, worn, and mismatched. We knock them around, we use them hard. Then, there is a set of good dishes that we get out when company comes over. This set we give special treatment. We handle it with care, we make sure it doesn't get chipped. Sometimes we don't even allow it to go through the dishwasher, instead cleaning every piece lovingly by hand.

So I ask myself, how do I treat the people I'm closest to? Do I treat them like the every day dishes, or do I treat them like the fine china? It's too easy to treat the members of our families like the every day dishes. We don't tell them we appreciate them. We don't show them extra special love and care. Instead, we save our best treatment for the people we work with, go to school with, or go to church with.

I want to treat the people close to me like fine china. I want them to know how special and loved they are. Even though it's hard at the end of a long day, these people are the ones who mean the most to me, so I need to take extra special care of them.

This is one thing that Liza tought me as well. We didn't know how many days we had with her, so each day was a precious gift, a miracle. She helped us to cherish her, to cherish each other. She helped us to stay in the moment and appreciate the beauty of what was right in front of us.

That can be a little intimidating, at least to me, when I'm really honest with myself. One song I love talks about "the scary, scary beauty of what's right here." It can be hard to stay in the moment, to be present, to look around at the imperfection that surrounds us and say: this is beautiful. This day, this moment, is beautiful.

At Valentine's day this year, I want my loved ones to know that they are loved. Now is as good a time as any to give that fine china the loving care that it is due.

Pinpricks in the Darkness

It was one year and 21 days ago that my daughter was born. And it was eleven months and eleven days ago that she passed from this life into the next.

Many things that happen in life are directly related to our choices. Others are not. What we have the power to choose in all things, though, is our response. Sometimes it may take a while to realize this and for our emotions to come along, but we do have the ability to choose.

There is power in thankfulness. It does not wipe away feelings of grief, sorrow, anger and pain. But it can create tiny pinpricks in the darkness through which the light can shine. Sometimes it can open a window to the fresh air and sunshine. Other times the weight is too heavy and the light cannot penetrate. But there is always a return, a circling back to thankfulness.

Thank you, God for her life. Thank you for letting us hold her and love her for a few short weeks. Thank you that she is no longer in pain. Thank you.