Healing

         Recently I had the opportunity to do a story on an amazing woman who has fought through almost 18 months of misery. She had been beloved teacher for 28 years, just two years from retirement when one day, while sitting in her office during her lunch, prep hour and after school, she was critically poisoned by carbon monoxide.  The most likely source was the construction equipment that was being used to remodel the building she was working in. 
        I've known some of her story for a while as she lives near me, attends my church and I have the opportunity to go into her home and visit her once a month as her visiting teacher (which, by the way, I am not very good at!). I have watched her struggle and listened to her as she expressed so much frustration at the long term damage that was done by that colorless, odorless but extremely harmful gas. 
      As hurt as she was physically, she seems to feel more of an emotional pain as her story has been questioned repeatedly by her employers, those who she had devoted so much of her life to, those who she had called her friends. Her heart has broken and she struggles to forgive their actions.  
     But slowly, she is starting to heal, both physically and emotionally.  She has expressed to me multiple times her gratitude in helping her to share her story in the hopes that it will save one life, that her pain will not be in vain. She says that it has been a huge part of her healing process.....

      With that in mind, I am going to share my story, in the hopes that it will help me heal. What I am about to share is extremely personal and I am terrified of the possible judgement that may come as a result. But I know that emotional wounds are similar to physical wounds.  In my training as an Emergency Medical First Responder, we are taught, in the case of severe bleeding, to apply layer upon layer of absorbent material along with pressure to stop the bleeding.  Then, once the patient has gotten to an appropriate medical treatment facility, the experts there will remove the dressing and bandages that we applied and clean the wound, apply the proper medication and re-bandage it so that it can heal properly.  In my world, I have put layer upon layer upon layer of material and applied pressure, almost to the breaking point in the form of busyness,  to the wound but have not completely allowed the wound to be opened back up, cleaned and treated properly.  The symbolic bleeding has stopped but the wound has become infected and cannot heal. And I have recently realized that I desperately need it to heal. 

        Ten years ago, something was missing in my life. My husband and I, along with our two children had just built our dream house in a beautiful area.  A year earlier, I had to have my uterus and one ovary removed because of health issues.  While I was devastated that I could not biologically have any more children, I knew that there were other children out there that I could help.  Soon after moving into our new home, we met a couple who had devoted their lives to being foster parents.  I knew, without question, that this was the path that we needed to take.  This would be what would help fill that missing piece in my life and heart.  We jumped in and never looked back, fulfilling our licensing requirements in what had to be record time.  Even if we never were able to adopt any of the children, we were okay with that.  We just wanted to help.
  
        The day our license was approved, our phone rang with a placement, an 11 month old baby boy.  He had been removed from his home because of extreme domestic violence and the plan was reunification.  As we scrambled to get everything ready and I drove to the local office to pick him up, I was terrified!  How could I love this child as my own, knowing that he would go home one day? As I sat at the stoplight, I was filled with the most overwhelming love for this child I had never met and I felt at peace. 

       I still remember driving into the parking lot and pulling into a parking spot next to a car that had an adorable blond haired chubby little boy asleep in a car seat in the back seat.  And even before the caseworker confirmed it, I knew this was him.
  
      When he came into our home, he weighed 30 lbs!  He didn't know how to walk, let alone crawl.  He could sit unsupported but that was about it. With the help of many professionals, he began to catch up. We got to know his biological parents and his grandmother and developed a really good relationship.  We supported the plan for reunification and worked towards that goal. However, a month or so before the reunification was supposed to take place, things in the parents' world fell apart and they decided that it would be more beneficial for him if they relinquished their rights and allowed us to adopt him.

      So we did. We renamed him and he became an official part of our forever family shortly after he turned 2. Still working with a team of professionals, it started to become apparent that he had some very unique needs.  Those needs were hard enough to address with a "normal" size child, but he was not normal sized.  He was huge. We struggled but were dealing with life.  He was adored, loved and well cared for. We followed every direction that we were given - some worked, most didn't. When he was almost three, we added another foster child to the family, who oddly enough was another blond haired, eleven month old little boy. 

       Four months later, right after the parents of the second little boy relinquished their rights and asked us to adopt him, a knock came at the door.  When I opened it, three investigative caseworkers from DCFS were standing on my doorstep.  Someone had reported that we were abusing and neglecting our children.  Unfortunately, this happens often with foster parents but knowing that fact did not prepare us for that.  Every single decision I made as a mother was questioned: how I disciplined, how often I took my children to the doctor, where the kids slept, what they ate, how I got them dressed and changed their diapers, everything.  My husband was questioned, our neighbors were questioned, our therapists were questioned our bio kids teachers were questioned, our caseworkers were questioned.  It was a six week long nightmare. It became a terror when I realized after reading the statements in the allegation that it had come from a distant family member, not one that I had talked to directly but one that a close family member had talked to. Not only was I completely terrified, I felt horribly betrayed.  

     Eventually, the allegation investigation was over.  We were cleared of any wrongdoing.  It was completely unfounded.  But the psychological stress took it's toll on me.  I started questioning everything.  I withdrew and started to avoid social situations, afraid that I was under scrutiny all the time by everyone around me. We were raising tough kids.  The one we adopted first, B, was hard, to put it mildly.  The one we were waiting to adopt, C, had his own set of issues.  Our bio kids each had their own personality quirks that we were dealing with.

    A week after we were cleared, we got the phone call we had been waiting for came.  There was a baby girl that had been born the night before who needed a home.  Did we want her?  Tears started streaming down my cheeks, knowing that our little family was complete when this black haired baby joined it. 

     Within a year, we had adopted C and the new baby, making me a mother of a 10 year old, a 7 year old, a 4 year old, a 2 1/2 year old and a 1 year old. I was completely frazzled.  I began to gain weight and retreated into books to escape my reality.

      My reality wasn't pleasant.  B started to develop more issues, becoming extremely defiant and aggressive.  He outweighed our 7 year old by 20 lbs and was inches taller. Physically, I could barely handle him. We increased therapy.  I started devouring parenting books and theories along with massive amounts to chocolate. We had him tested by a neuropsychologist.  We had DNA testing done.  We switched therapists.  We utilized respite care.  And we survived.  

     The results from the testing were grim.  He had an extra Y chromosome which explained his size and strength.  He would only continue to grow. The professionals predicted that based on diagnosis, he would most likely end up in prison as an adult, even with interventions. I refused to believe it and thought that if I just tried harder and did more and loved him more and was a better mom, he would be fine. 

     But he wasn't. No matter how hard I tried, it didn't get better. He hurt the other kids, he destroyed property, he tried to hurt himself, he hurt me. And it just kept getting worse. And I gave up. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally, I was exhausted and depleted. I was a shell of my original self. There was nothing left.  

    Finally, a day came that changed everything.  I had run outside to feed our chickens and heard screaming.  I ran back in to find him cornering the other children under our kitchen table, holding a butcher knife to their throats. He was just about to turn 6. 

     I wrestled the knife away, forced him into his room and called the therapist in hysterics.  The next few weeks were a blur.  We had appointments with more professionals and DCFS staff, trying to work out a plan that could save both our son and our family. 

     However, there wasn't the possibility of such a plan.  A month after he turned 6, we packed up his things, including a quilt we had hurried to make him and a caseworker came in a white minivan (it's amazing the details I remember). We had tried to explain things to him but he didn't understand.  And honestly, I didn't understand myself.  We drove to a home in South Salt Lake.  They were a family without small children who had special training and background in dealing with his particular issues. We unpacked his things into his room, gave him a hug and kiss, and left. 

     In the van, I couldn't breathe.  I had never felt that much pain. I thought that I had known heartbreak in my life but nothing compared to that moment. I felt some relief of course but the pain far outweighed it. 

      We had a visit with him and I also went to the top child psychologist in the state with him  for an evaluation.  That doctor determined that not only were we dealing with a host of issues, the most pronounced was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  When I took B back and forth to the required visits with his biological family, it was so traumatic that he viewed me as the source of the trauma. The doctor told me that he could not allow B to ever come back to our family because eventually, he would kill us.  We were not safe if he were in our home.  That finding was passed on to the state workers and attorneys and in June of 2011, we relinquished our parental rights.  That day at court was so bittersweet. The bitter was extreme.  We basically had to say the words that we had heard so many times from the biological parents of the kids we had adopted - we were not fit to be B's parents.  We weren't able to meet his needs. The sweet came when we walked into the courthouse and for the first time ever, he saw me and literally broke into a run and jumped into my arms.  That was the only time that he really had ever shown that he loved me. 

     After court, we had a final good-bye at a local park.  The kids all played and already I could see that he had made improvements in his new home.  I was so grateful that someone had the knowledge and skills that I did not have.  The actual good-bye was again bittersweet.  Knowing that there was a huge possibility that I would never see him again was a very bitter pill to swallow.  But when he hugged me, he sobbed and sobbed, once again, something that had never happened. I believe that God allowed him to feel and show emotion that he had never showed before just so that I knew that B loved me, even though I couldn't be his mom and give him what he needed. 

    The family ended up adopting him after he had been with them almost a year. I know that they are the family that he truly needs and that we were just the stepping stone to get him there.  We have had no contact from them. The only pics I see is when I "Facebook Stalk" his new older brothers.  In February of 2016, he will have been with them as long as he was with us. 

     I still haven't forgiven myself that I wasn't enough for him.  I beat myself up thinking that if I only would have done more or done differently that it wouldn't have ended up this way. I think that the hardest person to forgive in this life is ourselves. But healing can only happen when we do forgive. 

     Ironically, I am currently going to college to become a parent educator. I struggle with this every day - how can I educate someone to be a parent when I kinda failed at it with one of my kids? But I have also realized that I don't need to be perfect because no one is.  Doctors still get sick. 

Yesterday at church, this song was sung. I've heard it dozens of times before. But yesterday, one of the lines hit me so strongly. 

"He will heal those who trust Him..."


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAHqlD8zDR8
     

          

People Leave Footprints.....

Almost two months ago, I was asked to write an article about the impact of an amazing lady on our community.  While I am relatively new to our small town (we've only been here a little less than three years - you have to have been born here or live here for more than thirty years to not be considered "new"), my life and the lives of my family, particularly my daughter, were greatly influenced by this remarkable woman named Stephanie. To write an article about her was daunting, and as a brand new journalist and someone who was emotionally connected with her story, it was completely terrifying. 

You see, Stephanie was practically perfect in every way.  She was beautiful, active, in great shape, the mother of 4 with one on the way. She could play the piano, ski, make homemade food and play with her kids outside while still looking completely gorgeous.  She held leadership positions in the church, volunteered hours upon hours to various community services, grew a garden, bottled her own food, took care of the neighbors, was the oldest of 13 kids and happily chauffeured her children to all of their many activities. If you were talking to her, you were the most important person in her world at that minute.  Not only did she act like an angel, she looked like one, flowing blond hair, bright blue eyes and all. 

Well. the Sunday before Christmas, Stephanie went into labor with her 5th child.  As her husband rushed her to a birthing center, she started having trouble breathing.  He called the ambulance who met them en route to the nearest hospital.  She was unconscious when they got her into the hospital.  Shortly after they arrived at the hospital, the doctors encouraged Stephanie to push and somehow, even though she was not conscious, her body obeyed the doctors.  Little Sadie took her first breath just seconds before her sweet mama took her last. 

To say that our little town was heartbroken would be an understatement. Even after her funeral was over, many people couldn't even say her name without tearing up.  Even to this day, I can't bring myself to erase her name off of my cell phone. 

Just when it seemed that everyone had started to heal, it came to the attention of the paper that a couple of entities in the community were doing things to honor Steph's memory and asked me to write the story. 

I can pound out a five page essay for college in an hour.  I can write a research paper in a day. But this article took me over a week.  I interviewed people, I emailed people, I Facebooked people.  I got to know her in a different way. And I realized that many times, the things that we do that we think are so little aren't really little at all, The kind words that we speak sink deep into the hearts of those that we speak them too. The simple acts of service are sometimes a lifeline for the people that we serve. 

And nothing, absolutely nothing, is too small if it is done in kindness. 

Stephanie's kindness and love lives on, not just in the eyes of her husband and children, or in her spirit that seems to hover over our little town, or in the lives that she personally touched.  There is now a scholarship established in her name at the gym where her children took gymnastics.  In a community garden there is a garden box that bears her name that is tended with love - and all produce grown there is donated to the community food pantry where she volunteered each week. 

For me personally, her spirit lives on in my daughter.  She has always been quiet and shy, afraid to try anything new or let anyone in.  Stephanie broke through her walls, hugged her until she hugged back and then taught her to spread her beautiful wings and fly. 

Tender Mercies

Sometimes the stories I write don't get to be published.  They aren't exciting enough or there just isn't room. But those stories teach me lessons as well. I am in an interesting position - before I was a journalist, I was a volunteer for our town's fire/rescue department. Now I get to do both. However, when I respond to a scene, I am always a first responder before I switch hats.

One particular day, the pager went off in the middle of a quiet summer afternoon. It announced a personal injury accident at mile marker 8, southbound on the highway that snakes winds through the valley that I call home. It was a single car roll-over.

These calls always get the adrenaline going because I never know what I am going to encounter when I get on scene.

This was what we saw:

I actually took this picture after the patient was in the ambulance but this was the vehicle.
The debris, mainly car parts and personal belongings were spread across at least a hundred yards.  As my partner and I approached the vehicle, we were told there was only one victim, the driver. An amazing first aid kit that rivaled the one in our hands lay next to the drivers side door.  One man was in the seat behind the driver, stabilizing his spine, another was bending down next to the driver and speaking to him to keep him calm while another sprinted to pry open the passenger side door so I could get in to take vitals.  I think that one saw me eyeing the broken window, looked at me and realized that I would probably get stuck if I attempted to climb in - which was indeed my plan (not the getting stuck part - that's just a hazard of the job).

We learned as we talked to those gentlemen that they were the first to stop at the scene.  One was dressed in scrubs, he happened to be a nurse on his way to work and he was also the owner of the first aid kit (of which I am extremely jealous). The other two were surgical technicians at a local hospital. All three jumped in and helped, breaking out the remaining glass in the back window and climbing through to offer what aid they could. These gentlemen were also the first to leave the scene, disappearing back into their cars and driving away as soon as the patient was on the stretcher.

We learned that our patient was indeed wearing a seat belt which saved his life.  Otherwise, we would have found his body near the pile of ribbon from the cassette tapes or by the suitcases. The car had rolled at least a couple of times and took out a road sign before it hit the concrete barrier.  Right above our victim's head, the roof of the Jeep had been crushed in, cutting his head open.  However, it also applied just the right amount of pressure to stop the bleeding and keep it to a minimum. One more inch and it could have killed him - a half inch less and he would have bled profusely.

I don't know this man or what decisions and choices he had made in his life before this accident.  I know very little about him. Some of the possessions that were scattered had us and law enforcement a bit concerned. But God was watching over him.  He was blessed so abundantly.  His life was spared.  He never even lost consciousness.  He was still able to joke with us a bit.  He offered his appreciation to us multiple times.

Our Heavenly Father offers each of us His tender mercies.  He watches over us.  He may not take away the trial or the accident or the pain but He will do what He can to make it as easy as possible for us.

What makes it worth it?

This morning, I had the incredibly beautiful opportunity to interview two Southern men. Buddy and Willie were cousins, raised in the same area of Florida.  Buddy worked as a mail carrier for the United State Postal Service until his wife developed cancer. Finding it to be just too much to juggle her appointments and care with his career, he retired. While they struggled through her journey, he developed a hobby, growing and hybridizing day lilies.  Hybridizing is a fancy word for cross pollinating or creating new varieties of the flower. By the end of this year, he will have registered 100 new varieties. He said that sometimes developing them is the easy part, the naming gets to be more difficult. Buddy said that every morning, he walks through row after row of his enormous daylily garden/nursery and picks the prettiest blooms to put in small vases for his wife.  He joked that this habit has saved his marriage.

Willie, on the other hand, moved across the country 40 years ago.  He settled in a little town in a mountain valley of Utah. Willie worked for a chemical company and raised his family, never forgetting his Southern roots.  That would be impossible - his last name is Southern. About 10 to 12 years ago, Buddy converted Willie to his beauty producing pastime. Willie started with  two small beds of daylilies.  Now his habit has started to take over his property. 

 As I walked through the rows of daylily beds, I was very well educated about daylilies.  I had no idea that these flowers could have teeth!  The edges can be braided with gold or ruffled.  The inside can be coated with angel dust.  They have throats and eyes. To my knowledge, there were only two varieties of day lily - yellow or rust colored with yellow inside.  Imagine my surprise when I was surrounded by over 1000 plants, representing 900 varieties!

 I fell in love with many of them immediately. How could I not?  They were beautiful!  Each seemed to come with their own characteristics and personality. Some had thin petals (they are called spiders). Others looked a bit out of proportion (UFO's apparently aren't only for aliens). The colors covered every hue imaginable except for blue and green - no one has been able to develop lilies of those colors....yet.

 I learned that hobbies and interests can make cousins appear more like brothers. These two could finish each other's sentences.  I believe that the secret for their success in producing the breathtaking blooms is their Southern warmth and the love they have for what they do.

 I looked at their worn hands with dirt around the fingernail beds and permanently etched into the ridges of their fingerprints. They were hands of men who had worked hard their entire lives.  Buddy is almost 80 and Willie is just a bit younger. And even after they have worked for years, they are still striving to beautify the world around them, one flower at a time.

 The process of hybridizing daylilies is not a quick task.  The pistol, containing the pollen, from one parent lily is carefully rubbed on the stamen of the other parent.  Both parents have to come from the same group (either diploid or tetraploid) or else it just won't work. The pollen travels down the stamen - kind of like a straw - and forms a seed pod where the blossom connected with the skate (stem). Then the seed pod is planted and the hybridizer waits until the following spring.

 It is only when the baby plants emerge and eventually bloom (this can take two years sometimes) that the hybridizer gets to see what the cross looks like.  And just like human children who come from the same parents, lily "children" can look completely different from one another. There can be oddities but Buddy says that those are part of the excitement because he has still developed something unique.

 Then the lilies must bloom at least one more time before they can be registered, just to make sure that they will bloom again and look the same as they did the year before.  It is hours of work and literally years of waiting.

 Buddy and Willie both said that people approach them all the time inquiring about how to start their own daylily garden. The individuals want their yard to look just like Willie and Buddy's. Buddy laughs and drawls, "This is work - if you don't wanna get dirty and stinky, don't do this."
All that time, all that work, for what?  I found out that daylilies only bloom for one day.  One single day. And many times, the blooms won't even last an entire day before the sun literally "melts" them.

I asked them what makes all the time and work worth it?  The flowers just last one day!  

Willie answered, "It is so exciting to go out each morning to see which new flower is blooming and realizing that it is the only flower in the world that looks like that."

This Lily is named Little Pleasures.  It is only about two inches in diameter but I fell in love with it.  The lesson I learned from this story is that all the blood, sweat and tears are worth it, even if the beauty only lasts a moment, even if it is just a "Little Pleasure". In the end, there is still beauty and magic and maybe, the beauty is a bit more exquisite and the magic a bit more mystical because of all the work that was put in so it could exist, even if only for a moment, or a day.