Upcoming anniversaries…

Posted by Shelah | October 13, 2008 | 12 Comments

Next week, my son Isaac will turn four. A week later, we’ll celebrate a first anniversary. The first anniversary of when Isaac got sick. He woke up that morning perfectly healthy, and by late afternoon, he couldn’t walk. When I took him into the doctor the next afternoon (thinking the whole time that he probably had a virus and they’d call me a Nervous Nelly behind my back), he was immediately whisked to the hospital and diagnosed with a serious bone infection. He stayed for two weeks, had two surgeries, and left with a semi-permanent IV tube inserted in his arm. Once we were home, he endured six weeks of thrice-daily IV infusions, and slowly learned to walk again. The day he got the IV tube pulled from his arm, his femur, weakened from infection, crumbled. He ended up back in the hospital and emerged encased in a huge blue body cast, where he stayed for the next nine weeks. He finally started walking again in April, more than six months after MRSA came knocking.

Until last October, life had been relatively easy for our family. We’d had no serious trials, no major skeletons lurking in our closets. So when Isaac got sick I felt so …. untested. I felt determined to put on a brave face, a happy face, because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. I’ll never forget last Halloween. Isaac’s infection levels weren’t coming down like the doctors wanted, so he had an MRI that morning, and ended up on the surgery schedule right when the other kids were going to be trick or treating. I kissed him goodbye at the door to the operating suite, dashed home, took Bryce, Annie and Maren out, made small talk with the neighbors and thanked ward members for their help and prayers, and sobbed as I raced back to the hospital in time for Isaac to wake up. It wasn’t so much that I was tired (though I was), or scared (terrified is more like it). It just seemed like I was experiencing such dissonance– pretending everything was normal and I was functioning when everything was so wrong.

We all like to present our best faces to the world, and admitting that my life was falling apart was hard. In fact, I couldn’t do it. When people asked how things were going, I said fine. Isaac was in good spirits. The other kids didn’t feel too neglected. No we didn’t need dinner brought in. We were fine, fine, fine. I continued training for my first marathon. Other than having a kid who was seriously ill and couldn’t walk, life seemed pretty normal.

Except that I was scared, and afraid to admit it to anyone. I was terrified to be anything less than strong and resolute, and I put on that happy face each morning like it was lipstick.

I’m always amazed when Segullah arrives in my mailbox, because each time, there’s an essay or a poem that resonates with something I’m experiencing in my own life. In this issue, Elizabeth Cranford’s poem, “The Semantics of Blessings,” expresses a feeling I wish I had been brave enough to tap into– frustration, irritation and grief in the time of trial, and dancing with deep pain instead of pushing it away. I particularly love these lines: “Do not steal my fire and ice, make null/ my trial, void it with another name/ than pain.” I did that. I wanted to anesthetize our suffering, instead of recognizing that “The cut of a blade, opening bright red/ is revelation, not later epiphany,/ but present sense, the now of living…”

It may seem kind of weird to celebrate the anniversary of what has been, by any objective terms, one heck of a year. But maybe, just maybe by acknowledging the trials instead of trying to bury them behind smiles, that too, is a kind of blessing…

How have you, Dear Readers, learned not to run from your trials, but to wear them, and bear them, without the reflexive brave face?

Comments

12 Responses to “Upcoming anniversaries…”

Justine
October 13th, 2008 @ 12:30 pm

I’m afraid I’m the brave face lady. So I mostly deal with it by crying about it alone to my husband. I’ve tried to be honest a few times while keeping a happy tone, but it doesn’t always go over well.

“How are thing, Sister D?” people ask.

“Hey, they totally stink!” I say in a jolly, happy voice, laughing through it. Most people just stare at me and aren’t sure how to respond, so I’ve pretty much stopped doing that.
Maralise
October 13th, 2008 @ 1:05 pm

I think along with learning how to handle the trials, we learn how to grieve through them. And unfortunately, we will most likely get lots of practice in learning how to wear the pain both well and honestly. I hate that you had to go through this but I love finding other women who can relate to this dilemma. I never want to be the drama queen but I also don’t want to mask my pain to the point of dishonesty either.
Annette
October 13th, 2008 @ 1:09 pm

I tend to be a brave face, but mostly because I don’t think the majority of people want to deal with my problems–and I often don’t want to tell them, either and get the nods of sympathy. I’ll take a meal anytime one is offered though.

I’m so sorry about the year you’ve had. I hope it’s over for good.
cindy baldwin
October 13th, 2008 @ 1:17 pm

I put on a happy face. This is an issue I am constantly struggling with – as someone with chronic but mostly invisible health problems, I never know how to let people know what the situation is really like without constantly seeming like a downer. And I like things to look good – I like it when my house is clean and my clothes are cute and I look happy and not sick. I too have done the jolly “things stink!” and most of the time it just earns me a blank stare in return.

Here is the question I would like to throw into the mix: How can you honor your pain and be honest with those around you about that pain without sounding like a perpetual whiner?
Andrea R
October 13th, 2008 @ 1:21 pm

I realized I had to give myself permission to feel the emotions. To mourn, to be angry, to be bitter and questioning, to be mad at God, to rail and scream and cry. It didn’t help me to put on the happy face and the attitude of “What is God trying to teach me from this experience?” with a happy smile while burying my anguish. It was too wrenching to look at it that way. I didn’t WANT to learn whatever God was trying to teach me, so I let myself feel the anger and frustration, and to mourn what I had lost.

I admit that I had to put on the brave face at church — if someone asked me how I was doing when I was going through it, I didn’t want to vomit out a stream of angry bitterness all over them. But, I found that by allowing myself to feel all that and to work through it on my own terms, I was able to start looking for the good, for the blessings, for the insights and answers. Peace came.

I don’t know if that works for anyone else, but it helped me…
mormonhermitmom
October 13th, 2008 @ 1:22 pm

Reminds me of the time my hubby had his appendix out, along with a foot of bowel, only to have to go back to the hospital to take out more scar-tissue twisted bowel out six months later. If we had had kids then, I don’t think I would have made it. I put on the brave face too, mostly because hubby’s grandmother was so intensely concerned about him that we were trying to calm HER down. I took the offered meals for fear of offending someone. Four kids later I still put on a face, but it’s more a neutral one. My answer to “how are you doing” is “not bad”, because even if I’m not “fine”, I know “it could be worse”.
wendy
October 13th, 2008 @ 2:56 pm

I love that poem.

When I think of how we handle our grief and interact with others, I think of the scripture, “The truth shall make you free.”

Before my mission, I put on the brave face to the point of denial (oh-what-a-happy-life, la la la). Then I hit rock bottom, got angry, and opened up to the point of embarrassing/angry drama.

I started finding a balance by doing what Andrea R said, allowing the grief and taking it to the Lord (even my anger at Him). I found that sharing struggles with friends deepened my relationships, helped me not feel so isolated, gave me insights and answers to prayers, and even helped others I didn’t know were going through similar things. I also know it made me seem more human and reachable. I don’t have it down perfectly yet (erring on one side or the other), but I generally do pretty well.

Regarding Cindy’s question, how to be honest without being a whiner, one idea I have is that being pessimistic about trials lends to sounding like a whiner. Being open and honest does not have to be pessimistic (admitting that sometimes I AM pessimistic and whiney).

It seems that there are times to be open and times to wear the brave mask–some people really don’t want or need to hear all of our gory details–and some very personal details don’t need to be shared with very many.

I’m looking at the clock and am taking way too much time to think through this, so I’ll skip some things and try to sum up. I want to bear my trials gracefully, graciously, but I don’t think that means I have to appear serene and smiley all the time. I don’t know what it DOES look like. It seems, though, that as I learn when to be honest, when to laugh or roll my eyes as I say “fine,” when to say “I’m having a hard day but I’ll be fine” and when to keep my pain between me and the Lord, I get closer to that way of being.
cahkaylahlee
October 13th, 2008 @ 4:39 pm

For myself, I find it really easy to put on my “brave face” at church because a lot of people that I only see on Sunday ask me how I’m doing. And if I explain something to one person, then it sets the precedent for me to explain it to everyone else. And if I’m not doing “fine” I don’t want to tell that story more than once, so I generally don’t tell it at all. At least, not at church when there are lots of other people around. I try to let those that offer service help.

One thing that also helps me is to write down my feelings in my journal, so that I don’t forget the reality of my emotions even if I don’t want to share them with others.

I think also that it is important to remember and celebrate the times of trial in your life. When my sister was little, she had a bone marrow transplant a few weeks before her birthday. Over 14 years later we still celebrate her transplant anniversary just as much as her birthday. Over the years I have come to see that all the heartache and worry and love that we experienced together as a family really gave us a sense of family identity. My sister still lives with some health effects from her treatment, and the realities of life do not end. Still, I am grateful for that experience because it gives me courage to face other trials. It gives me courage to deal with an imperfect and unjust world.
Researcher
October 13th, 2008 @ 6:04 pm

Thanks for the essay, Shelah. It reminded me that last year on Halloween I was in a similar place. I remember staggering into the Ronald McDonald House in the evening after the baby had his second open heart surgery and seeing the children who were staying at the RMH trick or treating from door to door throughout the house. I think the term “surreal” was invented for situations like that.

As far as putting on a brave face, I do that by default in about 99 percent of my interactions with other people. Most people don’t get to hear, because I’ve probed them and found that they can’t handle my stress or give me any sort of helpful emotional support. This includes most of my ward, usually my husband, all of my extended family, and most especially my in-laws.

I count it as one of the great blessings of my life that I have three friends right now, one in real life and two online, who are okay with me saying, “I’m feeling lonely” or “I’m feeling blue” or “I’m trying to cope with the worry” and don’t get scared by the emotion or feel like they have to fix it.
FoxyJ
October 13th, 2008 @ 9:05 pm

Last year we went through a very difficult time in our marriage and my husband moved out of our apartment for a few months. I was scared, angry, hurt, and embarrassed. Not only that, but I lived in an apartment complex with several ward members and saw them frequently. For a while I kept my “brave” face on everywhere and no one knew what was going on except the bishop and RS president. I didn’t even tell my visiting teachers when they stopped by one time. Then I finally confided in a few of my neighbors, and they were so compassionate and understanding. I still didn’t say much at church, and I don’t think very many people knew about it. But it did help to have a few friends I could talk to. Like others have said, I also found that keeping a personal journal where I could work through my feelings was very therapeutic. I also came to rely heavily on prayer. I think that there is nothing wrong with being selective about which trials we share. Some things are not meant for everyone to know about. I didn’t want the entire ward wondering about my marriage and I didn’t need a massive outpouring of help. But I also appreciated the people who gave me a safe place to “fall” for a while while I healed. And I also learned not to be so guarded in the future.
Emily M.
October 13th, 2008 @ 9:24 pm

One of the hardest times in my life was when my mother-in-law died. We were very close. And everyone knew about it, and some people did something about it–brought food, or made an extra effort to talk with me. And some people, ones who I kind of expected to make an effort, based on their stewardship over me, did very little.

This was really disappointing to me, and it hurt me a lot. I’m over it now. But it makes me think: it can be scary when everyone knows your pain. Telling people creates an expectation or a hope that they’ll do something, even if it’s only a phone call to help you through it. And if they don’t come through, it makes the whole thing worse.

I love that poem too. And I love the way you write about it, Shelah, “dancing with the deep pain instead of pushing it away.” You express it perfectly.
m&m
October 14th, 2008 @ 12:05 am

I love this post (tugs at my heart, though, big time). I’m sorry for all you have been through. I know you have shared this before (or at least I remember reading it, yah?), but it still hurts to read it.

I loved that poem, too.

And with my chronic illness issues, I have learned to try to be honest, particularly with those who seem to really want to know, and I am getting pretty good at knowing who they are. I am learning that people can’t read my mind, and that I really do need some support and love when I’m struggling. And I have found some really beautiful experiences as I have opened up. I believe we can’t really knit our hearts together if we aren’t willing to risk a bit and ask for help and help others help us.

BTW, I really hate the word FINE. I hate it, and I my goal is to never ever, leave that word alone when someone answers that way. (I just gave my son a huge lecture about not telling a girl she looks fine, because that is how you answer when you aren’t fine!)