What they never tell you!

24 Oct 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

July 4th, 2023- while the rest of the United States is celebrating freedom- albeit in the rain where I lived, I was well aware that at around 10-10:30 that night I would turn into the proverbial medical Gremlin with an anticipated surgery the next morning. Check in sheduled for 6 am, which meant waking up at 5:15 am-no coffee- no scone (as though I breakfast on scones in the first place)-nothing in my stomach-so much in my head. No make up (and I rarely leave the house without trying to look somewhat human), no reason to do my hair, all my jewerly placed in the heart-shaped bronze colored, wire, trinket container–There is a necklace that I never take off- the main pendant is a trillion shaped, celtic, trinity knot

that I pair with a tiny round diamond encased in the letter X, which signifies the birth of my first son, whose name begins with X. The main pendant was given to me by my then boyfriend ( now my fiance’) and I later received the matching earrings (both as gifts for a birthday and Christmas) I rarely take either of them off for any reason…..But on the evening of July 4th, they all lay in the botton of the jewelry box that my youngest son gave me- even that has significance- He won that in a White Elephant game at his great grandma’s house last Christmas, and although he knows my distaste of all things heart related- he kept that to give to me for my gift. He knew this particular piece would have special significance…..It came from my ex in-laws family Christmas gathering and from the home of a woman who used to be the only person I had that was closest to a grandmother- she was kind to me, accepted me, for the most part, at face value, laughed with and seemed to know me- I had never grown up with a grandmother- she was near and dear to me- and in the split I lost access to her, her kindness, and a relationship with her. ( you lose so much that people never tell you, the trade off can be positive, but the fall-out from losing some really important connections stinks.) She, like many within that family, want nothing to do with me- I think believing that I ruined their relative’s life- sullied a reputation, & that I was nothing to care about in the first place. That hurts, but I cannot control their actions or thoughts, (believe me, I have tried, in so many instances, to do just that.) and what they think of me is their narrative-not mine to own (and that is hefty stuff to acknowledge too!)

Waking the next morning at, yes, the butt crack of dawn, is/was not easy. For those that know me, I am NOT a morning person-I do not (and refuse to) pop out of bed, all wide awake and bushy tailed, ready to dance my way through my morning Zoomba class (as if), & have 5 hours of work in before a morning coffee break. I am quiet, slow moving, somewhat sullen ( ok, the sulky part of sullen works- not the ill tempered or depressed)- I fully embrace the beauty of an early morning sunrise-I just don’t happen to want to partake in lots of them. (Now, if I was in the mountains or the oceanside-that may be a different story) I was quiet-my to-be fiance’ woke me as I slept fitfully on the livingroom couch- (lest anyone assume anything different-I have my own, solo space in which to sleep-as does he) I could hear nothing from the boys’ room upstairs, so I assumed they were safely ensconced in la la land!

Arriving at the surgical towers, I glanced behind me to discover one of my closest and best friends walking to catch up with us- WHAT!?!?!? It is the middle of summer, way too early in the morning, and did I mention, she is a college prof–they get a little bit of time off (for good behavior) in the summer. WHO goes out of their way to appear & sit for hours during a surgical procedure–? A sister from another mister does that-one who loves unconditionally.

Pre-op, consults complete, consents signed, gowned, non-slippy sock adorned, I sit ready for another step in the healing journey. This time- after almost 2 years of consults, tests, injections, X-rays, MRI’s, I entrust my back and cervical spinal column to one of the best neurosurgeons in the region. I have to trust his expertise- his wisdom, his staff- I have to trust in the process & relinquish control- (for any that know me- that is something I do not do well) I have to have faith that all will be ok- and I have to embrace one of the hardest concepts to rise to the surface in this whole process- I have to embrace another step in the healing process.

Healing- that is quite the word. Of all the things I learned this past summer- this continues to stick with me- People’s actions- their words, and even inactions have far reaching implications. What we do (or don’t do- ) what we say (or neglect to say) matters- & the effect is huge.

So, here I am, almost 49 ( at the time of surgery), confronted with the knowledge that people’s actions from decades before was directly affecting & partially responsible for the present situation- that at this juncture I am literally, financially, emotionally, and physically paying for the actions of others (multiple others). Healing those actions is not an easy task- there can be surgical interventions, but it is likely that I will end up with more surgeries, & the fact that my spinal column & vertebrae is close to an elderly person’s is hard to swallow.

Healing- what does that entail? I will tell you- it’s uber hard work. The Drs., surgeons, nurses, techs can mitigate symptoms, but the real work is up to the body, mind, and spirit of the one who is under the knife & anesthesia- The real work is heavy lifting-it feels lonely, daunting, isolating, and yet- there is hope within it.

That pre-op room was full of it-hope. The room was full of anticipation-history-connection, and yes, love. Of all the tangibles in that room, love was the most prevalent. Accepting that is not always an easy task- You see, a lack of attention, a lack of concern & others missing things that put me in this position & while I could rest on trying to pin blame in multiple places-where will that get me? What good will trying to figure out the when, how, who, & to what extent the damage occurred? The truth is, I will never truly know. The situation is due to a myriad of issues- a perfect storm of situations collected over decades-and I am partially to blame

It is hard to type that- hard to admit that I have to own my part in all this. I missed warning signs- ok, I didn’t miss them- I recognized them & refused to do anything. I lived in pain- in misery-in a place I thought I deserved. I believed that it was my job to endure-to wrestle in silence-the punish myself, to lay out the martyr mat & walk it every day. I knew stuff was wrong-I knew that the hurt was excrutiating, knew (in my head) that I didn’t have to live that way, & maybe the avoidance of claiming that I could pursue doing something about it was my way of dealing. But, the body, like the mind, keeps the score. The body, at some point, will give in to the strain, break under the pressure-eventually, if it’s not attended to, it’ll simply shut down. Maybe, in some way, I was ok living the way I was, but there was something that was not content. Sitting in that pre-op room was/is step one to healing. I knew, my mind knew it, my spirit knew it, my body knew it! (that’s a lot of knowing its)

As they came to wheel me down to the operating room, I knew one thing for certain-the road to healing was/is right before me- the decision now was/is whether or not I can lean into what it means. My counselor often busts me by saying that I like to walk into the mukkity, paint it with pretty words, avoid moving through it, paint it with more pretty words, and then jump to a ribbon wrapped ending. The fact is, there is no pretty way around healing-not if I’m doing it the right way. Just as getting to the root of the problem is not easy & requires mulitple cuts & scars from the Drs., walking through it as the person, that’s another journey…….More to come.

25 Jun 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized

Beauty out of Brokenness?

Beauty out of Brokenness?

25 Jun 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

Thank you SARA RAMIREZ for your motivation.

” Before we decide anterior or posterior incision, I have to ask, do you sing or speak for a professional living?”

Just as I was about to answer, my emergency significant contact answered for me, “Yes, Both.”

Yes, yes I do sing- and it has taken me DECADES to admit that- you see I was told at a very young age that I was terrible- my mother, who has close to perfect pitch often told me that to be a vocalist, I should be able to imagine middle C and hit the note- perfectly in tune every time I imagined it. I so clammed up every time with abject fear, that I could never hit it and my mother would shake her head in disgust and turn on her heel and mutter about how bad I was. As I aged and my voice finetuned into the 1st soprano that I have always been, I was then told that no one wanted to listen to some dumb soprano (hey wait, my older brother was the male equivalent to those dumb sopranos as a high high tenor-what’s the difference?) In school, I was told that I was worse than terrible and my classmates ridiculed my voice, threw spit wads at me and bribed me to drop out of choir- I even had a vocal teacher my senior year tell me that I would never be a vocalist and it would be best if I stopped trying all together-I went on to score a 1+ on my solo my senior year- “Sento nel Core”, but I held on to those words my whole life–now they come home to reverberate in my mind along with the reason for the original question.

Do I sing or speak professionally for a living—well as much as many people would like me to be quiet- ( and I am positive there are more than a few!~~) I do actually do both- my voice is quite important to the work that I do. Not only do I run a non profit, I also fill pulpit ( and am on the cusp of being Commissioned as a DEACON in the UMC)–(more on that later) and try to use my voice to impact the status quo and change the narratives out there- my words, my voice, are my calling card and I would be lost without either of them. ( I’d be lost without google maps too, but that is a different blog for a different day!) So why would a random question disquiet my soul so much?

Ah, it is anything but random. This question came from a real, live, living and breathing McDreamy– (Grey’s Anatomy fangirl motion here!) My neurosurgeon, a youngish, talented, and wicked smart Dr is planning to make an incision in my neck and move aside my vocal chords (and some other stuff too) and get to the (at least 2) discs that are badly enough damaged that they need replacing. I am actually a candidate for spinal fusion surgery, but I would lose so much movement, that they opted for a double disc replacement at C5-6 & C6-7. They would do more, but those have not been approved by the FDA yet (oh goodie! ). Not only will he replace those discs, and do some shaving and fitting them into my vertebrae, he will then wrap them in a titanium cage! Just exactly what my significant other wanted to hear– “Let’s wrap the titanium girl in ACTUAL titanium!” I am not so silently celebrating this because I take GREAT pride in my titanium ways- I have fostered that bravado & perfected it over decades of experience- I am a MASTER at titanium- and now- now I feel it figuratively crumbling and I don’t know what to do.

My own counselor, who I have been sitting opposite for over 10 years is clapping her hands in a GLEEful joy at what I will be facing in little over a week. (see my GLEE reference there, GLEEKS?) I am not clapping or jumping up and down in glee- I don’t want to do this. I want no part of that which I will embark on in about 10 days from now. You see, the upper cervical area is not the only area of damage- it seems I have the spine of a nearly 80some year old in the body of a 48 year old. Say what? How did this happen?

That is the question that I have been asked at each Xray- CT scan, MRI and nerve block and injection bout. “what happened to you?”

Yeah. What happened……

I could write pages on answering that- but I choose not to at this time. Suffice it to say, lots of damage at really formative times in a child’s life-including birth trauma–and all the way through childhood and adolescence will do a number on a tiny framed girl. It seems that no person should bounce off of a wall, across a room, or down a flight of stairs for any reason. I also discovered that 5 gallon buckets DO NOT in fact weigh only 5 lbs. (who knew?) They actually weigh close to 40 lbs when full and carrying 2 of them at the same time meant a 50lb girl was carrying more than she actually weighed (but damn those saplings got watered multiple times a week for 2 years while they grew.) Those trees- I am totally claiming ownership! Come to find out that being so proud of strength physically and emotionally has sent my body into a state of constant revolt (and I find it rather revolting actually–see what I did there?) I am hella strong and was that way from birth- I withstood a lot- prolly too much and I have been beyond proud of that my whole life. I have forwarded a narrative of “hit me with all ya got, I can take it!” And life often did.

What I rarely told anyone was that it hurt- more than I wanted or had permission to express. Now at 48, my body is in fight mode all the time- there is no rest. It is prepared to fight any person and sees almost every situation as an attack- whether there is one or not. While I was so proud that I could lift, carry, climb, and work harder than many other little girls my age, my body was storing up all that I was experiencing, readying the fight mode that preserved my life at the time, but is doing me no favors in the present. My spirit, which steeled itself against the names, the accusations, moments or ridicule, and feelings of shame, proved that I had only me to count on for survival. I learned later that there was a Savior looking out for me- but it was years before I discovered what being a beloved child of God looks and feels like (oh, who am I kidding, I am still working on that!)

I was proud to survive on my own- and I didn’t need anyone- or so I told myself. I still do actually and it’s wrong. See, I could write this stuff up, rush to the end of the story, and tie it up with a pretty ribbon and tell you all that it’s perfect and life rights itself and we move on- and….it’s bullshit. It’s all crap. Life sometimes hands us stuff that hurts and sometimes we react to life’s stuff and we hurt ourselves or others….it is human nature to mess up. It’s human nature to be scared- (even when we claim that we are titanium).

One of the lines from the above song, first sung by Brandi Carlile

You see the smile that’s on my mouth
It’s hiding the words that don’t come out
And all of our friends who think that I’m blessed
They don’t know my head is a mess.

No, they don’t know who I really am
And they don’t know what I’ve been through like you do https://genius.com/Brandi-carlile-the-story-lyrics

The smile, – the snark, the professionally polished words that I utter hide all the thoughts that never tumble out of my mouth. They are hidden by a desire to be perfectly put together, to never misstep, to achieve more & push harder than I did yesterday- to never have an off day- to NEVER, above all, show what I deem as weakness. That means, I don’t mention that sitting, standing, laying down, walking, riding a bike, doing dishes, putting away clothes, driving puts such a strain on my back and shoulders that I cannot adequately gauge a pain threshold. I operate out of a 8-9-10 every day from the top of my head to the base of my spine and it sucks! It means that I don’t let the tears fall when I feel scared thinking about 10 days from now as they wheel me to the OR. (McDreamy or not, that shit is scary) It means that I don’t admit that for all my bravado, all the instances that I shake my head and say that I am fine- what I really want to say is…..NO, I am not fine- I don’t want to be alone and for just awhile I’d like to be a little girl who’s scooped up into a strong and gentle embrace and carried to a place that is safe- safe enough to recoup for a bit and for somehow some message gets to the rest of my body saying…..(“sshhhh shhhh, it’s ok, you can rest now. you can let go. we’ve got her.”) Ahhh to let go and release the decades of damage, what would that look like? I have no idea….and it is terrifying to consider that.

Now, what I am facing is rather small peanuts compared to some of the roads that I know others are traveling. I do not want my stuff to downplay some of those situations of which I am aware. The tie that this surgery has to my emotions is one of the heaviest lifts I’ve ever had ahead of me. My radiologist told me after my last MRI this spring, “bones don’t lie- we can see damage that never healed here. there are fractures and bruises in these bones that are decades old- we can see what happened to you- these bones tell their own story” OUCH. That statement hurts in a place I can’t articulate- it means that all the moments of not saying a word did not keep my secret. My body betrayed my silence- it told its own story–a story that I intellectually was aware of, but did not integrate into my being. I swept the damage under the rug and suffered for years in actual pain before the pain got to the point where I could no longer ignore its impact. It is as though my body itself said, “ok enough is enough- we either deal with this and get some relief- or we’re just gonna quit.” I have never been a quitter- so here we are.

in 10 days I will undergo a double disc replacement, with other work to be done close by on the backburner after we see how I recoup from this. I have a spine Dr., a neurologist, a PA, 2 counselors, and other medical professionals cheering me on and pleased for this moment in my journey. My Board of Directors, my staff, and loved ones are telling me to take the time needed to heal “if you don’t take the time to heal the first time, your body will make sure you take it the second time–isn’t it easier to take it now when you can make the time?” ARG!!! I am battling the feelings of guilt, shame (oh the shame), narratives of weakness that tell me I shouldn’t be doing this in the first place- that I need to be healed as quickly as possible. Then the words of my chiro come into play, “And just remember how long it took your body to get to this point.” CRAP—why do they have to speak with such incredible logic that I can’t argue back at them?

My counselor and I talked about this juncture as a closing of the chapters on the first part of my story- I can see that. I mean I have had other surgeries before and fought through them and pushed myself harder than I prolly should have. ( I AM titanium after all) This one feels different somehow- the stakes feel higher-or more is at stake- almost like more of me is at stake-I am not sure I am unpacking that the way I want- This one feels heavier- like a much bigger lift. But I can see where my counselor is saying this is the closure to part 1 and “wow, now you get to write part 2!!!! I am so excited to see how you write this- YOU get to CHOOSE this time.” I think that is what is at the core- the damage that has been caused -(by numerous sources) I did not have a choice–I had to accept and put up with other people’s actions-actions that equates so much damage that it makes a radiologist raise their eyebrows. I heard another counselor the other day talk about dependency (that’s one of my swear words- you know, like moist)- they said that allowing ourselves to be dependent on others actually honors their love for us. WHAT!?!?!?! Then they had to correlate that dependency to being a child of God– that we are to come to the throne as little children, expecting to be picked up and held close- cuddled, safe in the embrace that provides warmth and love unconditional. Crap!!! They weren’t supposed to see through my caged emotions and speak the words I crave- I thought I had hid my desire to be all wrapped up in a blanket, wheeled to the OR and to hear, ” I love you my sweet girl– let them do their work-all you need to do is close your eyes and let them take care of you- I’ll be here when you wake- and I, along with many others, can’t wait to take care of you when the surgeons are done with their work.”

How I yearn to lean into those arms-and yet, I am not there yet. I have been so conditioned to fight and to fear anyone coming too close, that I can’t even entertain a moment like that. I can’t understand people wanting to come alongside and making room in their basement- or giving me a comfy bed to sleep in right after surgery. I can’t conceive that being treated like that actually happens-it feels like a dream too good to be true and I am terrified to accept it. So I am fighting- clawing to remain stubborn, independent, strong and capable so I don’t wake up disappointed- Then again, I know in my heart that the curtain is about to close on Act 1 and I get to choose the narrative for Act 2. I get to choose???? wow. What do I do with that?

So, the song I chose to share is a massive risk- I did not pretty sing- I sang from the heart, there are few missed notes- a moment where a voice shakes and I am not perfect- but the lyrics sing to me. I figured that while I was risking emotionally- I would risk a little more and for all those in my class who thought and told me I sucked- yeah that may have been true then- but then again, maybe I didn’t. Maybe if the narrative had been re-written then I would not have battled decades of demons each time I take the mic. You see, both my boys have loved hearing my voice since they were babies and my oldest looks at me often and marvels- “mom, how come you don’t let anyone hear how good you actually are?” cause I don’t believe I am….. “Then my sig other will gently chastise me. ” hmmmmm why don’t you use your big girl voice- why are you hiding behind this little girl voice that carries no power? USE your BIG GIRL VOICE!” OOOKKKKAY, I used my big girl voice- and incidentally, that voice carries the chance of going hoarse permanently…..that’s another area of terror that my friend, Amy, a phenom vocal teacher is well aquainted and understands-sooooo yeah.

What does part 2 look like? Who knows, we got McDreamy first~ scalpel!

In this State….

02 Jun 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized

When I had my first child the world took on new meaning-things shifted seismically, I knew that things would never be the same, they couldn’t-they shouldn’t. The focus moved from me & what I may want to the basic needs of another human being. Suddenly I was responsible for someone else, their life depended on me, they needed me. That need felt overwhelming & amazing at the same time. Truth be told, I never wanted to be a mother, never believed that I had what it takes, never thought I could do a decent job at caring for a child.

I love kids- I had helped take care of many of them as a teenager when my mother worked at a church in my hometown–I had counseled at various camps, I knew HOW to care for a child, what I didn’t know was whether I could adequately love a baby…..Did I have the skills & the tools-could I emulate what I had seen as a role model? Wait-I didn’t necessarily have the most stellar role models ( how does one define a role model anyway?) I grew up in a household that was full of competition, conflict, & chaos. While we all survived, the examples I had of what it takes to be a parent provided me with some pretty damaging narratives..(truth be told, at 48, I’m still battling many of those narratives—the pen IS mightier than the sword after all)

I learned to be a work horse, racehorse. I learned the be a show pony-I learned that putting on a good front was more important that reality. Earning love was deeply ingrained in my psyche-knowing that accomplishments & right modes of behavior was the key to positive interactions. I knew ultimately that I would never be good enough to receive the kudos, (but dang, I keep trying!). The constant battle of being “good enough” & “too much” was waged early on (and still exists) with pleas to modify my actions and words happening on the daily. “If you would only…..” was a consistent message-I lived it, breathed it, adopted it into my being & let it claim me. (isn’t “if only” a message of regret?)

While I realized I was a work in progress, I also lived into the fact that hurting people hurt others- that if I operated with so many damaging & dangerous messages & memories-the likelihood would be that I would transfer those to any children I may have. I feared that- I feared messing up another human being, instilling in them a boatload of issues that only a counselor’s couch could tackle. I couldn’t do that to them…..but God intervened with a beautiful baby boy, not once, but twice.

To say I was smitten with my sons is an understatement-(like who wouldn’t be?). That first baby taught me so much. He was intense from the very first moment he was born. (he loves to hear HIS story) He loves to hear how when he was born, he locked eye contact with me, didn’t break his stare, & took in the whole situation-with nary a cry. (he made up for that later) The nurses agreed he was a captivating baby-his energy, his look, his personality made one stop & do a doubletake- (almost like whiplash) He only amplified these tendencies as he grew older.

He forced me to think outside the box, I could not depend on the books that told me the best way to do this or that- he drove me to my knees more than once…..he frustrated, angered, tried, and inspired me from day 1 (he still does). He also allowed me to dream. Each time I held this baby boy & gazed in his eyes, I was filled with hope- I saw a future for him that was pregnant with promise. When we had to hospitalize him & he received a triple mental health diagnosis, my heart sank & pieces of it shattered. I saw the years unfolding before him & all I could see were question marks. ( is he The Riddler?)

As time progressed, I saw such incredible talent & intelligence eek out of his every pore. I saw potential & I prayed for a future that glittered like diamonds. And just as quickly as I saw this, the claws of the mental health obstacles sunk their hold, grabbing him by the shoulders, grounding him in one spot. The cement that encased him still exists–& with each endeavor some parts seem heavier…..

I’ve written before about this, his first year of college that ended on a less than stellar note- what I haven’t expressed is what watching from the sidelines & sometimes, in the thick of it is like. In a nutshell, it’s hell.

I will doggedly advocate for my son, I will never stop fighting for him, never stop anticipating what his future holds- never stop praying. I believe in him-that belief will never waiver. What is so hard to admit is what this does to my own soul. It rips it apart at the seams- it hurts- it angers me. Now, you may be asking, what is the IT?

His limitations, his mental health obstacles, his immaturities inhibit what I have long seen as incredible potential. And it infuriates me. I feel endlessly guilty-Did I do this to him? I feel angry at myself for feeling like I haven’t done enough-that the baby boy I cared for & dreamed of each time I held him is gone- those dreams are replaced with what sometimes feels like an uphill battle & often I feel defeated by it. And, I am scared- terrified. I am scared for his outlook-what do jobs look like-can he handle school? I am scared for relationships that I yearn for him to have, knowing that social skills are not always a top priority. Will he find someone who will set his heart & life on fire? Will they care for him in a way that shows him that he is seen, heard, and loved for who he is? Will he be able to care for a household-earn a paycheck & budget as needed? I see the bond between him & his younger brother growing taut with tension as they ice each other out of their lives…..it saddens me to watch that & know that right now, there is nothing I can do (they both need time to grow up ).

I feel powerless. I feel like a bad mother, that for all the moments when I said “I will never make my child feel like…._”, here we are, daily battling to find motivation, a happy medium, some answer that will spark change & light his path forward ( I can’t believe I just ended that sentence with a prep- bah!)

Above all, I feel alone.

It is such a lonely place to see your child hurt- it feels debilitating. It also feels out of control. (and for this type A, hyper vigilant mom, that is a lethal combo) It feels like I can never do enough & what I do try ends up being too much (remember those narratives? Well, here they are!). I rarely feel like I have a safe place to vent, rarely can express what I am really thinking without the onslaught of judgment that we as a society are so quick to jump to nowadays. Rarely do I have the words to make this all ok-and that feels worse. Sometimes it feels like I am swimming underwater, holding my breath, willing my lungs to maintain just a little longer, when in reality, they are barely holding on in the first place. I want to scream at the heavens, begging the powers that be to restore my son. And then the guilt comes back full force. The guilt that chides me more than a little forcefully to accept my son just as he is-to envelop him in all that love that I have (do I have enough?), to realize that he is a gift, beautifully & wonderfully made. And the merry-go-round of shame, acceptance, joy, pain begins again in earnest.

So the above pic is of my X-Man. He is named after Professor X of the famed X-Men series, ( and let’s just admit that Patrick Stewart is THE bomb!) he embodies that name-he is insightful, intuitive, spiritual, wicked smart, empathic, and a million other amazing things. These 2 pics are of the day he was dropped off & started his first real summer job, some 5 hours & another state away at Wesley Acres in Dazey, ND. He will spend the summer as a camp counselor, teaching, interacting, & so many things that speak to his soul. I am excited for him & nervous as hell. Can he do it? Will he discover parts of himself that we knew were always there? Can he follow through? Will this fill his soul? Will he find himself-will he be a reliable employee & a role model for the campers with whom he interacts? Will he be able to get along with staff & his roommates (will they keep the staff cabin clear of edibles to ward off critters)? Will he enjoy himself & learn something in the process? Will mom be ok, knowing that I can’t get to him at the sound of his call? Will the wheels come off? Can I trust what he’s telling me- will he remember to take his meds- re-order his patch when he’s running low-the list goes on and on.

A short time after we unloaded him, I glanced up at the residence quarters for the camp site directors & noticed that he had retrieved his guitar, harmonica, & a pair of drumsticks. There he was, guitar splayed on his lap, pick in hand, playing & instructing a captive audience of about 4 younger elementary aged children (some of whom may struggle with similar stuff as my son). He sat there playing & teaching just as naturally as if he had known them for years (umm, he had been on site for all of 30 minutes). My heart filled with so much emotion I had to look down for fear that my own feelings would get the better of me &I would bust out in tears at any moment. Instead I smiled, waved, yelled that I love him & to have a good summer. What I really wanted to do was run up there, take him in my arms, hold him close, ruffle his hair, & whisper, “let this summer mold you-let the Spirit & the nature around you speak to your soul-healing the rough patches, let the site directors care for you in ways that I cannot, and remember, you are beautifully & wonderfully made, & I love you.”

I didn’t though. I smiled, turned on my heel, headed for the car & sighed as I took my seat. He’s 19- off for another adventure-& I have to continually remind myself to let him go-let the chips fall where they may, while instilling him with the confidence that when needed, I will always be there to help pick him up. I so hope though, that at the end of this journey, we have reason to celebrate a successful season-that is what keeps gnawing at my guts-the dread that is ever present. BAH! For now though, I have one more pic to share that speaks volumes more than my written words ever could………

The Wheels on the Bus….

12 May 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized

I have tossed around this blog for quite some time and this morning got up the nerve to ask my oldest if it was ok that I write about the topic in my head and on my heart. He agreed and told me that he trusts me- that is a huge compliment for a mom to receive from a 19 year old son. So, I endeavor to talk with transparency that which has burdened my heart this spring with as much candidness as I can, while also doing my best to honor him, his journey, and his trust in me.

I love and rue the above pic. It is hanging on a banner in an event center on a college campus and was present last week at their graduation. I cannot imagine how many hundreds of people saw this and other banners- The pic is of my oldest son, my college freshman, drumline, communications scholarship recipient, psych major extraordinaire. Seeing this fills me with such pride-pride at a young man who has faced such incredible odds and beaten them (for the most part) and found niches for his talent and focus that will carry him far into the future. I am filled with admiration for him-for a penchant for music I could only hope to have-a natural ear and a creative element that drives him to listen to a song maybe a couple of times before he is able to replicate it-then after he’s replicated it, he can ad lib and beautifully change up the melody and make it his own. He astounds me with that ability. He has a way with words and writing that I can somewhat attribute to my influence, but he has a voice and a style that is all his own-with a keen insight into people, his own mind, and mental health that far exceeds a typical 19 year old young man. I see all of that in this pic- I see a fellow Jackrabbit- and I am a proud alum. I sat in the stands-stood at the pre-game pep rallies this past fall-cheered as loud as any mom (ok prolly louder) who could not be more proud of seeing their baby doing what they were born to do. (Insert well placed GO DRUMLINE Bellow here) I see all of that and more.

I also rue this pic. I rue what it represents to me. I know where this was taken and I know the circumstances-I know this commemorates my son participating in what was a banner first semester of college-one whose events could not be replicated, even if we tried. He was part of a band that attended the Macy’s Day Parade-a band that marched the football team to an undefeated conference season and then saw them win a national championship-that band played for their Jackrabbit players and alumni in Texas- He was part of a nationally recognized drumline, and as a freshman had a place on that drumline and he felt like he belonged-and he did. That band played in Texas in January- he did not. I rue this pic because while this banner hung for graduation, my son should have been there potentially playing in the ceremonies or just returning home from his spring semester. He was already home- he had been home for more than 2 months, having withdrawn from classes in early March.

This past week, I stood at my youngest son’s tennis match in my hometown and talked with other moms who had kiddos in that freshman year. I answered the question as to how he was doing to the best of my ability- “Did he enjoy his first year?” You bet he did. He had a blast. He found a place that accepted him and embraced him for who he is. What I didn’t say was what had happened in the midst of him finding a place. You see, about a year ago, as we faced his senior year winding down, there was avid talk of him going to Colorado State University in Fort Collins- one of the reasons he stated for wanting to go was, “mom, they have a lagoon on campus. I can get a kayak and float around in my kayak, smoke pot cause it’s legal there, and be in college at the same time!” Just what every mom wants to hear- to be sure- my son does not and has never smoked or done a lick of drugs or alcohol. Welcome to a teen messing with their parent- While I desperately wanted him to spread his wings and fly- something stopped me from pushing this agenda- in fact, his father and I opposed this move and his psychiatrist did too. We felt that with the obstacles he faces, he would be better served going somewhere closer to home- I was thrilled when he chose to apply and was accepted at my alma mater. His father had taken grad classes and had been speech coach there and I attained a stellar education as a Jackrabbit. #Go STATE! I was stoked, he was stoked, his father was stoked, all the peoples who know and love him were stoked. I knew that this was a safer choice-that if, when he was in college, the wheels started to come off-we could get to him quicker than if he were in CO.

Wheels on the bus indeed. They fell off- they crashed- but they did not take my son out with them. Whew.

My oldest wrestles with co-morphing mental diagnoses: ADHD, high generalized anxiety, depression, & multi sensory disorder. This is down from a TIC disorder and an Oppositional Defiant Disorder. We have run the gambit of meds and therapies- he has felt the brunt of ridicule, judgment, scorn, and his own frustration. He has bumped up against limitations, hopes crushed, and victories as well. He was and is on an educational IEP- nailed his ACT to pull a score most in the SPED world rarely see, he is a 3 time national qualifier in speech and debate activities, and notched numerous accomplishments in that world all 6 years that he competed. He amazes me. He frustrates me. He scares me. His illness and subsequent behaviors anger me.

He skated through much of high school doing enough to get by and often pulling the grades to pass and sometimes surpass expectations by the skin of his teeth- it was never whether he could do the work that was the problem- (ok well math subjects not included here) it was always the organization, focus, and motivation factor that presented the biggest challenges. He would neglect to hand in work-barely completing assignments and sort of study (if at all) for exams- He knew enough to get by and could masterfully BS a BSer.– that is until mom- a BSer in my own right- called him on it and did my best to hold him accountable. Most of the time it worked and I could right the bus before the wheels fell off completely- I functioned – let’s face it- I OVER functioned for him-often saving his butt from certain failure-most of the time. There was one occurrence where a college dual credit course did not make it off the burning pile-he promised me that having been burned, he had learned.

Yah, right. His illness and subsequent behavior angers me.

He enrolled and began his semester and I had to take a hands off approach. He is after all, a young adult, in college and laws dictate that I am hands off- that and he needs to learn function on his own and lean into being an adult. I was watching- not hovering- but attentive. I asked the questions- I inquired about the grades, I watched and waited-and hoped. Things didn’t add up- holes began appearing in his stories-vague answers gave way to what I like to call the “duck, dodge, and deflect.” I began to question even more- to doubt stories-to be at odds with a significant other who had not had the experience with my son that I did-I wanted to believe- Just before he would be attending the band trip to Frisco, TX, I played “bad cop” yet again and forced the answer. He was sitting with having attempted more than 14 credits his first semester and had not attained enough of a grade point average to warrant keeping those credits. The reason-? He just didn’t do the work-stopped or attended class haphazardly, and lied to himself, student services, me, his father, and anyone who would ask. He lied to himself-but he knew exactly what he was doing.

It crushed me, but I was again reassured that THIS was the lesson he had learned-he had fallen far enough-the cost great enough to sit with him and impact his behavior in the future. His plans to attend the national championship were doused as he opted to stay home and prep mind and academics for the spring semester. I was hopeful-I was trepidatious.

His illness and subsequent behavior angers me.

He knew he needed to land this semester- and with many of the classes as re-takes from the fall, I thought maybe this was THE last time we would deal with this. I hoped, I prayed, I cajoled, I prayed some more. I cried silent tears in moments and places I told no one-I battled my own insecurities, my own misgivings about whether I had done too much or not enough for him. I raged at a set of diagnoses that would not let my son travel down the path we knew held his destiny. Mid terms came- I asked, I researched, I questioned, I waited for the truth. It did not come. He knew this semester had to go well so that he could remain in school- another academic hiccup would prove an institutional invitation to not attend again- we wanted to safeguard that.

Bad cop mom engaged in conversation with student services where he had signed a sheet allowing them to talk to me. “we don’t know how he’s doing. we don’t get straight answers from him. when he’s here and working, he’s a dynamo-a delight- there’s no question he can do the work…..when he does the work” “No mom, I am doing really well this semester- I think I have 3 A’s and a B- I need to catch my one C up, but I can do that.” Come to find out-all grades were sitting in the tank-all of them- the repeated classes, the one in which he had a scholarship, his majors class-all in the tank. “Mom, I don’t think he can pull his way out of this-we don’t see a path forward for him if he doesn’t make a big decision soon.” “No mom, I think I’ve got this-I can make up the work and pull ahead in the next 6 weeks.”

But…….”But they don’t have to accept late work-they don’t have to excuse 12 absences, they don’t have to allow you to retake 9 of 10 quizzes that were missed-they are there to serve the students that are attending classes and communicating with them.” He relented. He listened. He made the call, “Ok, you all are right, I have to do what is best for my academic career….I am choosing to withdraw. I plan to come home in about a week.”

The day he sent in his withdrawal meant that he had 24 hours to vacate campus-24 hours to pack up-to say “see ya later” to dorm friends, his band directors, and his speech coaches. 24 hours to exit and try to think of what to do next.

His illness angers me.

We chose to petition to have him withdraw from campus for both semesters and hope we could salvage grades and credits for a time when he could return with a fresh focus and drive to succeed. To do that, we needed the information from his psych Dr to help illuminate what was taking place for him. On the surface we have a young man who looks like it’s just a lack of motivation- underneath is a far different story. Underneath we have a 19 year old with the emotional maturity of a 15-16 year old -You see ADHD robs the host of maturing mentally at the same rate that they do chronologically and biologically. That 19 year old operating with a 15 year old maturity combined with a 145 IQ makes for an interestingly and maddeningly difficult combination. You would expect a person with that kind of intelligence to be able to make wiser decisions- to be able to see the impact of behaviors-or the lack of them. He can’t. His Dr came through and on a day when I had some major conversations already going, I received the info that he would not pull any grades out spring semester and the letter I read was the icing on the cake. Not only did it cite the ADHD and anxiety ridden young man we knew was there- it also spelled out a diagnosis I had never before seen. Autism Spectrum Disorder-

His illness angers me

Gut punch. Gut wrench. Gut sob. How had I not seen? How had I not known? What didn’t I do to help him? Insert all the mom guilt here-and so much more than that! Insert anger, fear, regret, embarrassment, helplessness, and more fear. What do we do now? Where do we go from here? What does his future look like? How do I be ok with this? The lies-oh the lies he told- the deflection, the avoidance, the covering up, the skewed view of reality–all are hallmark indicators and coping mechanisms of the ASD student. They deflect and avoid to keep from seeing the truth and facing the harsh light of day-to-day life that becomes so heavy and burdensome that they cannot stand to be in it. They neglect to see how their behavior impacts not only daily life, but also relationships, connections, and obligations that they have agreed to engage in. There is so much guilt about what they are doing that they become consumed in their own failure- relinquishing their power to the inner monologues that scream at them that they are worthless-incapable of reaching the goals they set and hopelessly failing at the expectations that they or others have for them.

Gut punch

Seeing those words, doing the research and reading the attributes is sobering-so is seeing the statistics of those with ASD and co-morphing illnesses. I am scared-no, I am petrified and I feel like a failure.

But.

It’s not about me. I have to keep telling myself that. And, most of the time, I can compartmentalize that and admit that I cannot fight his battles for him- it is not my job to over function- yet I cannot and WILL not leave him alone in it. Rumor has it that according to his student services advisor “We wish we dealt with more moms like yours. We don’t see one as supportive and caring as yours come through very often. Either they are too involved or they go completely radio silent- your mom- you couldn’t have picked a better one.” I hear that and I smile, but it’s little consolation to a mom’s heart that so badly wants to see her baby set his goals and blast every single one of them out of the water. I know the fight is just beginning- and it will often mean uphill battles-battles that I cannot fight for him.

So.

How do I let him go to fight them? How do I wrestle with my own inner monologues that scream at me that I should have done more- seen more- fought more- been more aware? How do I swallow my own pride when a year earlier we stood on the same campus with the VP and the President meeting and greeting him- a Fine Arts Department that gave him a personal tour-the same Fine Arts Department from which I graduated sang his praises and welcomed him with open arms? The same school that snapped a pic of an incredible percussionist and blasted that on a banner and social media platform for all to see also approved his withdrawal.

So seeing that pic hurts in a place that I can’t quite describe. The pre school song “The Wheels on the Bus”- that takes on new meaning as I contemplate just how badly they fell off- but yet the bus has not come skidding to a halt. We have time- we have people and resources- we have the chance for him to take a beat and breathe. For that I am grateful- it’s the other junk-the emotional stuff that is hard to wade through and admit. It’s knowing that May is mental health month and there are battles and wars that millions of people wage every day -every minute of every day and we know nothing. We see nothing, we hear nothing, we notice nothing-often because it’s not obvious, or it’s covered up, or we are all walking through our own stuff at the same time. Whatever the reason- it doesn’t matter–it matters that we’re here- he’s here and alive to live, breathe, and walk through another day. He has a plan for the summer- he has accepted a job as a summer camp counselor out of state and he has been digging fiber optic cable ditches for the past few weeks. He’s doing grunt work and earning a paycheck. He’s learning and doing the work–of that I am proud. Of him I am proud-

But oh, oh how I dream and pray for my baby boy. I pray for his future-I pray for decisions, motivations and ambitions to drive him. I also fear his future- and I think I am willing to admit- maybe for the first time, I mourn some of the expectations that I have had for him-and I mourn a journey and a path that does not look like it did a year ago- and the murkiness of that future drives up a level of anxiety in me that is tough to articulate. I mourn missed opportunities for him-I fear judgement he may receive- judgment I may receive-

Have I mentioned?

His illness angers me?

cindy a heidelberger,

How do you Measure, Measure a Year (RENT) ?

01 May 2022 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

It is no secret that musicals tend to run on auto play in my head-well just about any song lyrics from my various playlists flood my brain at any given moment of the day. This time as I reflect on this of all days, RENT seems the most apropos.

The above picture is the exact same day 1 year later- In one picture I am posing for an award nomination that I received, and the other one, I was fresh out of a salon afternoon. Both instances I was in the same salon-doing my thing and letting them do theirs. The differences are stark- and they have not left me alone since I saw it. The fact that it was April Fool’s Day is also not lost on me. Huh.

Today, May 1st marks the 1 year anniversary that I moved out on my own, left a place that I had known for well over 2 decades. A place that I had helped create-fostered-thought was a haven–it was simply a location. 1 year ago, I packed what I was taking to my new home and set forth to create something new. My youngest son was with me-numerous trips had already been made and the furnishings were coming together. One of my besties accompanied me, loading what could not fit in my car-a car that my youngest now drives daily (that’ll mess with your head), and followed me out into the country.

I remember driving away with such a mixture of feelings. I knew that I would never return to this location as a family member-part of a unit. I knew that I had no right to expect that and out of respect I have maintained those boundaries. Knowing that I would be there as a guest of the home hurt. I knew what went on in those four walls-I knew the people inside, knew their habits, their schedules, their idiosyncrasies. I knew I was leaving the comfort of what was known and starting something new. I was scared, I was terrified, I doubted my decision, I doubted me.

I felt massive levels of shame- and guilt. Mostly I felt ashamed. I felt that way for so many reasons. I was walking out-walking away from something that I knew was imperfect, but it was known. I was leaving 2 sons that I had seen day in-day out for the last 17 years…I felt like part of me was ripping apart at the seams as I contemplated life without their noise and mess around me 24-7. I felt so much shame at not being able to piece something back together-to give it one more shot. To be honest, I didn’t have 1 more shot left in me-my physical body and my emotional well being were screaming at me that is was time do something or others may be left holding the pieces. The heart scare was enough to awaken me to time. It is oh, so short. Having to go through those tests, hearing the doctors tell me that if I was going to have a problem, this was the one to have-enduring episode after episode until resolution happened was terrifying. But, it woke me up. I remember being the in ER and the lead Dr, ( I had worked with her often as a chaplain), look at me and ask, “A little Ativan to take the edge off? Our pulse is still 175, you’re not leaving here until I see it at 100 at least.” I actually told her no, that I could do it on my own-that I had this in complete control. OBVIOUSLY I didn’t-I had been brought in with a pulse rate of 255 ( I guess that’s a little fast). Obviously I could not get this under control on my own-but damn I was bound and determined to maintain that stubborn, stiff upper lip, ask no one for anything attitude that has bound me in titanium for 47 years. I was not going to break for anything-I vowed that I would never break.

I broke.

In fact, I have been breaking for a year.

I drove away from the house, steeped in shame, doubt, fear, and unconfident.

I look at the 2 pictures posted above and I am shocked by the difference in them. They are like 2 totally different people. Sure, the smile is the same shape, the eyes too, still gots good hair (thank you to my amazing stylists). There are other elements that exist in the picture on the right. The woman on the left looks ok, but it appears like she is going through the motions-the eyes have no luster, no life in them. The face is strained-what emotion is in there is for show-to let people on the outside know that NOTHING is wrong and NOTHING will penetrate titanium-that I can do all the things on my own.

The woman on the right-the smile is open-engaging-dare I say happy? The eyes are more alive, they contain more energy, they invite a person to come along for whatever ride we’re about to take-together. The face-albeit with more wrinkles than I would like, is relaxed, contains some character. You may wanna hang with this one- For the first time I am willing to admit that I DO hang with this one.

I never wanted anything to do with the many facets that are me. Driving out to my new home a year ago, I knew that I would be left alone with one person and one person only-me (well me, and my best boy OLIVER, the PUG). Did I have the courage to sit with her, dine with her, care for her, and rest with her night after night, alone? Did I want to? Could I stand to be with her and all her stuff?

As I watched people unpack my home, placing items in cupboards and re-arranging furniture, I felt such immense sadness at what I had left. I felt horrible that I could not give my children a perfect story, a fairy tale ending where no one got hurt. I knew others would be left in the house, dealing with their own stuff and it hurt to know that I had caused part of that.

People left, the house in the country got quiet, really quiet. Out in the country, you have space and time does seem to stand still. My son went in to the other house in town and I was left to my own vices-and to discover where he had put most of my kitchenware. I was alone, with only my thoughts, emotions, and days to fill on my own.

That first night was so quiet-so was the next one, and the next, and so on. A year later it is still so quiet. But I do not fear that quiet as much as I did those first couple weeks. Weekends, when they aren’t jam packed are solitary and often inspire me to feel a certain amount of loneliness. And, not gonna lie, the nights are the roughest-when you are working on something (in my case writing or reading) and you have a thought and you lift your head to share it-there is no one there to hear it. I used to visit my son’s rooms each night, hug them tight, and whisper, “You are beautifully and wonderfully made. And I love you.” It was our thing-my way of connecting with them and I no longer had that. That gutted me-still does. I often watch, search, yearn to see on my phone that moment of connection and often have to choke back a moment when it doesn’t come-and then the joyous smile I have when I see the opposite happen!! They remembered! They read my text! I matter! I AM important to them!

Even though I would tell them good night, I would then walk down the hallway, into my room, sit on my bed and be there- alone. You see, you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone. I was feeling that and my face and my demeanor and my room showed it. My room was a scattering of mess. In fact, I rarely entered the living room for any length of time-unless it was to pick up or whatever and I often remarked that there was not one thing of mine in that room-nothing in it that indicated that I was there-I had never noticed it-never noticed how small I had made myself–how many layers of titanium I had built to wall me off from the rest of the world. I had never noticed how many bricks I had added- I had not broken because I couldn’t feel anything. And no one could get to me-but I dearly wanted people to come in-I just wouldn’t let them.

Today, a year later-and it’s been a year. The boys come and go-sharing time in and out of town. That is still hard to get used to-but I know they are ok. I miss hearing their commotion-dearly miss talking to them in the morning-I did not realize how much I needed or wanted those connections at night and in the morning. But, they matter. They matter because they make me feel like I belong to someone, that there is a tether between me and them and though the outside world exists and still turns, there is a home base for all of us. They matter because it’s important to tell the people in your world that they are important to you-it is something I am teaching them–when it happens, I am on cloud 9 (whatever that means). When it doesn’t and I go holidays or weekends without hearing from them, I feel this immense void-like a part of me is hollow. I know that will subside, that there will be days, weeks, and months in the future that I will not hear from them. Today, though, I need that connection that lets me know that for now, we’re ok-maybe even more than ok.

Today, a year later, I can honestly say the process of melting titanium is taking place-it is painstakingly arduous. It hurts worse than any pain I have ever experienced. There have been issues and situations that have come about in this last year that have driven me to my knees-knocked the breath from me, and catapulted me into memories I thought I had boxed neatly and shelved. I can say that I am breaking-breaking molds that I hid behind-narratives that I play ad nauseum, theories that I have fostered, beliefs that I held onto with everything that I had. Those are breaking free and it often leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable and that screams at me that that is weak. Vulnerability isn’t weak-it’s hella strong! I am learning that and I am admitting to you, dear reader, that I suck at it. I am constantly asking myself if I am doing it right so that I don’t mess up-OMG it is exhausting. It means looking at situations head on and asking myself why I am having the reaction I am- (enter CPE training here) and what can I own versus what is for others to own. That is hard, especially for this people pleasing, over functioning, empath.

Today, a year later, I have discovered a village of people who are FAMILY! I may have been part of separating one family unit ( and I miss those relatives dearly), and motivated a new definition of how we do it, but it’s being done. I have learned that despite my smart kid in the class mentality (and I LIKE it that way!), that I DON’T KNOW JACK….I am coming to grips with that knowledge and I can’t say I revel in it. I have seen incredible acts of love and kindness and I have seen people and situations ripped apart-and each level me as I feel them intensely. I have experienced love and acceptance from people who barely know me, but convey such care, love, and regard for me that it often brings me to tears. I am recognizing so much that was never on my radar-so many ways of doing and looking at things, that I am often left baffled and wondering if I am doing it right. That’s where grace enters. There’s always grace-I am learning to extend that my way-there’s lots of layers to this writer that have yet to be uncovered and each of them needs TLC and a whole lot of grace.

On my counselor’s floor a week ago, I uttered some of the most honest words I had ever said in her office, ” I don’t know how to do this.” I really don’t.

Today, a year later, while breaking up is hard to do, time heals and new ways of relating take shape-or not in some cases. What is happening is the chinks in the titanium armor are elongating, giving way to revealing the squishy-the smooshy. I am not always sure I like that and I often retreat back in, hide out, and deflect to concentrate on others-to love on them, to compliment who and what they are-to build them, because it’s easier to do. It’s easier to flip a compliment than to say thank you and let others know how much their insight means to me-it’s easier to believe that they are lying-that they don’t mean what they said, that they’re just being nice-that’s BS! And, I am learning that.

So.

Today, a year later, I continue to break.

Shalom,

cah

18 and Life to Go~

22 Mar 2022 2 Comments

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

ENHANCE_NONE

” This time no one’s gonna say goodbye
I keep you in this heart of mine
This time I know it’s never over
No matter who or what I am
I’ll carry where we all began
This time that we had, I will hold forever” Criss Darren Everett

These lyrics came back to me yesterday, on my son’s 18th birthday-as he stands on the precipice of a new chapter beginning in a few months, I felt all the feels at his most recent med check appointment with his psych Dr. My son signed off on a medical release which allows his father and I the right to still be involved in his care as he moves into adulthood. It was a bittersweet moment as I sat, listening and planning my son’s future-a future where I can no longer call the shots-a future where I loosen control and see if he can fly.

I am terrified. I am terrified to let go-terrified to loosen a grip-terrified to step back, and terrified to feel. For the last 18 years a little boy has depended on me to supply so many of his needs and as he ages these instances he needs me are fewer, but are more important- they are bigger. For the past 12 years, since the summer he was 6 years old and my deepest feared suspicions were confirmed, I have lived and breathed in the midst of what is best for him-his needs and his future.

I remember clearly the moment when I knew something was amiss-I knew that my son was hurting in ways that I could not reach. Something had gone terribly wrong at his summer care environment-so wrong that I had to file a report at the behest of mandatory reporters-so wrong that, to this day, he cannot remember, and that’s ok. At the height of the most turmoil, he snapped. His anger, hurt, and rage spewed forth in a temper tantrum of mammoth proportions. At one point I peeled him off the wall as he climbed up to tear down the blinds in his room and wrapped him in my arms. Stumbling backward toward his bed, I held him as he growled at me, hit me as hard as he could, and screamed obscenities. As I held him, with his back against my chest, he pulled his head forward, reared back, and threw his head backward, square in my face. He heard the thud and saw the blood from my nose on my arm and he laughed a low, guttural sneer of derision. I wrapped my arms tighter around him, rocked him back and forth, and sang quietly to him. His body was so rigid, hot, and sweat covered-and slowly relaxed into my arms. Mocking gave way to soft sobs as the energy drained from him-I knew. I knew my son needed help that I could not provide.

Weeks later the long road to tests, appointments, and questions began. It culminated in the moment that my baby boy, 6 years old, took off after his father because the DVR had cut off part of a program without him being able to watch the ending-moments later he stood in my bathroom, laughing over a container of pudding-and a spoon.

I loaded him in a borrowed jeep-braved some treacherous weather and walked him into the admittance floor of Avera Behavioral. A week later, a triple diagnosis and then some was reached-the ADHD was obvious-the cycling mood and TIC disorder co-morphed with high generalized anxiety added to an emotional cocktail of crap. This is the first time I have ever typed that it was a complete cocktail of crap–it sucked- it still does. I remember that week so distinctly-I remember him calling me in tears because his floor was watching Old Yeller and he couldn’t take the heartache.

My baby, my first grader, embarked on a med journey that was a roller coaster of stops and starts-of iep meetings and accommodations, of countless emotional outbursts, and dreams dashed. He had wanted, from Day 1, to serve in the Air Force and fly the planes. It was all he talked about-his nearly savant like memory could (and still can) recall every detail of every fighter plane, book, documentary, and article and he had to let that go-and I had to watch him do so.

I watched as classmates called him every name in the book-listened to his anguish as locker partners kicked his books down the hall and laughed as he crawled to pick them up- heard others tell him he was unwanted-weird, that he didn’t belong-and that the world and his school would be a better place if he were not in it. The emotions rose to the surface so many times-and there were instances when I intercepted veiled and obvious threats which meant additional trips to his counselor. No one knew the nights I sat outside his door-listening to the sound of silence, no one knew how many times I snuck into his room to check to make sure he was still breathing-making sure that none of the tears that stung just behind my eyes landed on his pillow or his cheek as I leaned down to hold him every hour. No one knew the prayers I uttered.

And, no one knew the rage that I fostered in my own heart-rage fueled by guilt, fear, and regret. I wanted my healthy, vibrant, engaging little boy that had captured my heart the moment he locked eyes on mine, seconds after he was born. And, there were times that my rage got the better of me-when words spewed forth like so much verbal vomit unleashing the venom at these diseases and its impacts on his life. I wanted so much more for him. I still do.

There were so so so many times that I didn’t know if we would get him through-I didn’t know if the meds, the counseling sessions, the outpourings of love would be enough. I didn’t know as we sat through meeting after meeting, whether the grades would be there-if the scores would reflect his ability-if college was even a possibility.

And yet–he did it! 18 and yesterday on his birthday he sat opposite his psych Dr., the same one who has been with us since the beginning-called him on some of his crap and held him accountable. He placed the ball in my son’s court and challenged him to get his head out of his ass. He’s gone to Prom-qualified for Nationals in Speech events multiple times, is the go-to percussionist on the school’s drum set. Now I watch as he drives back into town to pick up his girlfriend, clad in outfits that he chooses complete with a black fedora and a smile. I marveled at his poise when, on his birthday, he toured the university he will attend in a few short months and met the highest leadership people on campus. He was confident, articulate, engaging, and real-he was my Bug. I choked back tears most of the day, observing my baby boy walk into manhood right before my eyes as he caught a glimpse of a future awaiting him. All of this exists as I gaze at above picture-taken just before we went in for his last and first med check appointment-his last boy and his first adult visit simultaneously. And, I am proud of my son.

And yet, I continue to choke back sobs as I bat down the fear that eats at my guts-fear that I have not done enough, that I have not prepared him for the next chapter, that I have not filled his toolbox with enough tools to do the job. I choke back regret for words and fights where I could have damaged his psyche in ways from which he would not recover-I choke back my own impatience-my loss of dreams for him-for the anger at having to accept my baby boy’s condition as lifelong- he will always have to take meds-he will always battle the demons, the statics, the interferences, and the lapses in observation and emotion. I can’t take any of it away-and that hurts something terrible. I want to give him the world and I can’t. I want to restore to him the dreams he’s put away, to rewind the clock and give him the friendships, party invitations, and connections that could have been his-but I can’t. And accepting that is so so hard-and relinquishing the reigns to him is doubly difficult. But, I have to have faith in this wonder boy of mine-and he is, wonder-filled.

I have to have faith that he is in the right place at the right time doing the next right thing. I have to believe in the work we’ve done and his own tenacity to carry him through to the next chapter. I have to let go-and that, well, those words are the toughest ones to write-and to see on the screen as I swipe at the tears I don’t want to fall. Luna, the cat, just heard me sniff and hopped down off her perch to stand on the couch next to me and trill- I think she knows. Because in the midst of all this wonder and goodness-I feel alone-and small and scared and hopeful and confused and a little like a piece of me is disappearing and I don’t know what to do. I feel old and a little girl all at once with no real answers to the pile of questions on my heart.

As I look at the lyrics above, my son, his smile, his heart, his spirit fills my mind-I know that I will carry these experiences for a lifetime and that they have shaped the woman I am today in countless ways- Never in my dreams did I think I would parent a special needs child-one so gifted and conflicted at the same time-Never did I think I could do it- but here we are-

With his 18 and LIFE to go…..(the journey continues)

At it Again

05 Jan 2022 1 Comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

It has been almost a year since I have written anything publicly-a year in which so many changes took place it is overwhelming to consider. Yesterday, January 4th, I felt compelled to write but didn’t necessarily felt justified to do so. Wound up in a fit of uncertainty about why I was writing, the purpose, & whether anyone would actually read my words had me questioning. Then I realized that, for a writer, the goal is to write–to let the words tumble forth and see what becomes of them.

Today, I endeavor.

A year ago unmistakable physical signs appeared that dictated I take action to ensure my health & safety. I had had instances of similar physical signs before this particular day, but I downplayed them-offered an excuse as to why they were happening, ignored them & told myself that they did not matter. In doing so, I also told myself that I did not matter & had never had the guts to admit that I felt that way.

As I sat atop a stretcher, an ambulance ready to receive me, I talked with my oldest son who was 16 at the time. I told him what was going on, (to the best of my knowledge) instructed him as to next steps at home, & assured him that I was ok. ( I was in great hands and I knew it) He later remarked that, “You were so calm, I could see the pulse rate in the mid 200’s on the monitor, and you were so calm in what you were telling me….how did you do that?” Well, that’s part autopilot, part mom protect son moment, & chaplain non anxious presence all wrapped into one. The fact is, I was scared.

The ride, the ER visit, the care I received was top notch, but what I discovered in the ER procedure room was what changed my life drastically.

As the ER Dr., a middle aged, talented, smart, articulate woman checked my vitals and noted that my pulse rate was still not coming down into manageable range, looked me dead in the eyes and offered some “Ativan to bring this down, yes?” I responded with a, “no-I can take care of it on my own”–I am strong, capable, smart-dammit, I have been taught to be independent & resilient. We don’t depend on anyone-we sojourn on-on our own. Oh the stories we tell ourselves. I could no more resolve this SVT episode than I can do physics (or much of any math for that matter). She recognized a problem, knew a solution, & was offering assistance-not offering, directing my path so that I could be in a better position physically than I currently was (it seems pulse rates of 175 are not good either). Why would I not listen? The stories.

Over my shoulder, the person I had spent almost the last 25 years with, sat in a chair, masked, & quiet. Instantly, something in me broke. Quiet-I’ve never been described as that-(I’ve been described as many other things-but not quiet- Incidentally, I CAN be quiet-serene). I am a take charge, get things accomplished, rally the troops, & rise to the occasion kind of woman. I look at problems & situations, asking myself what in the status quo fits, what doesn’t, & what is to be my response? (Sometimes no response IS the response). To see a situation unfolding in an ER room, with Dr.’s & nurses rapidly responding, my heart rate racing & anxiety climbing, then seeing quiet equated unresponsive in my mind & the lies I had been telling myself came into clear focus.

Just as I had ignored physical symptoms for almost 2 months prior, I had ignored who I had become, forgotten what I wanted-(or never really explored what I wanted), & completely disregarded what I needed. I had made myself small-shrunk my needs ( if I had any) & dreams into a tiny ball & shoved it aside. I was hiding in my room, hiding in my work, hiding in focusing on everyone else around me. The quiet I observed was the loudest sound in the room-it eclipsed the monitors, the vocalized directives, the voices in my head, trying to make heads & tails of the situation. Now it is true that I am a strong personality with a headstrong resolve that can be intimidating & hard to come up against-I admit that. And, it is also true that I tend to shove help & assistance away the second it is offered, or I thwart the offer before it even happens. Here, I needed someone to be stronger than me- & it didn’t happen. Truth be told, it hadn’t happened for decades.

The rest of the month was a whirlwind of tests & preparations for an upcoming procedure, & the quietness of what I had experienced in the ER thundered in my head–I looked for signs that things were changing, that I had missed something-that I was misreading what my heart was telling me. I wasn’t. Early afternoon towards the middle of January, I calmly drove to the county courthouse & filed my petition to end my 20+ year marriage. This is the first time I have written those words-the first time I have seen them in print- & it hurts.

Irreconcilable differences-no fault really-no fighting-just nothing. I thought that no fighting was a good thing-that it meant that no one was hurling angry words at one another, that no physical damage was being done-that others were not being hurt by seeing or hearing it. This is not to say that there were not fights where people were hurt-but those were actually pretty infrequent. No fighting-that concept took on a whole different meaning to me. When I finally got the nerve to serve the papers to the recipient-I ugly cried, it tore my heart out to do this to anyone, let alone someone I had committed to building a future with—(ugh I ended that sentence with a preposition), it hurt to hurt someone, & it still does. But one comment stuck with me, “I hope you’ll change your mind.”

“I hope you’ll change your mind.” Matter of fact, calm, quiet,-it told me all I needed to know. Just like in the ER chair moment, hearing that, something else in me broke. NO NO NO!!!! Fight for ME! Fight WITH me! Throw down & rail–do SOMETHING! But, for some, it’s not in their nature & I cannot hold them to that expectation–I am learning that. I realized immediately that as a partner, this no longer worked for me. I don’t think it ever did, & I pretended that I was ok with being super strong Cindy. I needed, wanted, & desired more- (yes I referenced a word in here that I loathe using). I admitted to myself that just as I had ignored physical heart symptoms for 2 months, I had also ignored what I had allowed my relationship to myself & my marriage to become. I told myself that my symptoms & I did not matter.

I do matter. So do the people with whom I am in relationship–my children matter-. The decision to leave-to move out on my own, to dissolve a commitment did not come easily. I walked away from a known situation (whether it was healthy or not) & struck out on my own. I walked away from a status quo that was not uplifting to anyone- in fact, dismantling was a piece of cake because nothing had been built. I asked for nothing on the way out. I realized we were 2 people individually functioning-not growing, not building, not learning or challenging each other-together. I am not sure when it happened-maybe it was never there, I don’t know. I blamed myself for much of it ( still do to some degree), but ideas are changing in my head. Like tectonic shifts, my mindset is moving from one of complete blame to acknowledging simple reality. These 2 people are better colleagues than lifelong partners & maybe always were. Let me be clear that the 2 boys resulting in this partnership are THE best 2 boys I could ever know & I am eternally grateful to be their mom & that they have a father who is committed to them! I chose to pay attention to the symptoms, pointing me in the direction of the bigger problem-I chose to, as I tell my students in English classes- “Go Below the Surface, Don’t just Skim the Top!” What I found below the surface revealed so much more than I ever thought.

What I discovered was decades of lies, decades of behavior that I thought was normal–I discovered that in all areas of my life I had settled-I was content to remain in the status quo even though I felt the discomfort, even though I was chomping at the bit for something more. While wanting something more I also fostered an immense guilt & a feeling that I did not deserve something more. I believed I had no right to want something more-that there was something wrong with me for wanting more.

I found that I can stand on my own-I had always been independent-but I found that I could lean into the confidence that I can do hard things on my own, but that there was a village of people waiting to walk with me. I had not allowed people to do that before this year.

I learned the impact of decades of tapes playing in my head, & am learning how to reframe or flip the narrative of my story. I am learning that I am in charge of my own story & I have the right to write that story in a way that honors me. What a learning edge-I knew others were people of sacred worth, I am beginning to embrace, I too, am a person of sacred worth.

I realized not paying attention to the signals my body was sending was causing more damage than anything-explaining them away did not remedy the problem, it only placed a faulty band-aid over top. The same theory applies to my personal & emotional life. I had explained away, justified, excused, analyzed, guilted, & flat out ignored almost all of what I was feeling. I negated my internal intuition ( i have a strong spidey sense) which told me to pay attention-I thought the heaviness, the misery, the loneliness was normal. I figured every woman in their mid 40’s feels like they don’t belong, aren’t seen, & don’t matter. I was wrong.

So, now a year later, I ask myself where do I go from here? Well, I move from realizations to doing the hard heart work that I’ve dabbled in for so many years. It means that as I sit in my counselor’s office she rejoices because for the first time, she sees authentic emotion & reaction come from me. It means that maybe I don’t have to rehearse all my answers ensuring that they sound perfect so as not to offend anyone. It means dismantling layers of lies, stacks of stories, & bundles of baggage. It means that I work to embrace people & situations that, up until now, have been foreign concepts to me. Concepts like accepting blanket invitations to supper-(I can JUST drop in, what?!?!?!), or watching families gather for times of celebration & leaning in to being included in those celebrations-or simply included as a member of the family. There is much being revealed that is foreign to me & much of the time I don’t know how to handle it. See, the decision to divorce was one hurdle to jump, ( and I am pretty darn short-I miss the hurdle most of the time) now new realities are staring me in the face, forcing me to deal with long held philosophies about who I am, what I know to be true, & what is mine to carry. This, now, is the hardest part of the whole break. Who am I on the other side of it all? What does healing look like & am I brave enough to walk boldly into that reality? Do I have the guts to accept the people & relationships in front of me & embrace what and who is healthy, beautiful, & giving -do I have the smarts to lean in & celebrate them? Do I think enough of me to treat myself as a person of sacred worth, which in turn, impacts how I treat others? Am I brave enough to turn off the tapes & reframe the narrative?

I don’t know. I know, for once, I can’t do it alone. It’s incredibly difficult to pen that statement-that I can’t do it alone. I was taught that you don’t ask anyone for anything, you don’t accept anything either because that’s charity & no one wants that….(uhhhh I work non profit….) you work your a** off & mind your own business, you shoulder all of it alone. Drilled into my head is perfection, performance, & persuasion. If I am perfectly performing, you are persuaded to love & esteem me. That constant perfect performance is exhausting & unattainable. So maybe in 2022, I put away perfect performance. And maybe, just maybe, I humble myself, accept grace, & ask for help.

Pick Me! Pick Me!!

12 Apr 2021 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , ,

There’s a scene in Pretty in Pink (yes a total Gen Xer flick) where the title character, Andie, is contemplating skipping her prom. Her co-worker challenges her to think twice about skipping it, ending the scene with-“don’t analyze it, just go.” Prom season always hits me in a little harder spot than for most-for some extremely specific reasons.

This weekend I had the distinct honor and privilege to watch my oldest son make his way to his Junior Prom. It was an emotional time for me because I was fighting like hell to NOT remember what it was like almost 30 years ago. I wish I could describe what it was like for a 17-18 year old girl, watching her classmates pair off for a night out. In my high school in the mid 90’s, the prom committee had a tradition that, as the prom tickets were paid for and the couples were registered, they would put the names on a decorative sign and post them in senior hall. Everyone could walk down the hall and look to see who was going with whom. Sometimes the snickers would occur, sometimes the shocked looks would pass from one classmate to another, other times a confirming smile would spread across another’s face. For me, it was confirmation-confirmation that no one wanted me. My name never appeared on the couple’s declaration signs-

I told my oldest this weekend that Prom is often (not always) a bigger deal for the young woman involved than it is for the gentleman (it’s not always the case). I told him that she would spend hours or days contemplating and picking the dress, planning her hair and make-up, and anticipating the corsage, the dinner, the time for pictures. She will (in those days) have journaled (now texted her friends) about what she wants for that evening-she will have written down her dreams and what she hopes would happen- I couldn’t describe the specifics for him, but I was able to let him know that she, like every young lady, deserves to be treated like a queen on this night!

I caught up with him in the kitchen the afternoon before he started getting ready. I had inspected the flowers he bought for his date and his date’s mother- (yes, he bought the mother of the young lady a bouquet to match the corsage he gave her daughter- SCORE!) I looked at him and started to cry-the kind of tears that come from a place of 30 years of hurt. He immediately came over to me and put his arms around me, cradled my head on his shoulder, and said “let’s talk this out-walk me through this.” Hmmmm, sounds exactly like his mother-and is EXACTLY how I’ve talked to him and countless other young people who need a shoulder once in awhile.

Amid the tears, I described the Prom nights that I spent alone in my room- how my younger brother attended both my junior and senior prom-and that family members actually made fun of me for not being asked. I told him that every girl deserves the chance to be asked-to be picked-to be chosen (if she wants), and to have the opportunity to say yes-to be noticed-to be picked. Likewise, every young man deserves the opportunity to ask the person they choose (if they want) and to hear a yes from the other person. Everyone deserves the opportunity to be seen and to be affirmed. I wasn’t-so I sat in my room, watching random sitcoms in my lazy boy recliner-it was quiet-it was dark-it was lonely.

He sniffed for a minute and then I went on to explain what I wanted for him. I explained from my standpoint how much his being able to have a moment like this meant to me. He has struggled socially all during his junior high (who hasn’t?) and part of his high school career. The ADHD and anxiety mixture can make for weird classmate interactions-couple that with a superior intelligence & a leaning towards speech events and the formula doesn’t always add up to being Mr. Popularity- I wanted this moment for him every time he was targeted by classmates, I wanted the clouds to part and issues to clear for him- and I wanted, someday, for him to be able to go to Prom. I wanted him to be able to beat the odds, to find a young person that struck his interest, to summon the courage, and to ask the question-and to hear the affirmation. I wanted this for him more than I can express.

I told him this-with tears streaming down my face-realizing that, for me, the hurt still exists. The pain of not being chosen, not being seen, runs deep. I wanted to be asked-I wanted to be beautiful and chosen for just one night. And, I wanted that for him. He continued to listen, took his thumbs and wiped away the tears that ran rivers and smiled. I choked out that I wanted that cycle to be broken-for once.

He smiled-he gestured to the waiting flowers in the fridge and said, “Mom, you did it. You broke the cycle-I’m going. You did it!” I smiled back at him and realized, “Nah Bug, WE did it! We broke the cycle-and we can keep breaking them!”

And so, for one night-that’s what we did! I helped him get dressed-he let me joosh his hair so it was a little bang spikey look-we took pics-goofy pics, fun pics, loving pics, and I sent him on his way. As he got in the car-(that we made sure was cleaned and vacuumed), I held him tight, and whispered to him how proud I was of him, to have the time of his life and to make memories-….and “make good choices-remembering that you’re loved!”

He and his date allowed me to come take pics of them at The Falls-to revel in their friendship-to celebrate a night of fun and anticipation, and I held it together.

Then, I raced back to my house-and did the one thing I swore I would do-I put on a decent dress and went to Grand March-it was my first ever-I met a couple of mom-friends, sat in the bleachers-took pics. It wasn’t until they had been presented, made their way to the bridge, and faced my side of the gym, together, in that moment, that I lost it. As I watched them continue to the archway-I swiped at the tears streaming down my face-on the video you can hear this proud mom holler, “WoooHoo! Love you BUG!”, and I meant it. But I couldn’t stop the tears from forming or the big lump at the base of my throat from growing ever larger-

He did it-he made this night, his Jr. Prom, a night to remember-he laughed, he danced, he played random games of Cards Against Humanity, he treated his date like a queen, and witnessed her be hypnotized. He did it all.

When I asked him the next day, “on a scale of 1 to 10, how was your night?” “25!~” “and on a scale of 1 to 10, how did you and your date enjoy your time?” “26!” I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that one of my deepest wishes for this wonderful young man had come true. I may not ever know what it feels like to be asked-to pick out the dress-to be taken to dinner-to dance with the group and know I was chosen- He does-he knows what it feels like and he knows what it feels like to belong-to see and to be seen-

This weekend, another cycle was broken.

May be an image of Cindy Ann and Michael Larson and people standing

Getting Personal with Broccoli

10 Jul 2020 Leave a comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized

 

This is not your typical Veggie Tales commentary.  It has nothing to do with dancing and singing veggies encouraging the viewer to tap into an inner moral compass.  It has everything to do with exploration, courage, and letting go.

Could I use teaching gardens that had been built and planted for the school year as a means for learning and fun in the summer? What lessons could I teach in a way that engaged students, helped them discover something new, and didn’t feel like “school” in the process?  An interactive camp experience followed where we concentrated on one aspect of planting and growth and linked it to health and nutrition.  YES! (Youth Eating Smart) Summer Camps were born!

I had to bring the campers an experience that would stick-that would cause them to go home still talking about the experience and provide the springboard for more camps and program development options.  I also needed to prove to our board of directors and donors that we had a product worth the investment. When 12 campers showed up on the first day, I was disappointed, but through word of mouth and by working connections, 45 students and adults showed up on a warm Friday morning to sample stir fry in a garden.

What?  Wait, stir fry in a garden in SD July heat?  Precisely.

The backbone of any nonprofit are the strengths of its connections and its ability to leverage those connections in ways that are mutually beneficial.  In this case, we had solid connections with both healthcare systems in the area and I tapped into one to see if they had some chef expertise to lend to the cause.  They did and they did!  Chef Elaine appeared and brought Master Chef mad skills to YES! Camp.

Seated in the audience were 2 young boys whom director-mom had mandated they attend.  They did so, grudgingly at first, until the second morning arrived, and the term water fight was used to describe watering the garden beds.  On the last day, they beat me to the site, excited to see what the rest of the morning would bring.  One of my sons, my oldest, was the one I was most worried about in terms of food.  He was notoriously picky, with only a few items that he deemed ok enough to eat.  There were many factors influencing his preferences.  The 2 biggest barriers to expanding his eating palate were housed in his brain. You see, with some mental health diagnosis, there are elements that occur that Dr’s don’t tell you, because they do not appear in all cases.  One of those elements is an extreme aversion to sights, sounds, smells, and textures unfamiliar to them.  Sensory overload often occurs in children with ADHD and the co-morphing, Generalized Anxiety.  This means that textures, smells, and sounds can cause extreme moments of anxiety and panic in these children.  Clothing tags, loud sounds, different tastes, and textures can throw them into panic modes, and they shut down or become combative.   My son had both diagnoses and a larger than life vocabulary and understanding of the world around him.  That meant that chicken nuggets were often the safest option for lunch.  Other attempts to broaden his choices proved futile and ended in shouting and tears from all perspectives.  I had no idea how today would go and I swallowed back the fear lodged in my throat for most of the morning.

I stood back and watched the presentation, marveling at Chef Elaine’s ability to engage such a wide audience despite the heat of day.  She chopped and diced and sautéed her way into the camper’s hearts with good humor and a smile.  As she dished up her stir fry masterpiece, I watched them clamor for a spot in line.  My youngest joined his friends near the middle of the pack and I searched the line for my oldest.  He was hanging back, uncertain of the options, looking for an out and hoping mom wasn’t watching so he could ditch and run.  I busied myself with others, stealing a look occasionally, praying    bravery would win the day.

He approached the table, received his plate, and winced as a healthy ladle of stir fry was deposited on his plate.  He grabbed a fork and walked tentatively back to his spot in the back of the group, sat down, sighed, and looked around.  I saw him pick at it, turning over the veggies, inspecting the beef, and smelling the dish to detect anything amiss.  Then I hear the giggle, the “Mom, hey Mom!!” and saw the smile spread across his face and reach his eyes.

“Mom, hey Mom!  I did it!”  I smiled at him as he repeated his movements, stabbing at a large broccoli and popping it into his mouth.

“Mom, I didn’t think I could do it.  But I tried a broccoli floret and, I. Liked. It!”

Of course, he said broccoli floret, of course he knew the correct word and demonstrated its usage perfectly as he polished off the rest of his meal, seasoned beef, and all.

I smiled a huge smile, sent a mouthed thank you to our daycare provider friend who was seated next to him and had encouraged his bravery, and complimented him on venturing out of his comfort zone.   And I stole off into a quiet corner and swiped at the tears that formed rivers down my cheeks.

As the director of a new program, I needed proof that it was working, the numbers proved that.   As communications and fundraising lead of a nonprofit, I had to justify numbers and show a viable return on investment, now I had the raw data telling me we had a winning formula.  As a teacher, I had the examples, the testimonies, and the evaluations directing my next plan of action and I was overjoyed that my little experiment had worked.    But nothing was better than seeing my son overcome fear, set misgivings aside, and try something new. All other roles and titles fell away, and I was just mom.   A mom who didn’t have to convince or cajole, threaten, or ground him, and I didn’t have feel guilty for the argument and fight I knew was coming.   In that moment all the other duties ceased to matter.  A broccoli floret.  He may never try it again or like it the next time it’s offered.  It didn’t matter.  All the of numbers, raw data, and evaluation paled in comparison to one 10-year-old boy beating the odds, and for the moment, winning.

 

 

 

Previous Older Entries