Raising Awareness: Things you NEDA know

Hi friends! Today's Thursday blog post is something very different from my usual mommy/soapbox blogging. It may be one of the most important things ever shared on this blog--and I didn't even write it.

One of the things I have tried to do with my blog is to raise awareness about topics that I feel are important. Usually this is in relation to diabetes, because that is one of my struggles. It can be so hard to write about the problems closest to your heart, and I have a lot of admiration for those courageous enough to share their stories (because the things I struggle with the most, I have the hardest time sharing). 

Today I invited one of my dearest friends, Nicole, to share her story in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness (NEDA) Week. For the past few years she has struggled with anorexia and depression, both things I have written about before, both things that I know very little about in comparisson to what she knows. I am so grateful for the many, many things she has taught me. 

The thing I love about what she has shared with me is that she not only talks about the disease and the struggle, but how others have and can help her and how we can help prevent eating disorders.

Take a minute. Share her story. You will be glad you did!

Love, Marinda

Why a bag of chips is my worst enemy…

I could have titled this with just about any food item, really I just wanted an item that you can relate to and I can use to perfectly describe my battle with food.

Take a bag of chips.  Most of you see it and think, "yum, I will have a few."  You reach in, grab some, eat some and that is where it ends.

My battle starts at the grocery store.  My first thought is I better not buy it, or I will eat it all and hate myself.  My second thought is, it’s part of healing and a test of my strength to be able to purchase a bag of chips and not binge on them.  I need to do it.  This battle goes on, as I continue to shop and even as I purchase the bag and make my way to the car.

When I get home, I really want those chips.  I give myself a pep-talk about how I can do it, I can be a normal person and only take a couple.  So I open the bag.  I take a few.  Then my type-A-OCD personality takes over.  I “must” eat all of the broken chips.  So I proceed to root through the bag looking for any chip I consider imperfect or broken.  Once those are gone, I look at the bag and think, “wow, no sense in saving the rest of this I nearly ate all of them and if I leave them I will only be bad again later.”  So I eat the rest of the bag.

By the time I am done, I am angry with myself and my lack of self-control.  At this point, I figure I have already ruined the day so I might as well eat everything I ever wanted. I go into a food trance.  I have no other way to explain it other than I am the cookie monster possessed by the consumption of food and I must eat everything.  If that means eating by stirring peanut butter in ice cream, or topping macaroni and cheese with mustard and BBQ sauce … that’s what it means.  I do not discriminate, I do not taste.  I simply eat until there is nothing else to eat.  Until I am so sick that all I can do is sit and cry.  This usually ends with me in the bathroom wishing I was good at throwing up, or trying to take laxatives in the hope that it will all be better tomorrow.  I know, perhaps a little too honest, but it is the truth.

My Struggle

I have an eating disorder, if you didn’t know that or weren’t sure, you do now. It’s kind of hard to hide when you once weighed as much as a twelve year old in a 5’7” frame. I chose, however, to remain silent because I didn't want to be a hypocrite or to be judged by others. While I still am not at peace with myself, I have wanted to be more active and help prevent others from going down this pathway. Feb 22nd marks the start of NEDAwareness Week, and now is a perfect time to share with you.

Three years ago, I was officially diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. At 82 pounds, I was severely malnourished and should have been hospitalized. I was depressed, suicidal, and spent a lot of time hiding. I lost most of my friends, pushed away my family, and pretty much only let Lucy in. If you know Lucy, you know that she is a pretty demanding, energetic little dog, and just what I needed.

So how did I get here?  I believe it was a combination of teachings as a child, genetics, and the need for approval.  I was taught to eat everything placed in front of me, to not waste, and given food as a reward or had it taken away as a punishment.  While these are wonderful notions, I believe it is more important to teach kids to try things but not to force them to finish every last item.  I am not the voice of reason here, just listing some of the factors that contributed to my disorder.

Most of my friends and family did not know how to approach the issue, as I took every precaution to avoid them and situations where food was involved. This seems to be every social gathering. I am pretty sure it became easy for them to not to be there, because I wouldn't let them.

The need for approval was probably the number one contributor to my success.  When I first started losing weight, I actually was healthy and happy.  I weighed about 20 lbs. more than I do now, but that didn’t matter.  I was confident, and loved myself.  Even if I gained those 20 lbs. back now, I would not be confident or love me just because of those extra pounds.  I know, astonishing.  I can also tell you that losing more weight isn’t going to make me happier.  However, the compliments I got about losing weight made me strive to lose even more.  I am OCD, a type-A personality.  If I am going to do something, I am going to do it.  I lived for those compliments and would punish myself by further restricting if I didn't receive approval because I believed I had failed.  

Now I receive compliments about gaining weight and how much better I look.  Well, they have the same affect.  They highlight the fact that I think I am “fat.”  That gaining 40 pounds has made me a whale.  Then I get negative and beat myself down again for not being good enough.  You, see it is a vicious cycle.

Finally, I am not sure what role genetics played in it.  However, depression was a major contributor and I know that there have been genetic studies tied to depression.  I am a contributor to the ANGI research and would love it if my small role in it could help future sufferers.

Oversights in Treatment

Gaining weight took a team of doctors, friends, coworkers, anti-depressants, nutritionists, family support, and therapy. I have been and maintained a "normal" weight for two years now, but I really want to take some time to address what I feel were huge oversights in treating this disease.

•        First, the doctors were so concerned about weight gain, that I was placed on a much too large dose of Prozac. While this worked to help me gain weight, I tuned out the world. I am sorry if during this time I seemed distant or like I didn't care. Quite honestly, I felt nothing. I didn't smile, laugh, cry or even feel. I began cutting because I was pretty sure I couldn't feel pain. I never intended to try and kill myself, just to make sure I was still “alive.”

•        Going to a nutritionist was also a horrible experience. Two nutritionists were covered on my insurance, but only for severe obesity. I spent hours on the phone with insurance, as did the wonderful Human Resources lady at my work. After all of our hard work, we finally got insurance coverage, or so we thought. When the bill came later, it was not covered and after several more phone calls and being placed on hold, I finally gave up and stopped going to the nutritionist. Why? Because I flat out couldn’t afford it. Doesn’t it seem wrong that being in a life threatening condition and severely underweight, the help I needed was not covered by my insurance? Yet if I would have had the opposite problem, it would be covered? I have been on both sides of the scale in my life and I just want to say that they both
would benefit from insurance coverage.

•        Finally it seemed like there was a lack of awareness of eating disorders. Many of the doctors would give me pamphlets about losing weight and proper portion size. They would say things like don’t look at certain parts of it, but this is what you should be eating. Another told me to eat all the ice-cream I wanted. While eating onion rings and ice cream without digression led to weight gain... I still felt unhealthy. This is the struggle I have had for the last two years. What is healthy? What does it look like to eat normal?!?! I just don’t know. I don’t feel full, no matter how much I eat, or how slow I eat. I go from starving to sick with nothingness in between. I crave sugar and sweets and have to convince myself to eat a vegetable or fruit. Not that they aren't good, but with the amount of highly processed foods I ate to gain weight, I just cannot seem to get normal in perspective. Add to that, that if I restrict I terrify myself that I could go back to anorexia. I live somewhere in the land of restrict one day, binge another. This is why I have had such a hard time speaking out. What right do I have to tell someone how to cope or how to help someone else if I still struggle? Someone once told me that healing from an eating disorder is one of the hardest things to do. It’s not like alcoholism or cigarettes. And funny enough no one treats these like they are something easy to do. You cannot just quit. You need food to live and survive and learning to balance is difficult. I am still working on this, and will continue to everyday for the rest of my life.

Things That are Actually Helpful

·        Join NEDA and a support group.  You need help dealing with this, just as your loved one needs help.  It is going to be a long journey and any support or understanding you can get will only be a benefit.

·         Do not blame, undermine, or try to provide cures to someone suffering from an eating disorder.  It is a mental illness and not something that has an easy cure.  Avoid sentences like “Just eat,” “Why can’t you be happy?,” and anything about looks.  Instead talk to us, treat us like a normal person.  You are not our doctor and if we fill like we are being treated by you we will act like petulant children.

·         Create a safe place.  I knew that no matter how bad things were I could always go to my mom for affection and love.  She would simply hug me, and make me a something to eat.  Why was it ok to eat there with just her?  I felt safe, not judged and she didn’t push it. 

·         Avoid open ended questions, such as “What would you like to eat?”  Too many options or decisions will shut us down.  We get overwhelmed by all the possibilities.  Even at my worst, I loved a slice of pizza, and someone saying “I feel like a pizza” and then letting me pick a topping worked way better than the open ended questions.  By making food decisions less intimidating, I was better able to accept them.

·         Be patient. Play by our rules, even if they do not make sense to you. Hopefully one step at a time we will recover.  I have never been a fan of butter on my toast, so if you wanted me to eat something it was better to make me a toast my way.  Why?  I felt like you were listening, and surprise you got me to eat.  Trying to get me to eat more or eat more fattening only made me angry and stubborn. 

·         Finally, affection.  A lot of people pulled away from me as I pushed them.  Even people who were very close to me didn’t know what to do.  I craved affection, a hug, contact of some sort.  For me I finally got this from Lucy, but human interaction is critical.  We need to feel like we matter and are noticed not just in a negative manner or because you have to deal with us.

Prevention

I wish I knew then what I know now…

I cannot say enough on the topic of prevention.  Anything you can do to stop an eating disorder before it starts is critical.  Here are some items I wish I knew before I went down this pathway:

·         Nothing fits right.  You look like a prepubescent boy in your mothers clothing.

·         Your heart literally hurts. It hurts to breath, it hurts to walk, your boney legs rub together when you try and sleep making it nearly impossible to get comfortable.

·         You lose friends.  Why?  You don’t want to be in situations where you are uncomfortable or food is involved.  They don’t know how to help and unless they are persistent it becomes easier and easier to not have them.

·         Guys really do not like a walking skeleton.  I cannot count the number of times someone said things like, “You would be a lot prettier if you had a little meat on your bones.”  My husband became so worried about me that he thought he would hurt me if he touched me.  Really great for your relationship…

·         Anorexia can kill you.  It is the most common cause of death for young women ages 15-24.

·         Anorexia can make it difficult to get pregnant and easier to lose a baby if you do get pregnant.

·         You become a liar.  You use any excuse you can to avoid people and food. You hide things, you try to sneak the dog your food, you say you don’t like things, you aren’t hungry, and oh so much more…

·         Deciding what you want to eat is the most difficult decision of everyday.  You think about food 24-7, but it’s a constant battle between what you will allow yourself to eat and eating everything in sight.

·         Losing a large amount of weight doesn’t make you more attractive.  I looked like a cancer patient.  Just because you lose weight doesn’t mean you will be happy with your body.  I had excess skin that could make a Shar Pei jealous.  That little triangle some of you strive for, I had it.  I hated it.  I just found other things to hate about myself.  It wasn’t an accomplishment.  It pointed out the other flaws I thought I had.

·         Getting help is worse than pulling teeth.  Insurance companies are a pain, doctors are not educated or too scared to say anything, you have lost your friends and maybe even family members.  Once you are at a “normal weight” you are considered fine unless you are persistent.  Just because you gain the weight back does not mean the mental struggle goes away.

·         And the scariest statistic to me:  20% of people suffering from anorexia will prematurely die from complications related to their eating disorder, including suicide and heart problems.

I hope that will discourage you.  I do, however, have some other prevention items that I wanted to share.

Is it possible to prevent an eating disorder?

Yes. Prevention is key to future generations.  Watch what you say around your kids. They absorb everything and I get worried as I see and hear five-year-olds saying they are “fat" or teenagers with Pinterest motivation boards teaching them how to look "perfect." You never know-- what may be a joke to you, may be taken seriously by them.  It is more important to be confident and happy with yourself. I believe that is the only way to truly be healthy. No airbrushed picture should be someone’s motivation.

Here are a few tips and highlights that I believe can help:

·         Encourage a balanced diet. Everything is okay in moderation. While I agree that highly processed foods are not great nutrition choices, not allowing them only made me crave them more and if I gave in, resulted in binges.

·         Food is not a reward or a punishment.

·         Exercise and have fun. Make it a part of your life, but not your whole life.

·         Encourage your kids’ curiosity to try new things, try a little at a time. Serving an adult sized portion to a child and forcing them to finish it isn’t going to work.  This likely will make them learn they have to finish everything all of the time, even when full.  It also can make them more resistant to new foods.  I know that if I feel forced I associate that item with the bad feelings.

She's amazing. Am I right? 

 If you or someone you know struggles with eating disorders and you would like to find out more about NEDA or Nicole's story, please email me or leave a comment and I can put you in touch with her. Thanks!

Because of Him

Our Sunday School teacher posed a thoughtful question in our class today: "how do you know when God is helping you through your trials?"

I have spent the last few hours contemplating the answer to this question. Of all the tender mercies I could name, of all the thoughts and feelings and answers to prayers I have experienced since the trial of bringing this baby to earth began, the answer that stands out most to me is that even when I feel very lonely, God has let me know that I am never alone. He sent one who understands.

He sent His son.

God has given me daily reminders of His son's miraculous atonement.

I remember a time, before ever having children, when I voiced some of my fears about becoming a mother to a woman whom I greatly admire and respect. At the time, she was pregnant with her fifth child. She listened to me for a while and then bore a sweet and simple testimony that I will never forget. She told me that becoming a mother and bringing children into the world gives you a very unique understanding of what Christ went through. When you have that personal understanding of His blood and his suffering and the rebirth that comes through Him, she taught me, then all of the pain and the sacrifice that a woman goes through to give birth to a baby becomes a sacred experience, and one she was grateful to have.

Over that next year, as I struggled to learn what she meant on a personal level as Scott and I added Kevin to our small family, I discovered that there was indeed a unique understanding of Christ's atonement that could only be found in childbearing, just the same as the unique understanding that came to me when I was diagnosed with diabetes and fought to have my body healed. In both instances, I found a refuge in Christ and learned to let Him succor me, because I knew He had experienced what I felt.

A few months ago, after one of my many emotional breakdowns associated with this second pregnancy, Scott gave me a blessing that reminded me of my friend's words. Since then, I have struggled for an understanding and a personal application of the atonement that doesn't come through pretty songs or art or scripture references. This time, I am allowing the Spirit to be my teacher and open my eyes to Christ's sacrifice for me.

Each day, I prick my finger four to six times to check my blood sugar levels. As I coax the red droplets from the tips of my fingers, I remember that while I shed one tiny drop at a time for my son, Christ shed many drops one time for me, a daughter. Physically, I know that it hurts to bleed from one pore, even when you draw blood willingly, and that a tenderness comes afterward to remind you of that momentary pain. Eventually, that tenderness turns to strength as the punctured skins heals and becomes stronger. The scars remain, but the pain leaves.

It seems a simple choice for me to make multiple times a day, and though I do not always do it willingly, I bleed for my son.

Christ's choice was not simple, but He made it willingly. He bled to give not just one of God's children a rebirth, but all of us.

On this Easter Sunday, as I feel new life move within me, I find myself, yet again, experiencing a new beginning through Christ.

#becauseofhim

You can be both

We sat there on the couch. The apartment was a mess, a physical display of the chaos going on in Katie's life. We were there because she hadn't been to church in who knew how long, and we just happened to find her because there was an investigator we were trying to teach who lived in the same complex.

At first, we were there because she wasn't active, and it was our job to find her, a lost sheep, and bring her back into the fold.

Within a few days, a few visits, we were there because we wanted to be her friends. And, as her friends, we were worried about what she was doing to herself.

Pretty soon, getting her to come to church was the last thing we cared about.

"I ate some soup for lunch," she told us, motioning to the Lipton packet and still half-full bowl of soup on the kitchen table. "But it was too many calories, so I had to stop."

To look at her, you wouldn't know she was so broken because she was so beautiful. She was tall, blonde, and had what seemed to me to be the perfect body. But it wasn't enough, not in her mind anyway. She was killing herself slowly, starving herself on purpose just to get to that ideal weight. Each day she could function less and less. She was two inches taller than me and a good 80 pounds lighter. Every time we went over, we worried about how we would find her. Alive? Conscious? Breathing? This wasn't her first anorexic rodeo. It was getting so bad, in fact, that her mom was demanding that she move home, just so somebody could keep a constant eye on her.

And we were relieved about that, because we had learned to love her.

A week after Katie moved, I finally got brave enough to admit that my body was broken. Something was wrong and had been for two or three months. I knew what was going on, but I didn't want to hear the words. And when the diagnosis officially came, I wasn't surprised. I was angry, hurt, terrified, yes, but not surprised.

We went grocery shopping the next day. Every item I put in the cart was taken out by my companion, who then analyzed the nutrition facts and then put most of it back on the shelf.

"I have to eat something!" I told her, putting my animal crackers back in. I was desperate for food. I craved it. She was taking it away, and it was hard not to be mad about that.

What my companion didn't know, what she couldn't understand, was that my body had been literally starving for weeks. I could eat like a Samoan football player and it didn't matter, I was still hungry. I could drink three gallons of water every day (you think I am joking) and I was still thirsty. It wasn't until a nurse drew it out on paper for me that I understood--the food I was eating was making it into my blood stream, but my dysfunctional pancreas meant that none of the food was getting to where it needed to go. The doors on my cells were locked, and I didn't have enough insulin keys to open them. So even though I had been hoarding food and eating like crazy, it made sense that I was still hungry. My body wasn't really eating at all.
\
Katie and I had more in common than I thought. "How could you hate food?" I wondered when we first met her and learned about her problems. I had been raised in a family with a love of food. Every achievement, every concert and recital and ball game and birthday was followed by a treat of some sort. Every holiday memory smelled like a certain kind of food--homemade pizza at Valentine's Day, Leprechaun cake for St. Patrick's day, and molasses cookies at Christmas. Food was just how we celebrated. How we socialized. How we comforted ourselves and others (funeral potatoes anyone?). Even as a missionary, if we wanted to do something "fun" or "different" it meant trying out a new restaurant, getting a Blizzard at the local Dairy Queen, or making cookies for our mission leaders.

Food was now my enemy.  My body had turned traitor.

The easy thing to do would have been to learn to hate food, and in turn, to hate my body.

Thanks to Katie, however, I had seen what that looked like and I had, from her, gotten a sense of what that felt like. I didn't like it. I didn't want to be in that position.

So I decided that I would take a different approach.

For my whole life up to that point, I felt that something was wrong with my body. I was too tall, too big for my age. I'd even heard my mom call me big-boned, multiple times. My brother said I had man hands and no boy would ever want to hold my hand because they were too big (hence one of the reasons why I wore gloves to my Junior prom). I had been told by numerous beauticians that I had a very round face and certain haircuts just wouldn't look good on me. The eye doctor said that my astigmatism meant that I couldn't get colored contacts, so even to make my eyes equal would take wearing glasses. My list of "what is wrong with me" was extensive, and now I had an old-person disease on top of that.

I had every reason to hate my body.

My diabetes taught me how to love it.

I started to understand that there were many miraculous things that my body could do on the inside, and that changed how I viewed my outside. Even though certain parts of me were broken, other organs picked up the slack to make up for it. A few months and the right medication (and love from my parents, dear friends, and bestest best-friend-not-boyfriend) and my body was suddenly a miracle. I was broken, but I could function normally. I should have had a host of problems, but I was okay. I could see. I could walk. My feet didn't hurt (that bad) even though I walked `10-12 miles a day. My brain still worked, and my talent for remembering names and addresses had never been sharper. And through it all, my smile never changed.

Suddenly it was easier to find the beauty in my appearance instead of focusing on my negative aspects. I started zeroing in on the things I could do instead of just the things I saw in the mirror. I was tall enough to reach anything I wanted. My big bones made me sturdy and strong instead of delicate and flimsy. My hands could write, play the piano, and give comfort (and, contrary to what my brother had always told me, I knew there was at least one boy that wanted to hold them). Even though I had lost half my hair and it was taking on a different texture because my medication was sucking the nutrients out of it, it could suddenly hold a curl for longer than an hour and I could style it much more quickly (I remember a meeting in the bathroom at a mission conference when I overheard a new missionary ask her trainer how I possibly had the time to curl my hair--if she only knew!). My eyesight, which had been constantly blurry before treatment, could suddenly make out objects more than 50 feet away.

Heavenly Father had created a miracle in my body when he gave me diabetes. He taught me to appreciate the good as well as the bad. I learned that I was beautiful to him, even if I was broken. So I no longer obsessed about my weight or my rolls or my complexion. I was a miracle, and I was healthy, and that was the important thing.

When my mission ended and my marriage began, I learned to appreciate what my body could do in new ways. I got pregnant. My body was creating a whole new human being. I  was still broken, and I had never felt sicker in my life, but there was a miracle taking place. Inside me.

And then, suddenly, something went wrong again. I started to swell. My water broke. She came too early. But I recovered, and so did she. And all of the sudden, my body was the main source of nutrients for this little person. I was still broken, but I was doing things I never truly thought I'd be capable of. And although it hurt to know that my disease hurt her, I marvelled at how quickly she healed and became her own person, a person whose body came from mine but wasn't diseased.

This month marks five years since I was diagnosed as a diabetic. The way has been rough and not at all easy. But it also hasn't been the hardest thing I've ever faced in my life. There are good things that have come along because of my diabetes, and I am a better, more peaceful person because of it. I can't say that I feel beautiful all the time or that I don't get frustrated because of the things I can't do or that food is never my enemy. There is a reality to living with this disease, you know.  But somehow that reality becomes easier to take when I focus on what I can do instead of what I can't.

And even though I am NOT one of those women who loves being pregnant (in any way, shape, or form), I can truly say that I have never felt more beautiful--because with each appointment that tells me what can go wrong, I hear that my body is still doing something right. With every prick of my finger, I am aware that if I lived 50 years ago this baby would not make it and neither would I. Every time I have to think about what I am eating, I marvel that my body can digest food at all and that I can still be full. I remember what it felt like to be starving. I might be constantly hungry right now, but I am not starving.

For me, body image isn't about being beautiful and it isn't about being ugly. It isn't about the things that are wrong with me, but focusing on the things that are right. It is about confidence and ability, about flexibility and positivity. I can be broken and I can be beautiful. Those two things don't have to be separate.

I don't know what happened to Katie. I honestly don't know if she is alive or dead. I don't know if she is still fighting with her body or if she has learned to be healed. I am grateful, however, that Heavenly Father let us be friends for three short weeks when I needed her most.

When we sat on her couch and listened to her talk, there were many times I had to hold my tongue to keep from shouting, "But God loves you! No matter what! He created you, and you are beautiful!" Over and over and over again. "God loves you! God loves you! God loves you!"

Maybe He wanted me to repeat those words to her over and over and over again so that a short time later, when I had to repeat them to myself, I would believe that they were true.

God loves you. No matter what. He created you, and you are beautiful!

You are broken, but you are beautiful!

You can be both.

Why I Don't Want My Children to be Happy

Hi all. Sorry for not posting last week. I don't really have a good excuse (unless five doctor visits in the space of a week counts as an excuse? I think it sounds more like bragging...even though it is not a very fun thing to brag about). I am hoping to make up the missing post today and get back to posting on Thursday. I have a lot on my mind.

Some big things have happened in our lives since the last time I posted. Okay, maybe only two big things, but they are huge things to me.

One, we found out we are having a boy! I am all sorts of excited and nervous, but that it is another post in and of itself.

Two, Kevin is two years old now. Does that sound as crazy to you as it does to me? We knew it was official when two of the four times we went to put her back in bed last night she had completely taken off her pajamas so she was wearing nothing but a diaper.  Yup, she's two.

Naturally, I think about my children a lot. As Scott and I were driving home from a visit "home" (aka, my parents house in Cache Valley) on Sunday, I was watching Kevin sleep and I mentioned to my husband that she seems so little still but I just know I am going to blink and she'll be twenty instead of two. He was kind enough to point out that she'll be on a mission when she's twenty, so I won't need to worry about looking at her then because she'll be gone. Um, not a helpful comment. I mean, I hope she goes on a mission, but that is her choice, and I am not really looking forward to letting her go. Then he talked about how the day he is dreading is when "The Boy" (aka her sweetheart) comes into the picture. Then we both decided we were getting ahead of ourselves and we needed to stop talking about her growing up and just listen to her snore in the backseat.

But I still think about her future all the time. I wonder who she is going to be. I wonder what her struggles will be. I wonder if she will become the person I want her to become. I wonder if I even have the right to determine who that is.

I wonder all of these things about our son too. Mostly right now I am just wondering what his name is going to be and if he will look more like his dad or my dad. But I also wonder about the kind of life he will have, when it hasn't even really begun yet.

And these wonderings have lead me to some conclusions about what I want for my children. I think you sometimes hear parents say, "I just want my kids to be happy."

Let's get this straight right now.

Happiness is not what I want for my children.

Let me explain.

There are many, many people in my life, people I care dearly about, that are not happy. They each have different struggles. For some, it is financial. For others, it is poor physical health. For others, it is unfulfilled dreams, or perhaps not being where they thought they would be at this point in their life. Still others are unhappy because they are constantly thinking about what they don't have. And the most heartbreaking of all to me are those that aren't happy because of mental illness--their bodies literally will not let them be happy.

And if it were just happiness these loved ones were lacking, I guess that would be one thing. But the lack of happiness is often overshadowed by an absence of peace.

And that, my friends, is what I ultimately want my children to have. Peace.

I want to raise my children in such a way that they know that it is okay to be unhappy. It is okay to feel negative emotions, as long as you don't let those negative emotions lead to poor choices. It is okay to fail. It is okay to miss the mark--and to miss it over and over and over again. It is okay to doubt, to question. But when you let your doubts overcome everything you have already learned in your life, that is when you find yourself missing peace, and when you are missing peace, that is when all you have is misery.

Peace can come in many ways. For some people, peace comes in a cure, or correct treatment. For others, it might come in having a plan, working toward getting to where they want to be. And still, for others, peace might be found in the arms of someone who can hold them up and keep them going for a while longer.

But what happens when that peace can't be found?

Peace can always be found, you say. Peace is in living the gospel, right? Peace comes in following Jesus Christ.

Wrong.

Sometimes, living the gospel is not a peaceful choice. Christ himself explained that his followers would find that "The father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father, the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the mother...." (Luke 12.53). He tells us to "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace, but a sword" (Matthew 10:34). There you go. Words of the Savior himself busting that myth.

You may live his gospel to your very best ability, and you will still have hard times. Just because you've been modest your whole life doesn't guarantee that you will never be raped or that those that you trust won't ever look at pornography. Just because you've always paid a full tithe doesn't mean you won't have financial struggles. Just because you've always kept the Word of Wisdom doesn't mean your body will be free from any illness, disease or ailment. Just because you are a good person doesn't mean you are guaranteed a hassle-free life.

If bad things happen to you, it doesn't mean that you are a bad person. If trials are there, it doesn't always mean that you deserve them. God never promised us that bad things would only happen to bad people, and that good things would only happen to good people. Why? Because in His eyes, we are all His children, and that means that there is good in all of us, even when we can't see it in each other.

I feel that it is important for me to teach my children that life is not always going to be fair, it isn't always going to be easy, and they aren't always going to come out on top. Just as important as knowing that there will be mistakes and failures, however, is knowing that there is peace to be found in the struggles. And they will be loved regardless of the things that go differently from the way we planned.

I will love them. Heavenly Father will love them. Christ will love them. And He will give them peace.

How does that work if Christ also tells us to "think not that I came to send peace to the earth"?

Let me quote the Savior again:

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid" (John 14:27). 

This is the conclusion I have drawn, and that is that the answer comes in the phrase "not as the world giveth." The world teaches us conflicting ideas: we need to earn everything we get, so therefore we are always getting what we deserve, even when what we deserve is negative. There is also the mindset, growing increasingly popular these days, that we are somehow entitled to happiness. But Christ's peace comes "not as the world giveth." That means we don't have to do anything to earn it, but that also means that we aren't just entitled to it. How does that work? I'm not exactly sure, but I think it goes something like this.

We ask Him for peace. If our hearts are open to accepting it (meaning we have let go of fear and anger), He gives it to us.

That's it.

Sounds simple, right?

It's not.

But I testify that it works.

We might not always be happy, but we can always find peace, and that is what I want for my children. To be happy all the time wouldn't be happiness at all. After all, as a father once taught his son 2600 years ago,

"It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. If not so, firstborn in the wilderness" (in other words, the son that was born while he was experiencing opposition and trial) "righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad. Wherefore, all things must needs be a compound in one; wherefore, if it should be one body it must needs remain as dead, having no life neither death, nor corrumption nor incorruption, happiness nor misery, neither sense nor insensibility" (2 Nephi 2:11, found in the Book of Mormon).

I don't want my children to always be happy. I do want them to know happiness, but I know that their lives will not be full unless they also know something of misery. That thought, well, it hurts. I don't think any parent wants to contemplate the challenges that will come to their children. And if you are worried for your children and their trials, just know that they have a Father in Heaven who is probably just as worried and heartsick as you are.

I read something a few weeks ago that really struck me (especially being in the middle of the biggest medical dilemma of my life thus far). Someone had made a comment (at a funeral of all places) that "you can be cured without being healed, you can be healed without being cured."

That changed my focus on a lot of things. I no longer wonder (very often, at least) why this particular trial is mine that this time, why it is so much harder for me to do a good thing (aka having a baby), something I have been commanded by God to do, than it seems to be for everyone else. Instead of asking why He can't just cure me, I am asking him to heal me, to heal my heart. To give me peace.

And so to Kevin and her brother (my firstborn son in the wilderness), I say this:

I don't want you to be happy.
I want you to find peace.

And I want you to understand the difference.

To Raise Awareness: It Isn't Funny

November is Diabetes Awareness Month and I'm willing to bet few of my readers knew that (unless, of course, you read my post last week when I mentioned it). Get ready. We are "celebrating" Diabetes Awareness this month at My Thursday Blog. Today I'm going to climb right up on my soapbox and right a social wrong.

Some of you may have seen this eCard floating around social media:



It is often accompanied by captions such as "hilarious. And true, don't try to blame genes for your poor choices."

Are your feelings hurt yet? Because mine sure are.

You know why? Because I have diabetes and heart disease runs in my family, and we also tend to be overweight (though certainly not obese).Some things are a matter of genetics. I have tried to become a runner and I hate running. Just because I don't run doesn't mean I'm not an active person. And this joke not only attacks me, but my family. Like somehow it is my uncle's fault that he got the "running sugars" as a toddler. Like somehow my Grandparents, who survived the Great Depression, World War II, and raising seven kids on a schoolteacher's income, could have changed the course of their family's medical future by...what? Eating differently? OUT OF THEIR GARDEN???

Oh, society. You think you know so much about this disease.

It reminds me of that one friend on facebook who posted, so long ago now I can't even find in on her timeline, about how "funny" she thought it was that a Diabetes magazine had sugar cookies on the front cover. Like, what, I'm not supposed to be able to eat cookies just because I have this incurable disease that is affected by sugar?

That's like telling a little girl with cancer that she can't wear a headband because she doesn't have any hair--oh, that struck a nerve. I know it did. Why? Because the two things you don't mess with in this society are children and cancer. For some reason, it's just not okay to joke about cancer.

But, you see, it is okay to joke about diabetes. Even on television.
Should have known that if my husband and I were going to start watching (and loving) a show from BYUtv, at some point it would make me seething mad and incredibly, emotionally wounded. 

Great, just great. Candyland becomes Diabetesland. Oh, that's funny.
NOT.

And you know what? I'm not even offended because I am a diabetic and therefore supposed to be fat, ugly, and never allowed to eat any sugar, ever. I am offended for all of those children out there who have to wear insulin pumps to school and check their blood sugar while the rest of the class heads out to recess. Those who only get candy when their blood sugar is low and they are feeling confused, nauseous, shaky, and scared. Those whose parents never get to sleep through the night because they always have to wake up at least once to check their child's ketone levels. The kids who don't really have a choice, even if they are terrified of needles. You think one shot a year for the flu is bad? You think it is hard to watch your child get immunized? Try being the one giving your child a shot four to six times daily. Just to keep him or her alive.

Please, think a little next time you go to laugh at their expense.

Some things just aren't funny.

Acts of Love: How to Help

This past week one of my dear friends delivered her baby entirely too early...33 weeks if I'm not mistaken. And as I looked at the pictures of this friend and her teeny, fragile, wire-covered baby on facebook, it all came flooding back, as it often does....

I know I probably sound like a broken record. I've written about this before. The thing is, I just can't write about our experience of Kevin's birth enough. I'm not "over" it yet. I don't think I ever will be. I had no idea going in that I was going to come out not only as a mother, but as a completely changed woman. Once you've been there...to the room where babies are surrounded by other babies, most of them too small to even wear "premie" clothes, and beeping equipment and nurses rushing too and fro, soothing cries, checking medicine and tubes, and calming parents that can do nothing but sit and wait for time to pass and their baby to get stronger...well, if you haven't been there, you just don't know.

Scott and I often reflect on what we call our Utah Hospital Tour 2012 (three hospitals in three and a half weeks). We talk about the people that showed us love and concern. We talk about things that we didn't get that could have been helpful. We realized then, as we do now, that a lot of the people who could have helped us most just didn't know how to.  Mostly there were those, however, who found ways to help even when they didn't know what we were going through. I'd like to share their examples for anyone out there who has friends or family members in the NICU and just doesn't know where to start...

• Scott will never forget how, as he was following the ambulance that was taking me from Logan to Ogden, he called various family members to let them know what was going on. It brings tears to both of our eyes to think about how his brothers offered to drop everything and drive hours to come and sit with him. There were so many family members that came just be with us. My mom and aunt drove to Ogden in the middle of the night. Scott's parents brought a bag full of snacks. My dad took Scott out to dinner while my mom stayed with me. We were never alone.
• A couple from our ward stopped by the hospital the day after Kevin was born and brought us some homemade breadsticks. Not only was the homemade food much better than hospital food, they took the time to visit with us and admired our pictures when we had no baby to share with them. I think that is one of the hardest things as a NICU parent: you have a baby, but you just can't show her off to anyone besides her grandparents (if you are lucky). You don't get to keep her in your room at night or during the day. You don't get to have a say in when she goes to the nursery and when she is fed and when she is taken home. They tell you all that. So when somebody would ask us for what we did have...a picture of our gorgeous girl, we were more than happy to show her off!
• Our bishop and his wife came and visited us twice and checked in on us multiple times. Sister Dunkley brought us a little baby outfit, but she also knew that I loved reading, so she brought me a book. That book became a lifeline for me because reading is my outlet, and her gift gave me somewhere to escape when everything in my reality became too much. I read almost seven books while we were in the NICU with Kevin...and Sister Dunkley started all that.
• We received various texts and phone calls. Even though we couldn't always answer our phones (sometimes because we were with Kevin and sometimes because we just couldn't talk to people without breaking down and crying), those messages gave us strength and comfort. Facebook messages, although they felt a little less personal, also helped a ton! We felt not quite so alone when people made the effort to reach out to us and check on us and ask how our baby was doing.
• I had two friends (both of whom I hadn't talked to in about five years) offer us a place to stay when Kevin got moved to Primary's. Although we didn't take them up on their offers, I was so touched to know that they would invite us (rather an inconvenience, when both of them had multiple small children) into their homes so willingly. Along the same vein, my sister-in-law's parents let us crash at their house the night after Kevin was moved to Salt Lake since we hadn't had time to get a room at the Ronald McDonald House yet. They weren't home most of the time we were there, but it was so nice to have a real shower and a real bed and a place to be alone together while we learned to cope with our situation and figured out our next move.
• Both sets of our parents were just awesome. Although it was a drive and not easy for them, they visited at least every other day and usually made sure to take us out to dinner and get us out of the hospital for a bit. Sometimes they would come and spend time with Kevin and hold her so we could go and rest and know somebody we loved and cared for was taking care of her.  My aunt made multiple trips, even though for the first five days she couldn't see her namesake. My grandma even made a long trip down from Idaho Falls to meet her great-granddaughter. Our families made such sacrifices for us, and they didn't go unnoticed.
• On a particularly hard day, I received a surprise visit from one of the sisters in our ward, who just happened to be in town for a little while and decided to use her limited time to come and sit and talk with me, although she was eight months pregnant herself. She brought me a little plant, but more than that, she brought me love and friendship.
• My best friends, as usual, were completely in tune with my needs at this time. Not only did they text and call throughout each week, but one evening they all drove the 45 minutes to the hospital and took me out for Chinese food and threw me a surprise baby shower amid the fried rice and lo mein. They gave me courage and helped me to understand that I could handle this. One of them showed up at the hospital a few days later with a stack of books she knew I hadn't read. Another shared her NICU experiences with me and helped me to feel not quite so alone. She showed me the beauty in Holland while I was still mourning my lost trip to Italy. Her advice was my rope when I just needed something to hold on to as I struggled to keep going.
• My second parents (my parent's best friends) came and took us, along with my Mom and Dad, out to dinner one night. We loved being somewhere besides the hospital and we loved having a chance to just laugh and be happy and get our fill of food (yay for Sizzler!). I guess the one thing we could have always used more of: food. A gift card to go out to eat somewhere would be an awesome gift to send to parents of NICU babies--especially since you don't have time/effort to cook and eating out every day gets super expensive after about three days. At the same time, Scott and I craved simple, homemade meals like PB &J or spaghetti. If someone you know has a baby at the NICU and like us are away from home (or even if they are home), inviting them over for a home-cooked meal would be just plain awesome of you. Also, we could have used more meals when we finally brought Kevin home. Even though she was almost a month old, we were still getting used to being parents and we were far more exhausted than we would ever admit. I sincerely hope that Heavenly Father showers blessings down upon the three sisters in our ward who offered and brought meals even when no sign-up sheet was passed around at church. They saw a need and filled it without being asked. That is what being a Christian is all about.
• When we got home, our front porch was decorated (my family is good like that). It made being home that much more special. 
• We found out after we got home that our ward had held a special fast for our Kevin. We didn't know this was going on, but we were so very touched by the outpouring of love and the sacrifices that our ward family made to help our little family. We know that our miracles were a result of the fasting and prayers of many people who loved us--family, friends, and mere acquaintances.

This list could go on and on...I barely even skimmed the surface of the many acts of love that were shown to our family during an especially difficult time. Mostly we just needed to know we were not alone, and so many people were able to show us how much they cared by simply being there for us.

Now our baby is a healthy, busy, chubby little girl whose bangs I had to cut four days ago because she couldn't see with all that hair in her eyes. She is happy. She is thriving. She is an almost-walking miracle. And as of about a month ago, she has finally figured out how to go to bed at a decent time and sleep all the way through the night.

Sometimes her life is still tough. She will always have challenges. She will probably always be a little bit behind when it comes to some things, we just don't know which things yet.

We will always shudder when we think back to some of those experiences we had--especially those times when the doctors and nurses asked us to step into the hall because they didn't think we could handle what they were about to do to our baby. We couldn't have handled it, we know that (what parent could stand watching their two-day-old baby get her heart shocked back into a normal rhythm?), but I will never get over feeling guilty for leaving her alone during the times when I felt she needed me most. We will never forget what it felt like to sit there, day after day, and simply watch her breathe. We will never forget the joy of simply holding her--most parents take that for granted, or don't get to appreciate it as fully as I think NICU parents do. We will never forget crying the whole drive home with her because the car seat was no longer empty and she was all ours and we just couldn't believe it.

 

 

And over the past thirteen months, when we feel like sleepless nights and viruses and teething and temper tantrums are too difficult, we remember how blessed we are to have her home, and we lower our voices, show a little more patience, and give a few more hugs and kisses. And, like Alan Matthews in the season six finale of Boy Meets World, we say an extra prayer for anyone who has to be there.