What Story Do I Tell Myself?

I haven’t blogged this week as I had a house full of guests. Ten guests plus my household of seven kept me busier than a one armed paper hanger! So, I’m trying to get back at it now. So, on we go!

I've managed to cover 37 of my 38 years in about 13 blogs. Needless to say I skipped a lot although some might say I shared too much. Either way, I laid a foundation on the story of me for a few different reasons. Primarily I designed the blog this way so a stranger or someone who doesn't know me that well could come to know how I got to where I am. The hope for me being if they he/she could somehow identify with things I've gone through in my life, it might inspire them and give them hope that they, too, could move past the demons that sometimes appear insurmountable. It's also been a journey of self-discovery for me. I won't lie. I'm hoping to gain some better insight into myself as I go through this process. I don't just want to rehash the past and it mean nothing. I want to talk about it, learn from it, put it away, and move onward and upward.

I guess it begs the question at this point if I have learned anything about myself. I'm not 100% sure "learned" is the necessarily the right word, but I think I am coming to a better understanding of myself. I can't look at all the negative events in my life without simultaneously recalling a lot of positive memories. Despite any struggles I've ever been through in life, no matter how alone I ever felt during those lows, in retrospect I see easily how much love and support I have had throughout everything and it makes me smile. I think it's easy in the down times to lose your sense of self and your self respect. The ability to recognize there are people who love you, and you are worthy of a life of happiness seems like some far off unrealistic ideal. I know I’ve been stuck
there: a lot.

Despite my crazy busy week, I was able to catch about half of DDP Radio on Wednesday night. I’ve been thinking about the show a lot. I wish I could have listened to the entire thing. I don’t know if I could have handled it as the half I caught had me in tears. As I listened to DDP say the words “What story do you tell yourself?” I couldn’t help but think of all the stories I have told myself over the years and the impact those stories have had on me. Truthfully, I don’t think there have been that many stories. Really just one story tells the full tale. My story repeatedly to myself was always the story of a girl who had no worth; a girl who didn’t deserve happiness; and a girl who always had to measure her worth by the yardsticks of others.

Even when I decided to leave the last Mr. Wrong and went on later to marry Mr. Right, I continued to measure myself by the opinions of the man in my life. Fortunately, I stuck with Mr. Right and his opinion is a much better one that Mr. Wrong’s, but the fact that my own self worth still hinged on the thoughts of another, wasn’t a good thing. Like all my relationships before, my esteem rested squarely on Mr. Right. Then we went on to have children, beautiful and intelligent children. So, I moved from measuring my self-worth just by my husband and on to what others thought about how well-behaved or how smart my kids were. Again, my ruler for everything remained how others perceived me. I get to a degree that everyone does this. I just never realized until late last year it was all I ever did.

For the first I found myself in new territory. I had tried to get healthy many times before. Every time I tried, I failed. It hit me for the first time in December of last year why I had always failed before.

I had never done it for me.
I had done it for my husband. I had done it for my kids. I had done it at the urging of other family members and friends. Obviously my husband, my children, other family and my friends are great motivators. It was hard though to make all those kinds of sacrifices, not feel better, and keep on doing it. The end goal was worth it to get started, but even my husband, my children, my family, and my friends weren’t enough to keep me going when I couldn’t see the need to do for it myself. Wow. That’s a pretty big admission. It’s a little sad, too. I think that’s why I cried the other night. I knew I had made this discovery last December. I finally figured out I needed to do it for me. And I was. I was finally doing it for me, and I had seemed to figure out for the first time that I was worth the effort.

Then, somewhere along the way, I lost it.

Bam. The mojo was just gone. I feel like an alcoholic or drug addict who was on the wagon for five months and in one large swoop, I fell from grace. I’m not sure what happened. I have no idea what has brought me to this place. In all honesty, I’m not sure how to get out of this hole. I don’t know what else to do other than put it out there.

This is as bare as it gets. I’m in a hole. I want out. I don’t want to go back to the story I used to tell myself. I liked the new story. For whatever reason though, I’ve lost my way yet again and the new story, well, it’s given way to the old familiar one that I’ve been reading for far longer. I know I’m eventually going to crawl right back out of this hole. I just hope you’ll have the patience to bear with me as I do.  I want to think I am worth it again.  I want to think it and I want to become it.  That's the story I want to tell myself.

It's A Boy!!!

Me and my brother Kevin (on the left) meeting our brother Jason for the first time July 21, 2013.  He was a good sport and even held this "It's a Boy" balloon for some pics!  Yeah, we're goofy like that!

I'm shifting gears a little bit tonight.  There will be plenty of time to say all the things I want to say about the road that led me to wanting a healthier me.  (And lucky you!  Less than a year of my life to go!)  For tonight though,  there is something else I really need to focus on and talk about briefly.  I confess it's a ridiculous hour, but sometimes your mind runs faster than you can keep up with. Tonight is one of those nights for me.  I'm finding it difficult to shut my mind down and drift off to sleep.

Upstairs, sleeping in my daughter's room with his lovely wife, is the brother that, until a few weeks ago, I didn't know existed.  It's really quite amazing when you think about how life can turn on a dime when you least expect it.  That's precisely what happened to me a few weeks ago.  Life turned when I least expected it.  Although wary at first, I must say, all things considered, this turn is one of the best of my life so far.

I never accept friend requests on Facebook from people I don't know.  I have a lot of pictures of my children on Facebook and I share some personal information. I keep all of my information private so it's only viewable by persons I'm friends with on Facebook.  Several weeks ago, I received a friend request from someone I didn't know.  I racked my brain trying to figure out what my connection was with this woman.  I even asked my husband if he knew who she was.  I checked to see if we had any mutual friends on Facebook.  Unable to find any other connection, I made the determination I must somehow know her because of DDP yoga.  I have a page on teamddpyoga.com and had made a few friends I had since become friends with on Facebook.  Generally speaking, if I receive a friend request from someone I don't know, i either delete the request immediately or send the person a message asking the person how I know him/her if I suspect I do and just really don't remember.  For whatever reason, I didn't send this woman a message asking how I knew her.  Instead, I accepted the friend request and planned to later send her a message.  The days somehow slipped by me and the friend request was all but forgotten.

About a week or so later, I received a message from the woman who had sent me the friend request. Her name was Britney and she had contacted me because I was from Tullahoma.  She explained although we didn't know each other and she would understand if I didn't want to help, she wondered if I might perhaps be able to assist her in locating her husband's biological father.  All she knew was my maiden name was Mason and I was from Tullahoma. She hoped, because of this, I might happen to know her son's biological father.  Nothing else in regards to that conversation is important other than to say we soon discovered her husband was my biological brother.  So, at the tender young age of 38, I discovered I had a biological brother I never knew.

As it was then, after meeting my brother today for the first time, my mind is still racing a mile a minute. I couldn't really seem to process anything she was saying then and there is still a lot to process after today. I didn't know what to think then, and I struggle to do the same now.  Truth is, regardless of whether or not I knew what to think, at that moment, I was incapable of putting logical thoughts together.  There were just so many questions and not enough answers.  There still are.

I remember speaking with my brother that night for the first time. I felt so nervous. I worried. Would he like me?  Would he want to talk to me again?  Would the shock be too much for him?  I just didn't know what to expect.  I just knew my heart was aching with sadness for everything I knew I missed.  We talked for over two hours that first night.  There was just so much to say it was hard to know where to begin.  We shared some laughter and we shared some tears.  It's always a strange feeling when you're celebrating and mourning at the same time.  The one thing I knew from that very first conversation was the fact I really wanted to know my brother even more and how blessed I felt he was the one.  After meeting him and his lovely family today, that feeling is all the more stronger.

I was tied up in knots that night before we spoke on the phone the first time.  I wasn't really sure what I would say.  It's really strange since that first call, I've found it rather easy to talk to my brother. The only other time I've had any sort of nervous feeling was waiting for him and his family to arrive today.  It was a good kind of nervous though. Butterflies. That's the best way I can describe it. Just excitement.

Our first night together was better than I could have ever hoped.  With both of my brothers in the house along with my six nieces and nephews, my mother, my husband, and my children, there was a completeness and an easiness I can't explain.  The best part of it all is today was only the first day.  There are going to be so many more laughter and love filled days ahead.  For that I am ever grateful.

I'm really thankful for DDPYoga.  Strange  as it is, were it not for the fact I had recently gotten more active on the DDPYoga pages, I never would have accepted that friend request.  I never would have learned I had a second brother.  A brother who, by the way, also lives a gluten free lifestyle and is anxious to do a DDPYoga workout with me!  Now, if only we can rope the other one in, we will really have something!  So, if you happen to see this DDP, thanks!!!  You are touching people's lives in ways you never could have imagined!!!  

Seven Is My Favorite Number Anyway

In March of 2011, my health would finally begin to make some sense to me for the first time. I had known for years something was "wrong" but no practitioner in the health care field could ever seem to quite pin it down. My mother had been after me for years with the firm belief I had some type of auto-immune disorder. I wasn't sure about her diagnosis, but I was certain I did have a lot of bad luck where my health was concerned, and I knew there was something more to it than what I was being told. I was to the point of being completely and utterly exasperated. I had grown so weary of physicians who spoke to me condescendingly and treated me like a hypochondriac who had nothing better to do than run back and forth to the doctor all day every day. I was never really what I would call a "sickly" child. I had my share of colds, viruses, etc. I probably had no more or less childhood illnesses than the average child. It wasn't as though my mother raised a wimp who would be sitting in a waiting room at the drop of a hat with a sniffle. Particularly while in college, I probably should have sought medical treatment more frequently and more quickly than I did, but I felt I didn't have time to make my health a priority until I felt like death walking. Those were the points at which I would drag my ailing self to a doctor. As I look back at my health over the last decade in particular, I feel a surge of anger if I am being perfectly honest. Why would no one put the pieces together for me? I was begging for help in every sense of the word. When I think back on every diagnosis and illness I have had, I can only wonder why it occurred to no one other than me (and good ole mom) that there must be something more going on.

By the time I referred myself to a rheumatologist and had my first rheumatology appointment in March of 2011, the laundry list of diagnoses and illnesses had grown ridiculously long. A rundown of a few of the more frequent or strange illnesses and the most persistent diagnoses I have been given could tell you the story of my last decade. Some of them are as follows:

- High Blood Pressure
- Degenerative Disc Disease*
- Bulging Disc*
- Herniated Disc*
- Pinched Nerve*
- Lumbago
- Psoriasis
- Narcolepsy
- Depression
- Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
- Proteinuria (inside and outside of pregnancy)
- Preeclampsia (during both pregnancies)
- Shingles (multiple)
- Costochondritis (multiple)
- Flu (multiple)
- Sinus Infection (multiple)
- Strep Throat (multiple)
- Bronchitis (multiple)
- Scarletina (once).

*It’s unclear to this day whether or not these four diagnoses were accurate. Although advised by multiple medical professionals on multiple occasions these were the causes of my chronic back pain, it is possible my most recent diagnosis would explain any/all of these four diagnoses. I’ve probably had some combination of these problems over the years, but they would not fully explain my chronic back pain in conjunction with other issues that have spanned over a decade. **Also, all of the above items in the list in bolded text are symptoms of my now diagnised disorder I had exhibited for years.

That’s the short list. Those are the ones I can think of right off the top of my head. There are others. Of course, there is the most recent. It’s the one diagnosis that finally seemed to make sense of so many of the issues I was having. Nothing else had ever tied things together and made it all make sense. After a physical exam, review of my medical records, and extensive testing, my rheumatologist shared what he believed I had been suffering from all that time. That diagnosis was Psoriatic Arthritis. Finally, I had a name to the face so to speak.

In the event you’ve never heard of Psoriatic Athritis or have but don’t know what it is, I’m going to provide a brief synopsis of the disorder for you. It’s a combination of information from www.webmd.com and a couple of other internet sources that provides a broad overview of the disorder along with most common symptoms. Psoriatic Arthritis is a form of arthritis that affects some people who have Psoriasis — a condition that features red patches of skin topped with silvery scales. (Or as it is in my case, a less common form of Psoriasis known as Palmoplantar Pustulosis which only occurs on the palms of the hands or the soles/sides of the feet.) Most people develop Psoriasis first and are later diagnosed with Psoriatic Arthritis, but the joint problems can sometimes begin before skin lesions appear. Joint pain, stiffness and swelling are the main symptoms of Psoriatic Arthritis. They can affect any part of your body and can range from relatively mild to severe. In both Psoriasis and Psoriatic Arthritis, disease flares may alternate with periods of remission. There is no cure for Psoriatic Arthritis so the focus is on controlling symptoms and preventing damage to joints. Without treatment, Psoriatic Arthritis can be disabling and frequently involves inflammation of the knees, ankles, and joints in the feet and hands. Joint stiffness is common and is typically worse early in the morning.

Psoriatic Arthritis can also cause inflammation of the spine (spondylitis) and the sacrum, causing pain and stiffness in the low back, buttocks, neck, and upper back. In about 50% of those with spondylitis, the genetic marker HLA-B27 can be found. Patients with Psoriatic Arthritis can also develop inflammation of the tendons (tendinitis) and around cartilage. This inflammation may lead to inflammation of a tendon at the site where it inserts into the bone. Inflammation of the tendon behind the heel causes Achilles tendinitis or Plantar Fasciitis in the soles of the feet. Inflammation of the chest wall and of the cartilage that links the ribs to the breastbone (sternum) can cause chest pain, as seen in Costochondritis. Changes to the nails, such as pitting or separation from the nail bed can also occur. There is extreme exhaustion that does not go away with adequate rest. The exhaustion may last for days or weeks without abatement. Psoriatic arthritis may remain mild, or may progress to more destructive joint disease. Periods of active disease, or flares, will typically alternate with periods of remission.

There it was. After a decade plus of feeling hopeless and lazy and wondering if I was ever going to get an answer, I finally had one. It wasn’t the best answer in the world or the one I expected, but it certainly could have been a lot worse. Just to know there was a real, legitimate reason for everything I had been going through and not some melodramatic creation in my mind, well, that was really the most important thing to me. The next question was how to treat it. I was relieved to know what my condition was, and eager to get to the “fixing it” part. That wasn’t going to come as quickly or as easily as I had hoped.

A few months into my targeted treatment, I got an unexpected phone call. I was being asked again if my husband and I could care for the boys. Their mother’s Leukemia had returned; she’d gone through a second round of brutal treatment; and she was once again fighting to stay in remission. Fortunately, it was June 1, 2011, and I was a full three months removed from my winter of discontent. I was deep into a plan with my rheumatologist to get me back on track. I felt I could handle taking the boys back in for a time while their mother was recuperating from treatment. We geared up a second time for the boys’ arrival unsure how long this “visit” would last. I remained guarded but optimistic that my condition would continue to improve and the boys’ mother could overcome the after effects of her second round of treatment and maintain the desired result.

It was a pretty crazy summer and fall. With all five children in the house again, we were definitely being kept on our toes. The summer would come and go in a flash and school was starting. Before I knew it, the holidays of 2011 were fast approaching. We had almost made it through the fall semester of school without anything too crazy happening. The boys were slated to return to their mother after the school semester ended in December. I knew I would miss them when they were gone, but admit I was looking forward to a break. I had continued struggling off and on throughout the year with the Psoriatic Arthritis as my rheumatologist continued to work on a treatment program for me. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was feeling better overall than I had in a while. However, knowing that we would be less two rowdy little boys gave me a sense I would be able to rest up a little more and get a better hold of my disorder.

When the boys’ mother called me the Monday following Thanksgiving in 2011, I wasn’t prepared for the conversation we would have. There were new lab results back indicating she was no longer in remission after her third round of treatment. As she had now had chemo, radiation, and bone marrow transplants multiple times, there were no longer any treatment options. As I listened to her voice quiver while she told me she was scared, I told her I loved her. I can’t recall with all certainty what else I may have said. The conversation remains mostly a blur. I was scared for her, and we sat and we sat and cried together for a while. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how horribly it would feel to know my days were numbered and the number was so small. They’d only given her two to three more weeks to live. When she asked me if my husband and I would keep her boys and raise them, there was only one answer I could possibly give. Yes. We would keep them. Yes. We would raise them. Yes. We would do everything in the world we could to ensure they were taken care of in the best possible way we could provide. It was a daunting thought that we would soon be shifting gears yet again from readying the boys to go home to becoming permanent members of our family. At that point, the boys had been with us for the majority of the last year and a half and despite their circumstances, they were thriving. And there was also the small matter we had grown to love them. If they couldn’t be with their mother, we couldn’t imagine them being anywhere else.

There is little in life I am more grateful for than those last few weeks with Michelle. Although we didn’t get to spend an exorbitant amount of time together, she got to spend as much time with her boys as she was able. I recall one of the most emotionally draining nights of my life as I sat with Michelle and her family and we shared with the boys she would soon go to Heaven. The low sobs were almost unbearable to hear. I recall celebrating an early Christmas with Michelle and the boys. How wonderful it was they could have those last laughter and smile filled moments with her. She was able to see their new beds, new furniture, and new decorations. And I listened as she told her younger son in his new room to share nice with Annalee because she was going to be his sister. She was giving them permission to move forward into their new life. In her last few days, she was selfless enough to make sure her boys knew they needed to go on with their “new family” and she was okay with that.

When the call came that she had collapsed into unconsciousness, my heart felt so heavy. I knew it was coming but I had still kept praying for some last minute miracle that wasn’t going to come. I spent that Friday night and into the early morning hours of Christmas Eve 2011 just being there with her and her family. Her sister and I each held a hand as she took her final breath and passed from this life on to the next. And it was over. Her two-year-long battle was done. She had fought valiantly, but her poor little body finally gave out. And we cried.

There’s so much more to this story than just a few pages could ever tell. Honestly, writing a book about the events leading up to Michelle’s passing and the next eight months leading to our adoption of Tyler and Michael would be fairly easy in regards to all that was involved. There has been a lot of heartache in so many respects to what my two sons have gone through in their short little lives. None of it really matters in reference to what this blog concerns with the exception that the mental and physical stress of the situations my family was faced with during the past few years did little to improve the symptoms of my disorder.

We adopted our boys on August 6, 2012. Our family was completed on that day. I’ve no doubt in mind or heart everything I endured emotionally in several areas of my life were designed as such to prepare to mother the boys along with our three lovely daughters. I lost a lot in the couple of years leading up to our adoption, but what I gained; well, it outweighs anything I ever lost.



The Sexton Seven
August 6, 2012
Our first official family photo!
Back Row: Bryan, Kim, Annalee, Me
Front Row: Michael, Libby, Tyler

Moving forward from that day, I was simply going to have to learn to be a wife to one; a mother to five; and a working woman. Lord knows I’m still a work in progress, but December of 2012 would move me remarkably closer to where I needed to be – mentally and physically. December 2012 was when I saw a video that would inspire me to dig deep, re-evaluate my motivation for better health and start taking real steps to achieve some real, positive change in my life.

Spring of Hope

After a hiatus of several days, I’m back at it hard today.  I took a long weekend off and headed to Baton Rouge last Friday with my STL Connection.  We had an absolute blast visiting with a mutual friend and my family.  It was relaxing, fun, and we have promised we will do it again!  Sometimes it’s just necessary to get away from the pace of your life for a few days, have a little fun, and recharge.  Since I couldn't be in Mexico for the DDPYoga Retreat, I think I managed to drown my sorrows in the most positive of ways! 

Now, on with the blog…

Ten days after the birth of my baby girl Annalee, I began experiencing what has to be the most excruciating migraine of my entire life.  I’ve had a history of migraines for several years, but this one outdid them all.  After about 12 hours with the migraine, I decided to check my blood pressure when absolutely nothing else I was doing was bringing me any relief.  I thought perhaps my blood pressure was elevated more so than normal and was causing my head to pound.  It was about two in the morning when I took my blood pressure.  I was certain when I read the monitor that there must be some kind of error as I had never seen my blood pressure that high outside of a delivery room.  I took my blood pressure a second time and got the same result.  I woke my husband up and took his blood pressure.  His came out normal.  I took mine a third and it was still measuring extremely high.  My theory that the monitor was malfunctioning was now out the window.  I decided to call the on-call doctor for advice on what to do.  Needless to say, I was advised to go to the emergency room.  Immediately.

I arrived at the emergency room sometime after 2:00am.  Although my migraine was still out of control, I was seriously thinking my blood pressure would be normal at that point and I would feel silly for creating all the fuss.  However, it quickly became obvious there was a serious problem with it.  The same measurements were taken in the emergency room I had taken at home:  210/111.  I wound up being taken up to the maternity floor as I was only ten days post-partum.  The next day and a half was literally one large blur.  I was barely conscious and Lord only knows what was done to me try and get my blood pressure back under control.  The only point at which I can even remember being aware of whether it was day or night was when I was taken to have some kind of scan.  I have an extreme sensitivity to light when I have a migraine, and they gave me a towel to cover my eyes on the way.  At one point, my arm slipped off the side of the wheel chair and the comforting dark veil of the towel gave way to the searing pain of sunlight.  In that brief moment until I could coordinate my hands to get the towel back over my eyes, I felt as though needles were stabbing my eyes.  Regardless of the pain though, I couldn’t let myself cry.  Sobbing only made my head ache even worse.  I sucked it up as best I could and tried to breathe out the pain.

The nightmare finally ended after that day and a half although I wound up being in the hospital for a total of four days.  It’s still unclear what exactly happened.  I don’t know if the high blood pressure caused the migraine or if the migraine caused the high blood pressure.  No one else seemed to know either.  Seemed to be the usual case for me.  Nothing ever comes standard for me health wise.  Ever the enigma as I hear from medical professionals on a consistent basis, “Well, I’ve never seen it present this way, but…”  Man, if only I had a nickel…  One thing was for sure, I wasn’t birthing any more babies.

The next year or so would continue on as the last several had.  I would sporadically have migraines, my psoriasis had become an ever present condition on my skin, the acute arthritic back pain and neuropathic pain would come and go, and crippling fatigue would continue to plague me every step of the way.  I continued with work and caring for our two children and would pray for temporary reprieves from my symptoms.  Sometimes they would come and sometimes they did not.

I must have been in a particularly froggy mood when a friend of mine asked me around February of 2010 whether or not my husband and I could temporarily help care for her nephews if needed while her sister underwent treatment for Leukemia.  Without even consulting my husband, I gave her a flat yes.  I somehow instinctively knew my husband would be quite okay with a couple of a little boys in the house to help even out the estrogen to testosterone ratio.  When I spoke with him, he was okay with my response.  And so we waited.  We didn’t know how long it would be before the call would come asking for our help or if it would even come at all.  It did a few months later.


Toward the end of May 2010, the call came asking us if we could take the boys for a couple of months.  We said yes and asked when they would arrive.  It would only be a few days before the number of children in our home was going to double for a period of time.  I knew it would be no easy task, but I had prayed on it and I knew we would be up for it!  We busied ourselves getting a bedroom and ourselves ready for their arrival.  We were very excited to have them with us and with Kim coming to visit soon for the summer, it was going to be quite a summer with five children about!  I simply couldn’t wait to have a house full of children!


Kim arrived shortly after the boys and the summer was off and running.  After Kim’s arrival and several conversations, it became evident Kim wanted to move in with us as badly as we had wanted her to move in with us for years.  We began filing paperwork and doing what needed to be done legally to make it happen.  Although something of a headache, the process went along more quickly and smoothly than I thought it would.  Before we knew it, legal custody of Kim was ours and she was on her way to east Tennessee to pack up her things and head back home!  So, as we were prepping to make Kim a permanent part of the household, we were simultaneously prepping for the boys to return back to their mother.  The two months was almost up and we had been advised they would be returning home as planned.

Word came the Tuesday before the boys were to return home that their mother had been re-hospitalized.  The treatment she had undergone had been brutal.  Her physical health wasn’t near where it needed to be to look after two young active boys.  We were asked if we could keep the boys a few more months to give her additional time to recuperate from the treatment that was almost killing her in order to save her.  Without a doubt, our response was yes.  We had to shift gears from readying the boys to return home to getting them enrolled in Kindergarten and pre-school, getting physicals completed, etc.  It was a pretty major shift as Kim had also just moved into our home.  It appeared we would have a house full for the foreseeable future.  So, it was the seven of us from that July of 2010 until December 0f 2010.  That’s when the boys went back home to their mother.  Although I was happy the boys were going home because it meant their mother was still in remission and doing better, there was a part of me that was so sad to see them leave.  Their mother and the boys spent Christmas with us, the boys would come visit on the weekends, and it was nice that we would get to remain a part of their lives.

It would also turn out to be a good thing the boys went home when they did.  In January of 2011, my body went into a total revolt.  I don’t know what happened.  I’m unsure if it was in some way related to the stress of the whole situation with the boys and Kim moving in or if it was just the natural progression of my still unidentified disorder.  It probably helped little that I had strep in December.  Strep can take my immune system down like nothing else.  Either way, the ride I was about to go on would be a nightmare unlike any other I had yet experienced with my health.

The months of January and February 2011 would be two of the darkest months of my life.  The arthritis in my back had spiraled to new lows.  I remember having said multiple times before when my back would go out a few days at a time that I just couldn’t imagine having to live with chronic back pain.  I didn’t realize that my sporadic issues were going to turn chronic for me.  I missed almost the entire month of January from work.  I was in so much pain I could barely function on the day to day.  Much like the incident from when Libby was a baby, it became a daily struggle to even get out of bed.  The exception being that rather than lasting for a few days, this episode stretched into a couple of solid months.  Each morning would begin the same.  I would wake up feeling nothing but excruciating pain up and down my spine.  Each morning I would spend the first hour of my day getting out of bed and into an upright standing position.  Literally, it would take an hour just to stand up.  I can think of little in life that has ever been more disheartening for me.

My darkest days came when I seriously considered the point in going on.  I felt absolutely useless and was in so much physical pain, I just wanted a way out.  I seriously considered the worst choice to be my best option because I physically and mentally couldn’t take it anymore.  I thought about overdosing.  I thought about pulling my car into the garage and closing the door.  I thought about it multiple times.  I thought about how my husband and children could survive without me and they would be just fine.  At that point, I could only see myself as a burden.  All the while I still prayed for relief and answers to come.  It just didn’t seem to be happening fast enough.  I was just so tired of fighting with my body, feeling sick, feeling tired, and being in pain.  I’m glad I made the wiser choice of hanging on.


The last two months of my harshest winter were almost over, and with the spring answers would come.  Although I wasn’t going to be “fixed” overnight, I was at least happy to finally know there was an answer.  It was a relief to find a “name” and an explanation for all I had been going through.  I knew there was still a long road ahead of me, but at least the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel was visible to me.  Hope.  Hope means a lot when you thought you’d never find it again.

Pregnancy: It Ain't for the Faint of Heart

Libby dancing in the rain at my dearly

departed Grandmother's house.  She was three here.

The five and a half years between the birth of my first and second child were full of many wonderful and memorable times.  The year and a half I spent at home with Libby after she was born was a time I will always treasure.  We had so much fun together, and there are many days I wish I had made different choices that would have allowed me to stay home with her longer.  I felt some guilt and remorse about going back to work as I know many mothers do.  Being a full-time stay at home mom is a job to be sure, but working full-time outside of the home while being a mother is a whole different animal unto itself.  It wasn’t horribly difficult to manage when we had only one child in the home, but it certainly got more challenging as our family expanded.

Libby only nursed her first six months and when that calorie burning activity ended, I should have immediately picked up some regular exercise.  That would have been the smart thing to do.  Sadly, I did not make that choice.  Instead, I just began picking up weight at a faster pace.  I soon joined Curves and started watching what I was eating.  I slowly started whittling the weight away.  It was frustrating.  It was slow going.  The worst of it though was the fact I never could seem to feel better.  I was eating better, I was exercising, I was drinking more water, but none of it seemed to matter in regards to how I felt.  There was not a “runner’s high” after a good workout.  There was never a moment where I could feel my body thanking me for everything I was trying to do for it.  With the constant sacrificing, the frustration turned the tide into an unbearable level when medical problems cropped up and worsened.  Libby was not even six months old when I was limping my way in and out of physical therapy once again due to my continued back problems. 

I also developed a new problem that would become almost as debilitating as my chronic back pain at times.  It would take several rounds of it to finally get a diagnosis of Costochondritis which is an inflammation of the chest wall.  The first time I developed it, I literally thought I was having a heart attack.  There were times I would develop it and it was irritating, but manageable.  For the most part though, it was just downright awful.  The pain would start in my chest generally localized just left of center.  It would then spread to the other side of my chest and from there it would radiate down both of my arms.  There were times it got so bad, I couldn’t lift my baby out of her crib, I couldn’t wash my hair and I couldn’t even put a shirt on without Mr. Right assisting me. 

It continued on this way as it had for years already.  Back would go out.  Back would get better.  Costchondritis would develop and then it would go away.  I would develop sinus infections, strep throat, viruses, the flu, a cold, and on and on ad nauseum.   The rash that cropped up on my hands the first time years ago, kept returning and each time it returned it seemed to spread wider, stay longer, and got more painful and irritating with each return.  When it made the jump from hands to my feet, I couldn't believe my luck.  I felt like a boxer in a ring getting pummeled round after round, and the opponent always seemed to be stronger and bigger than me.  Then I would fumble my way to my corner and my trainer would give me the same chat every time: pain pills, steroids, wash, rinse, and repeat.  (Sorry.  I know I said I wouldn’t say that again, but it really worked right there.)  It just began wearing me down after a while.  I would reach a point of frustration with my doctors because I constantly felt as though I was being ignored or patronized.  I had a doctor actually initially attribute the Costchondritis to the fact I had a baby and was constantly having to lift her.  Seriously?  She came home from the hospital a whopping six pounds six ounces.  I’ve also known hundreds of women who have had babies and could manage to lift their children without agonizing pain.  Seriously?  Although I eventually would lose 40 pounds, it wouldn’t stay gone.  It would return and then some.  I finally gave up on giving up what I wanted when it didn’t seem to matter anyway.  Sure, I was glad to be wearing smaller jeans, but it just wasn’t enough to keep me motivated.

The stress of going back to work certainly wasn’t a factor that worked in my favor.  I’ve never regretted my decision to go into a social work career, and I never will.  However, it’s no secret social work careers can be quite stressful.  That certainly was the case for me.  Between the guilt of leaving my child in daycare, the stress of going back into social work, the constant ailments, and the physical pain each day was a struggle.  Some days were worse than others.  Some days were more bearable.  Through all of it, there were primarily three things that kept me going: Mr. Right and our two daughters.  My love for them kept me motivated enough to keep getting up every day, but I was angry with myself that I couldn’t be everything I felt I needed to be for them.  It still hadn’t dawned on me to that point there should have been at least one more motivating factor for me.  It would still be a few years before that glaringly obvious motivating factor would wedge its way into my conscience.  Before that would happen though, I would give birth for a second time.  If I thought the first trip down Pregnancy Lane was a challenge, I was in for quite a shock.  The second trip was going to be much more difficult.    Even with a “mental map” of the way, this road would be entirely different.  My map was going to be useless.

Everything started the usual way.  I knew I was pregnant by the smell of bacon.  Yes, I am serious.  I was cooking breakfast food for dinner and almost vomited on the stove.  Dead give-away.  I went straight to the bathroom after dinner and took a test.  It was positive.  I was so excited because we had been trying to get pregnant for many months.  I was beginning to wonder if we were even going to be able to get pregnant again.  I had gotten pregnant so easily the first two times.  Although Libby had an older sister already, Kim lived with her biological mother.  I had begun wondering if she would ever decide to come live with her father and me.  I knew how much it meant to me having another sibling in the house growing up and I didn’t want Libby growing up, in essence, an only child.  There was also the fact I just really wanted another baby.

Everything with this pregnancy went along the same road map for about the first half of the pregnancy.  I was nauseated, anemic, exhausted, and not gaining weight.  Things took a turn at the half way mark when I had my quad screen.  I took the same test when pregnant with Libby.  If we were going to have a child with special needs, we wanted to be able to prepare as we best we could for the challenges we would face.  Particularly for a child with Spina Bifida as there are surgeries that can actually be performed in utero on babies with this spinal defect.  I expected the results for this test would be exactly what they were with Libby – normal.

The results weren’t normal.  Even though it was just a result indicating more testing would be needed, my heart felt heavy.  Not only did I have a “positive” screen, the markers were pointing to Trisomy 18.  Spina Bifida I could have handled.  Downs Syndrome I could have handled.  Anything else I could have handled.  Trisomy 18 was the worst case scenario.  The vast majority of babies with Trisomy 18 don’t even make it through a full pregnancy.  Most die in utero.  The few that do make it through a full term pregnancy generally die within a few minutes to days of birth.  There are those rare occasions where a baby with Trisomy 18 makes it to a first birthday, but those are few and far between.  The news was upsetting.  However, I tried really hard not to panic.  I had to go to a specialist for a more in-depth ultrasound.  I was ready to go to the ultrasound and get the best news ever.  When that didn’t happen at the first ultrasound by the specialist, I was crushed.  I was still holding out hope and working as hard as I could to keep my game face on.  Inside though, well, that was a whole different story.  After an abnormal quad screen and now a concerning ultrasound that would require me to come back for another, I silently wondered how I would possibly be able to simultaneously prepare for the birth and death of my child.  How is a mother supposed to do that?

Additional ultrasounds were performed to check on my baby’s growth.  The following ultrasounds proved more positive.  After a few, the specialist was sure that my baby, although small, was then developing normally.  Those weeks were some of the toughest of my life.  To know my baby had a fighting chance was an incredible relief.  Things could have only been better if we felt like we were out of the woods for more than a few weeks.  Trouble brewed once again when my blood pressure flared and all the issues I had when pregnant with Libby ran rampant in this one; only this time it was worse. Although I had to be induced with Libby, I only had to go ten days early.  With this pregnancy, I would wind up being induced a second time, but almost three weeks early.  I wouldn’t have been so concerned about having a baby three weeks early if I didn’t know from the ultrasound how tiny my baby was.  At the time I was induced, my baby was estimated to weigh just under five pounds.  I couldn’t even imagine holding a baby that tiny.  When we welcomed Annalee Claire on a beautiful March 19^th, I couldn’t look at her enough.  I cried with happiness and relief when I finally laid eyes on her.  She was tiny, but not as little as I thought she was going to be.  She weighed a little over five and a half pounds.  Although she would require scans the next day due to concerns she had bleeding on her brain, the scans came back normal.  Finally, I felt a little at peace.

My sweet little Annalee Claire was barely 24

hours old in this picture.

It's pretty sad when your OB/GYN tells you straight up not to have any more children because of all the issues you had in your last two pregnancies.  It was okay though.  I pretty much decided the day after Annalee was born I wasn’t going to have any more children.  As difficult as my first and second pregnancies were, I couldn’t even imagine what would crop up during a third.  I also wasn’t exactly getting any younger.  The thought of having to go through all of that again was more than I could take.  And I kept to my word.  Well, mostly...

Eye of the Tiger Should Be My Theme Song

A picture of my sweet Liberty Grace at one year of age.

I'm going to go with she was worth it!

Excited as I was to be pregnant for a second time, there was much difficulty in the beginning containing my fear.  Being only four months removed from my miscarriage, I wondered at what point I would be begin to feel safe.  Each time I would hit a milestone, I would breathe a short sigh of relief, but then I would look toward the next milestone and wait for the shoe to drop.  I think things finally started feeling okay when I finished the first trimester and things felt much better when I went for the ultrasound at the 20 week mark.  I was excited for the ultrasound because I wanted to know the sex.  I was absolutely certain I was having a girl, and not being the most patient person in the world; I needed to know for sure.  The tech couldn’t say with all certainty I was having a girl, but she was pretty sure there was no male equipment present.  I happily began snapping up all kinds of pink.

The first 20 weeks of the pregnancy weren’t that bad.  I had horrific nausea, but rarely vomited.  However, because of the severity of the nausea, I had a very difficult time eating.  (I never had any strange cravings but I developed an aversion to bacon almost immediately.  The mere sight of it would make my stomach lurch.)  As a result of the nausea, I actually had a net weight loss during the first two trimesters of my pregnancy.  I certainly wasn’t trying to lose weight and my abdominal measurements and ultrasounds indicated the baby was growing, so, I was content to let my pregnancy serve as an awesome weight loss plan.  I know that’s not generally how it works for folks, but that’s what happened with me.  There is, of course, the fact I was not a small gal to begin with.  My body had plenty of stores to draw from and I was taking my pre-natal vitamins and necessary supplements as I went anemic early in the pregnancy.  Of course there is a draw-back to only gaining between five and ten pounds throughout your pregnancy: when you come out of the hospital weighing less than you did the day you got pregnant, it’s really difficult to blame the weight you later gain on your poor kid.  I never had the luxury of saying, “Oh, I’ve really got to drop this baby weight.”  Um, yeah, no.  She was never going to get saddled with that guilt!

The real fun began after the first trimester.  During the second trimester of my pregnancy, I developed a severe UTI.  I had made it almost 30 years of my life without a UTI.  I had no pain from it, but had other symptoms that were, for a woman who was pregnant and unaware, extremely frightening.  I’ll spare the gory details, but just know a call to the on-call doctor led to a trip to the emergency room.  Although it completely shot my nerves, everything turned out okay with that issue and remained calm for a bit.  Once the third trimester hit, things were going to go less smoothly.  Despite the almost complete lack of weight gain, the pregnancy was really stressing my body.  I wound up developing preeclampsia which led to a great many more doctor visits, ultrasounds, tests, and bed rest.  Between the anemia, high blood pressure, sporadic back issues, and my seemingly weakened immune system, I was more tired and exhausted than anything else and almost looked forward to bed rest just so I could sleep more.   I recognize most pregnant women are tired and face increased health risks, I just didn’t realize then the inner health demons I was fighting to get through each day.  And there were just so many appointments between the OB/GYN, ultrasounds, blood specialist, emergency room trips, and the chiropractor, I’m not completely sure how I was managing to even go to work.  But I did.

Word came ten days before my due date I would have to be induced.  At that point, I had started spilling protein and it was no longer a better option for my baby girl to remain in utero.   Between the blood pressure, swelling, and protein, it was time to get her out of there and into the world.  It was off to the hospital with me to have an induction.  I had no idea the wild ride I was in for that night.  The induction began easily enough, but got pretty hard in a few hours.  My contractions went full throttle after my water broke, and my blood pressure was spinning wildly out of control and dangerously into stroke territory.  An epidural at least got the blood pressure down, but did nothing in assisting with getting my baby girl out.  She was perfectly content where she was and had no plans whatsoever to leave her comfy little nest.

After 17 and a-half-hours of labor, two and a half which were active pushing and delivery, I finally laid eyes on my baby girl.  Liberty Grace had arrived; my sweet baby aptly named as she was born on a Tuesday and “Tuesday’s child is full of grace”.  I scanned her over and over, looking at her face and limbs, counting her fingers and toes (yes, I seriously did), and just marveling at this little miracle in my hands.  A few tears slid down my cheeks as I took in her absolute perfection.  I would have gone through a pregnancy ten times worse to have her.  She was beautiful and she was mine.  As I looked at her, I recapped the stats in my head on her weight, height, time of birth, and date, a thought entered my mind.  I remember distinctly as I said the date of her birth in my head.  The realization hit me I had given birth to her on October 21^st exactly one year to the day I had miscarried was almost too much irony for me.  I thought of the child I had grieved, and looked at the child I was already in love with after only a few moments.  It was such a bitter-sweet irony to be had on that joyous occasion.

It’s true what they say about forgetting the pain though.  Obviously I remember the discomfort and pain of miscarriage, pregnancy and childbirth, but time allows you to forget enough to do it again.  No different than falling in love a second, third or fourth time when you remember being burned before.  Living and loving requires risk-taking.  It would be five years before I took those risks again to have my second child.  It was no cake walk between the two pregnancies as pregnancy seemed to unleash the full wrath of my unknown condition.  Dang it all though.  Regardless of the cost, I was going to do it again someday though I wasn’t really sure how.

After giving birth the first time, I knew it would take a while for my body to “get back to normal” whatever that means.  I just didn’t realize so many things were going to linger or that new issues would crop up afterward.  I had to continue with supplements long after her birth as the pregnancy had literally wiped me clean.  I was still anemic, I still had high blood pressure, and the pregnancy seemed to spur on new conditions and make old ones worse.  One of the absolute worst days of my life came when I was home alone with my infant baby girl.  Mr. Right had already gone back to work and Libby was about 12 weeks old.  She was still oh, so tiny.  My back had been giving me fits and I was still seeing my chiropractor just as I had done throughout my pregnancy.  There just was no relief, and it continued to get worse.

Home alone one day, I was carrying her and I collapsed.  The pain was so excruciating I wanted to scream.  I have no idea to this day how I managed to fall forward to the ground with her cradled in my arms without even waking her.  I sucked my breath in as hard as I could when I hit the floor, and turned my head sideways to exhale heavily.  I was breathing the pain in and out and trying desperately not to cry.  I laid her down on the floor so I could try to get myself in such a position that I could get up.  I crawled around my bedroom floor to the side of my bed.  I thought if I could at least make it to the side of the bed, I could possibly pull up on it and use the bedpost as a support.  As I raised the upper half of my body, that familiar jolt surged through my body.  I cupped my hand over my mouth to keep myself from screaming and waking my baby.  I literally closed my eyes, looked Heavenward and pleaded for relief.  I didn’t know what else to do.

It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, I had been stricken with such excruciating back pain that I literally went down.  It wasn’t even a matter of something in me hurting and me putting myself down to relieve it.  It was a matter of my legs literally giving way when that pain seared through me.  I just couldn’t for the life of me understand why.  Even at that point, a decade ago, I had been given multiple explanations for the cause of my pain: ruptured disc, pinched nerve, degenerative disc disease, and so on.  While everyone seemed to have a differing opinion on what the cause was, everyone seemed to agree on the treatment.  It was the same story no matter where I went: I would just have to learn to deal with it through pain management.  That’s the best advice a 28 year old mother with a newborn infant could get?  Take pain pills?  Seriously.  Perhaps you can see where the hopelessness of my situation began.  It began right with the people charged to care for me.

That’s when my love affair with Ibuprofen began.  I couldn’t constantly remain doped up on opiates.  I would occasionally take one or two just to get me through the most acute points, and then I would load up on Ibuprofen.  I know it wasn’t necessarily a healthier choice for me.  I can’t imagine the damage I must have done to my stomach and liver all of those years, but I couldn’t walk around in a haze either.  How could I take care of my child if I wound up addicted to drugs?  That just wasn’t going to happen.  So, I invested in Ibuprofen and I sucked it up.

I’ve had to do a lot of sucking it up over the years.  That’s fine.  Each time I have had to go through a round, it just made me that much tougher for the next round.  I won’t lie and say I took each punch with aplomb, but each time I got through it.  I would have my moments.  There have been plenty of pity parties over the years.  There were so many nights I cried and wanted to give up.  I didn’t though.  And as the hits kept on coming, I kept right on sticking it out.  I had no plans to go down without a fight.

Tick Tock

Mr. Right and I were off to a good start.  We’d been together almost two years by the time we married.  We had just bought a house together, were getting bills paid off, and doing well in our careers.  At almost 28 years of age, I’ll be honest and just say my clock was ticking.  I probably could have held off for a bit longer on having children if my beautiful new step-daughter wasn’t living so far away.  I loved her dearly, but I wanted to be able to be a mother daily.  I clearly had that ache and we began preparations right away to ready ourselves to expand our family.

We were quite surprised, but extremely happy when we learned in August of 2002 that we were expecting our first child together.  We’d been married not quite four months when I learned there would be a baby toward the end of the following spring.  I remember going to the doctor for my first ultrasound and being so excited because I could hardly wait to see my little peanut on the screen.  When I went for the initial ultrasound, I was nervous: the new mother kind of nervous that crops out of the deep mother recess that resides somewhere in the female brain.  For the first time in my life I was feeling that overwhelming sensation of being completely and wholly responsible for a human outside of myself.  It was a daunting thought, but the elation always outweighed the fear.

As I readied myself for the ultrasound, I had to breathe deep.  I was in new territory.  I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t know what I would feel.  The techs say nothing to you when you get an ultrasound.  It’s mind-numbingly grating for a person to know the tech knows exactly what she is looking at, for you to have no idea, and for her to give you nothing!  So, I sat and I waited after the ultrasound to be called back by the doctor.  The visit didn’t go exactly as planned.  He asked if it was possible my reported dates were incorrect.  I explained to him I was sure the dates were correct.  He was trying to verify because the measurements weren’t where they should have been.  Based on the measurements, my estimated due date was bumped back a week and a second ultrasound scheduled for the next week.  I was frustrated about the due date being bumped back, but I was excited to have a second ultrasound.  I wanted to see my peanut growing.

The following week, I went into the office for an ultrasound on Monday.  Again, my poker faced ultrasound tech gave no inkling as to how things were looking and again it was maddening.  There was another stop to the waiting room until I could be seen by the doctor.  I could tell by the ultrasound that my gestational sac was still growing, but I was a little worried at that point because I couldn’t seem to find my lil' peanut.  That didn’t sit right with me and I felt uneasy waiting for the doctor to come.  From the moment he walked into the examining room, I knew bad news was looming.  I listened intently as my doctor told me I had miscarried.  The unbelievable pain of those words still haunts me to a degree to this day.  The next few words were a blur as I heard “blighted ovum”, “body didn’t recognize the loss of the pregnancy”, and “D&C”.  That was about all I could make out through the tears and low sobbing.  This baby, this pleasant unexpected surprise, was no more.

My OB/GYN wanted to schedule a D&C because my body was not expelling the futile pregnancy on its own.  The gestational sac had even continued to grow, but it was fruitless.  A D&C was the quickest way for me to work toward closure and get my body prepared for another pregnancy.  The earliest appointment I could get was for Friday.  It was Monday.  The thought of carrying around an empty belly for four more days was almost more than I could stand.  The only other option was to wait and see what would happen naturally.  That was even less appealing.  At least this way, I had a point at which the next step in the grief process could begin.  I begrudgingly took the appointment and waited.

I cried all the way to the out-patient surgery clinic that Friday morning.  I remember arriving and getting ready in the pre-op area.  Time seemed to be moving incredibly slow and I felt like I was in a dream.  All that ran repeatedly through my mind was the thought of how this wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.  And I cried some more.  When my doctor came in to talk with me before the surgery, I began to cry even harder.  I knew time was short, and desperation was setting in.  I pleaded with him.  “But what if we are wrong???”  I was convinced that if I went for another ultrasound, it would miraculously show something different than it had before.  I was absolutely convinced.  

My doctor, God bless him, asked me if I would feel better if we did another ultrasound and I could see for myself that nothing had changed.  I nodded and whispered, “Yes.”  He took me by the hand and led me to the ultrasound room and performed the ultrasound himself right there.  In such a situation, I am certain there was not another physician in the world who would have been more adept at dealing with me with kid gloves.  He understood perfectly my illogical belief the pregnancy would somehow now be okay.  He patiently dealt with my emotions, and helped me do what I needed to do to move on to a place where I could attempt to obtain some peace of mind.  When he called me at home later that night to check on me, I was even more convinced he had to be the best OB/GYN ever.  

The support I got from family and friends the day I learned I had lost my baby and the days forward were nothing short of incredible.  To that point in life, I had felt pain many, many times.  I had never felt any pain like that.  I know the perfect combination of my OB/GYN, family, friends, and Mr. Right got me through the most emotional situation I had ever had to face.  The exit of Mr. Wrong had nothing on the loss of my first pregnancy.  With so much support though, I felt myself getting better day by day.  I was getting stronger emotionally and physically.  So, when I found out only four months later I was pregnant again, I was terrified, but I knew I could weather whatever storm lie ahead.  I just prayed the storm would be the kind related to a normal pregnancy.  I was ready to throw up, have strange cravings, not be able to fit in my clothes, and waddle.  If my miscarriage had taught me anything, it was the rock solid nature of my steadfast desire to be a mother.  There was no doubt in my mind I wanted children more than anything else in the world and Mr. Right was going to be there by my side every step of the way.  Good thing, too because it was going to be a bumpy ride to the welcoming of Liberty.  I guess I should go ahead though and mention she was worth the wait - well worth it.

I did, I do and I will

 

 

Mr. and Mrs. Right on our wedding day in 2002.

When I met Mr. Right in 2000, I was glad he was meeting me 20 pounds lighter than I was months before.  My self-esteem was so in the toilet, I needed any boost I could get in that department.  Although I didn’t have much confidence in myself, I did feel good about the recent weight loss regardless of the unhealthy manner in which it came to be.  (I was also extremely adept at faking my lack of confidence with lots of jokes and a broad smile.)  I had no real explanation at that point for what went so horrifically wrong with my back or what these strange periodic breakouts were on my hands, but I wasn’t having the problem for the moment and figured the back issue was a fluke one-time thing.  I was, for the moment, feeling better physically, and knew the emotional end of things would work themselves out eventually.  I was seeing a counselor to deal with my grief, throwing myself into my social work career, and considering what I might do relationship wise with Mr. Right.

A few months after Mr. Right and I began dating, I was struggling in the relationship.  I couldn’t put a finger on it, but it felt as though something was missing from the relationships.  At the time, I genuinely thought Mr. Right was a nice guy, but I wasn’t feeling that “soul mate” kind of spark.  I remember clearly having a conversation with a friend regarding the future of my relationship with Mr. Right.  I remember quite vividly stating I wasn’t sure if I was going to keep dating him.  The look on her face confused me as she looked at me like I was a complete and total idiot.  She looked at me and said, “So, exactly what is missing?”  I remember stumbling and faltering because I couldn’t find the words to articulate what it was.  Then she began to point a few things out to me.  She asked if what was missing was being abused.  She asked if being cheated on might be it.  She asked if just being treated like crap in general was the thing that would get the old spark going.  It was in that instant, that very precise moment, I realized I was doing exactly what I had always done before.  I was looking for a reason to leave the nice guy who didn’t need saving so I could go find a jerk who did.

It was an “aha moment” like none I’d ever experienced before in my life.  Wow.  Had I really sunk that low?  Was it possible I was really going to sabotage a perfectly healthy relationship because I didn’t feel I deserved to be treated like a human being?  Sad, but it’s really where I was.  I had grown so accustomed to abusive relationships that I couldn’t even function in a normal one.  I know I’m not the only one guilty of this.  Women are the masters of being subservient to people whom they should never let wield such power.  What a wicked contradiction we let ourselves fall prey to.

Long story even longer, I didn’t break up with Mr. Right.  Instead, I got smart and agreed to be his wife when he proposed several months later.  It became official about a year and a half later when we became Mr. and Mrs. Right in my dream wedding.  I’d never been so happy about Mr. Wrong and I eloping as I was the day I said “I do” to Mr. Right.  It was a beautiful day with my family and friends with all the colors of spring in front a Southern antebellum mansion with a gorgeous spray bouquet and a man who I knew, without a doubt, was no mistake.  I felt many emotions that day.  I laughed, I cried, I had my freak out moments when things weren’t going as planned.  One thing I never did was doubt or worry about who I was marrying.  I never believed for a second that Mr. Right would willingly ever do anything he thought would bring me harm.  I knew Mr. Right would take care of me.  I just didn’t know then how much I was going to need that unconditional love.

Trials and tribulations are so much easier to withstand when you have a strong person by your side.  The beauty of that day has never faded in my mind, but it has grown farther away as the days and years have passed.  There have been ups and down, good times and bad times, sickness and health, and Mr. Right’s love and commitment would never waiver.  Despite the challenges I would face in the days and years ahead, for as much as was reasonably possible, I never felt alone.

And Sometimes You Just Go Down

Some of you may be wondering, “Gee whiz lady, what’s any of this stuff really got to do with DDPYOGA?”  Lucky for you, I have a very logical explanation, and it’s a pretty simple one really.  So, here goes…

All of us walk through pain in life.  All of us have had our struggles.  I am 38 years old.  I’ve seen my share of pain in life - mentally and physically.  I’ll never pretend my struggles are any worse than anyone else’s.  In fact, I’ve probably really “suffered” no more than the average person.  What good does it do though for me to say: “Yep, I started doing DDPYOGA in January, it’s great, I love it, you should do it because I notice you are in at least as bad of shape physically and health wise as me.  It will change you.  It will help you” if the person(s) to whom I am making the statement has no clue what brought me to the point in life where I felt it was really time and necessary to make a change.  I think many of us are reluctant to take advice from people we don’t understand or from people whose point of view we don’t understand.  If you can make a connection somewhere through your struggles, I think that inspires people.  If someone can look to my experiences and find some common thread, maybe they will be compelled to make the changes they need to make to live a healthier life.  It is a fact that DDPYOGA has been a catalyst for me in seeking better physical health, but it’s turned into so much more than that.

I decided when I started DDPYOGA back in January I would chronicle my progress via Facebook for a couple of key reasons.  Partially I made the decision to help keep myself accountable, but I also made the decision because I had a sincere interest in inspiring or helping other people who are at the same place I am in life: our worst days are behind us, but we still have to deal with the stress of the daily grind that is a career, parenting children, being a spouse, etc.  When I decided to enter the DDPYOGA Challenge, I felt it necessary to go backwards for a minute.  Sometimes it’s best to start at the beginning.  An inspirational story can only be so inspirational if you don’t start “reading” it until the middle.  I might have been less impressed with Arthur Boorman’s story had I made a wild prejudiced assumption he was some lazy, fat middle aged dude who just woke up one day and said. “I think I’ll try yoga to lose weight.”  With that perspective in mind, I wanted to briefly create a foundation for anyone new to my story so they could understand exactly how DDPYOGA has impacted my life.  DDPYOGA has come to encompass so much more than just my physical health, and this challenge has been a fabulous way to process and think more thoroughly and on a much deeper level about how my past experiences have shaped who I am and how they have contributed to my current physical and mental health.  So my first six posts have covered the first 25 years of my life.  Since you now know I am 38, do some quick math and you will see I’ve only got 13 more years to cover!  I’m hoping you’ll stick it out with me, because if you have found the last several blogs a little depressing, I promise you things will get better!  Well, alrighty then, now that we have gotten all that covered, time to move on to tonight’s actual blog!  Yeah, sorry, there’s more.

…

The irony that I am beginning work on this blog post on Independence Day is a bit cathartic for me.  My last post left off at the exit of Mr. Wrong.  I had successfully asserted MY independence and determined on my own a new course for my life.  I was proud to begin a new career and cut the ties of that horrific relationship.  Despite my new found direction and freedom, I was still depressed.  I had so many lingering questions I knew I would never have the answer to and I think that frustrated me more than anything else.  A lack of understanding someone else’s misbehavior has to be the thing that spins my head out of control more than almost anything else.  It would just have to keep spinning for a while because no answers were going to come.  I needed something positive.  I needed a distraction.  Thank God for good friends and family!

Around the time of my divorce, my mom came up from Florida to visit me.  I think she instinctively knew I needed some “mommy time”.  I don’t care who you are, how old you are or how tough you think you are, if you have a good relationship with your mother or a mother figure, sometimes nothing will make you feel better than a little one on one.  So, it was with much excitement and with great anticipation that I waited for my mother to arrive from Florida.  I had spent some time healing with my STL connection, a new close friend from work, a couple of local girlfriends, and my roomie.  I couldn’t wait to hang with mom. 

Mom arrived from Florida and I was ready for us to get out and have some fun.  Outside of work, I hadn’t really gone out much socially yet or let off any steam.  Mom was ready to get me out of the house and somewhere besides work.  The fun began from the moment I picked her up at the airport and we headed to get some dinner.  I’m guessing our waiter from Chili’s still thinks about us from time to time as we sat for hours eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and making our time at that table well worth him being tied up with us for so long.  We not only left him a good tip, but we had lots of fun being silly with him.  Things were off to a great start and I looked forward to more time with mom and especially more outings.  Our next would be a play.  My roomie was heavily involved in the theater at MTSU and happened to have a show going on when Mom came in to visit.  We decided going to the show would be great fun, and I felt like a teenager running about the house getting ready to go out.  The music was blasting, the vibes were great, and mom and I were ready for a fun night out. 

I had put the finishing touches on my hair and make-up, picked out a cute outfit, and was getting ready to lace up my Doc Martens.  I sat on the edge of my bed, lifted my leg up, and slung it over the bed.  As I reached forward for my laces, I heard what could only be described as a pop.  I was confused as I felt a jolt run through my body.  I had no history of back problems or injuries so I was extremely confused as to what exactly was going on, but felt relieved when the pain began to dissipate after just a few seconds.  I shook my head and went back to the laces.  A few seconds later my phone rang, and I jumped from my bed to run downstairs and answer it.  I answered the phone and headed back for the stairs.

As I moved toward the stairs, something seemed terribly wrong.  The entire lower half of my body was being consumed with a pain like nothing I had ever known and I could literally feel the strength in my limbs leaving my body for parts unknown.  After two steps up the stairs, I collapsed.  My knees buckled, came out from underneath me, and I found myself literally unable to stand.  I screamed in pain.  I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.  I was prone on the stairs and the slightest attempt to move my legs and get myself up sent shock waves through my body.  The pain radiated from my spine outward all the way to my toes and fingertips.  As a child, I accidentally touched an electric fence on one occasion, and that’s the closest sensation I can think of to describe the rolling sensation of pain.  I’m not sure how long I was on the stairs before my mother was able to get me up.  It wasn’t a terribly long time but at least several minutes.  I shudder to think how long it would have taken me to get up from that position had she not been there, but I can guarantee I probably wouldn’t have made the play that night.  I was able to get to my bed.  I rested for a while and downed some ibuprofen.  The night wasn’t going to wait for us and I was determined to push on through.  We made the play, but I had my regrets.  I would up at the doctor the next day and would spend the next few days in bed trying to recoup.  Not exactly how I had envisioned spending the week with mom.

And that would be the very start of it.  From there forward I would spend a decade fighting a pain wracked body that was absolutely consumed by fatigue.  There would be break outs on my hands and my feet, more illnesses than I can begin to enumerate, high risk pregnancies, high blood pressure, and the list goes on.  I have no idea how I would have survived it all had Mr. Right not finally come along.  God bless him.  He’s certainly lived up to his vows.  There’s definitely been a fine mix of sickness and health and good times and bad times.  And he’s stuck with me through it all.  I must be pretty awesome.  I think I meant to say he must be pretty awesome.  It’s true.  He is.  I feel blessed he’s been by my side as I have struggled through the ups and downs of my condition and as I searched for an answer to save me from myself.