Another Oldie, But Goodie, for HARLEY, to celebrate her 23rd birthday!!! (This blog was written on her 10th birthday, back in 2011!)

The birth of Harley was one of the happiest days of my life, and for a lot of reasons. She was planned and wanted so badly. My pregnancy with Harley followed a terrible heartache of losing a baby due to an ectopic pregnancy. Getting pregnant with Harley so soon afterwards, and finding out just 3 days before Christmas was an amazing gift. Rob and I were newly married, so excited to have a baby to seal our family together, and to share in our love for each other. With 3 boys between the two of us already, we desperately wanted a baby girl. Rob was sure she was a girl from the moment I got pregnant. I wanted her to be a girl so badly, but was scared to get my hopes up. She'd been named long before I was ever pregnant. When watching "Pure Country" (that movie with George Strait about him leaving the music business to lead a simple life and falling for a girl named "Harley") before we were ever even married Rob said, "When we get married and have a baby girl, we're naming her Harley." I said, "OK..." not even knowing if that would ever happen, if we would get married OR have a baby girl! But, when she was born, and actually as soon as the ultrasound tech told us it was a girl, her name was "Harley" and that was that! While I was rewarded for 9 months of being sick with Riley by an easy labor and delivery, Harley was different. Instead of being rewarded for once again being sick for 9 months of pregnancy, I was further tortured. After being due on August 3rd with both babies (so ironic to me!), Harley had no intention of coming out anytime soon, so it was decided that I would be induced the morning of August 7th. That was pure torture! After going in at 6:00 A.M., being speared with IV's, and strapped to the bed with a fetal monitor, I was in agony for 11 1/2 hours before Harley entered the world. She couldn't do it easily either. High-maintenance from the beginning, that girl was! Her heart rate dropped with every contraction, and each contraction I had "piggy-backed" which meant I had 2 contractions between each "break". They inserted an internal monitor which they screwed into the top of her head, and I had to lay on my side or up on all fours for about the last 3 hours of the labor in order to keep her heart rate where it should be. When she was born, her cord was around her neck, which explains the heart rate issues. Luckily, she was perfect in every way, despite the grueling labor, and the second I asked, "What is it?" and the doctor said, "I told you it was a girl!" I cannot even begin to describe the joy that surged through me. The first phone call I made was to Riley, the proud big brother waiting anxiously at Grandma Shirley's house. He was the first person outside the delivery room to know that Harley had been born, 2 days after his 6th birthday, and a great birthday present! Harley was the perfect baby from day one. She slept through the night her very first night at home. When I woke up the next morning I was hysterical, thinking she'd died of SIDS her first night out of the hospital! She was fine though, just obviously as exhausted as I was and so glad to be home! She only cried when she was wet or hungry. She was happy, pudgy, and perfect. Until she hit the toddler years... Harley was the kind of toddler who ran across the parking lot the second you released her hand. She ran away in the store and was never where she should be. She was into everything, climbed out of her crib on her own at 15 months, walked her My Little Pony horses through the landlord's fresh concrete, refused to be potty-trained until SHE wanted to, despite knowing how to do it, made messes she didn't want to clean up, and would take her clothes off as fast as I put them on, almost making late for work many mornings. But boy was she SMART! I often tell Harley I realize she has the highest IQ in the house, and I'm not kidding when I say that! The girl was drawing stick figures of the family at 2, writing her name at 3, and reading books aloud, not by memory, but by actually reading the words at 3 1/2! She absolutely amazed me every day with her knowledge and intelligence. She still does today. The last 10 years have gone by so fast! After looking back at Riley's childhood and vowing to appreciate Harley's more, to savor it more, I realize that it's not that I didn't appreciate or savor the time with either of them. Time just goes REALLY fast when you're raising babies and watching them grow. So here we are, 10 years later, and I can remember every single second of the day of Harley's birth like it was only a few months ago. I don't know where the time goes! She will be a 5th grader this year, and it's so hard to see her growing up and not still a "baby". I love that she still sleeps with stuffed animals, plays with her Little People and her dolls and colors and watches cartoons because I know these days are going to soon come to an end. I want to enjoy every bit of the "little girl" stage while I can. Having a daughter is an amazing gift, and one I'm so grateful to have. Harley continues to amaze me every single day, and I could not love her more. She challenges me every day. She's willful, moody, and a complete and total drama queen. But she's also smart, beautiful, sweet, and sensitive. I cannot imagine my life without my baby girl. Happy 10th birthday, Harley Brooke! I love you

A Blast from the Past to Celebrate my son's 29th birthday-This blog was written on his 16th birthday, back in 2011!

The day I found out I was pregnant was a surprise to say the least. On an old episode of "Roseanne" D.J. asks Roseanne what the difference between an accident and a surprise are and she says, "An accident is something if you had to do over you wouldn't; but a surprise is something you didn't even know you wanted until you got it." That's what Riley was: A SURPRISE! Angie was the first person to know I was pregnant, waiting outside the bathroom door while I took the test. But, for anyone who knows either of us, that was probably a given! ; ) From that moment on, I was Riley's mom. Now, of course, throughout those next 8 months I was absolutely sure he was a girl, and I wanted a girl desperately, and being Riley, he kept us guessing and didn't reveal himself at the ultrasound so we'd know for sure. However, the second Dr. Weldon said, "It's a boy!" I was thrilled beyond a belief. The first words out of my mouth were, "Well, my other babies will have a big brother." I later told my mom, "I don't know why I ever wanted a stupid girl in the first place!" I was THRILLED with this absolutely beautiful, smooth-skinned, perfect baby boy with his wavy brown hair and gorgeous eyes staring up at me. While the labor was absolutely the easiest first baby labor I'd ever heard of, starting with my water breaking around 9:00 A.M. and having him 4 1/2 hours later with no meds until the very end when the doctor instructed the nurse to give them to me when he realized I hadn't had anything. Even then I didn't feel like I needed any and he was born within 15 minutes of that shot being administered anyway. However, he was cranky and colicky from day one. He spit up constantly, stained every shirt I owned, and would not let me put him down for even a minute for about the first 3 months of his life. He was going to attach himself to me and there was no choice in the matter for me! But, from then on, Riley and I had that bond, that attachment that only a mother and son can share. Over the next 3 years Riley was with me through a lot of highs and lows, but the one constant was my absolute adoration for him. I took pictures of him sleeping, awake, smiling, laughing, crying, frowning, in the bathtub, in his crib, everywhere, wanting to capture him on film to have forever. He was an absolutely delightful toddler, making up for his cranky infant stage. He didn't have the typical "terrible two's" and I could take him anywhere. He talked to absolutely anyone he could and told them his whole life story, but he was delightful to listen to! He was well-behaved, stood beside me while I put groceries in the car, never ran away, never threw random items in the shopping cart, ate his dinner, went to bed like a good boy, was the most perfect, funny, cute little boy I could have dreamed of. Now, it hasn't always been easy. Yes, he was absolutely in love with his new baby sister, was an adorable big brother to her, and made me smile every day as he went through his elementary years. But he was talkative, ornery, and a little mischievous as he got older. Though I was certain he must have ADHD, I was assured that he was just an outgoing child and would learn to "channel his energy" as he got older. And he did...eventually. About midway through 7th grade, after a conference with his teachers, he turned things around, showed the amazing person he could be, and took on the role of a leader in his class. I had the absolute pleasure of starting my teaching career as an 8th grade teacher the same year Riley was an 8th grader. While some 13 year-olds would dread that, Riley relished in it. We became closer than ever, sharing each day together, laughing at the same jokes, and seeing each other on such a different level. It was one of the happiest times of my life both professionally and personally. Then high school came... High school is a scary place to send your babies! At least for me it is! As a high school student Riley has spread his wings and become more independent. He has made some wonderful choices and he's made some horrible choices. I know this is all part of the growing and learning process. And though it is so difficult to watch your baby fail, to get hurt, to make poor choices, to suffer consequences, to learn things the hard way, that's also part of being a parent. But this has also been a time to swell with pride while watching him play soccer, play football, train for Cross Country, put on a tie for school dances, laugh with his friends, do things on a skateboard I didn't think were possible, grow into an amazing young man who isn't perfect, who isn't faultless, but who is my baby. Today's blog is for Riley, in honor of his 16th birthday, to say how much I love him, and to celebrate the day I first became "mom". By Mamareeves74 August 05, 2011

Catastrophizing, Anticipatory Anxiety, or just a Worry Wart?

I've been a worrier my whole life.  My grandma was a worrier too, so I'm sure that's where I got it.  (Yes, I mean WORRIER, not warrior).  I'd see her worry, so then I'd also worry.  I say a prayer every time we pull onto the highway.  I say a prayer when I know one of my kids, my husband, or another loved one is on the road, heading somewhere, because I'm so scared of them having an accident.  I feel anxious, stressed, and have this feeling of impending doom every time one of my loved ones leaves the house to go any further than across town to get groceries or some other local task.  

According to the American Psychological Association (APA) Dictionary of Psychology, Anticipatory Anxiety is worry or apprehension about an upcoming event or situation because of the possibility of a negative outcome, such as danger, misfortune, or adverse judgment by others. The worry or apprehension is often accompanied by somatic symptoms of tension. The APA describes people who always think that the worst possible outcome will occur from a particular action or in a particular situation as catastrophizing.  Dictionary.com defines worry warts as people who tend to worry habitually and often needlessly.  

I feel like I fit all of these definitions if I am being honest.  Every scenario in my life consists of me imagining the absolute worst thing that could happen.  I think it's because my luck always seems to be bad luck.  If something is going to happen, it's going to happen to us.  We are going to choose the box that is missing parts, get the random defective car battery, the box of nuggets with one nugget missing. No risk factors for an ectopic pregnancy, yet I had one.  No obvious signs of any type of infection, yet I went into septic shock.  So, when we began to plan our first "across-the-country vacation" nine months in advance, of course, I'm going to be concerned that things are going to go wrong.  

Every time we leave the house, I worry something is going to happen to cause it not to happen.  And of course, it's always horrible, gruesome thoughts that I'm imagining; never just a minor inconvenience.  By the time it's ever time for our vacation to actually happen, I might be too stressed and anxious to even enjoy it!  Because then of course, I'm going to worry about the freak things that could happen to us on our way there or while at our destination.

Will one of us get attacked by a shark, stung by a jellyfish, or die from the poison of some freakishly-shaped sea urchin disguised as a piece of seaweed?  Will I somehow fall to my death off our 20th-story balcony, or will a car from our sky wheel ride fall into the ocean?  And that's only if the pier the restaurant we are eating at sits on doesn't collapse into the sea first!  And all of that is if we even MAKE IT to our destination in one piece.  And before we can leave for our destination, we have to have survived ALL NINE of the months leading up to it.  

Maybe it's hard for me to accept that good things are going to happen because they seem too good to be true.  I hear about other people doing all these exciting things, but it doesn't seem real that we could be doing them too.  Checking things off my bucket list has never felt attainable to me; I always thought of a bucket list as a list of the things you wish you could do, but never actually will get to do in your lifetime.  I think now, if I really do make it TO, THROUGH, AND HOME FROM this first bucket list trip, maybe I will see it differently.  Maybe I will actually look at life differently.  Maybe things I never thought were possible really can come true. 

Speaking of Bucket Lists, I'd love to read some of yours!  Please feel free to comment below, and don't forget your name so I know whose bucket lists I'm reading!  Here are the top five things on mine!

 

The Day I Almost Died

Three weeks ago I almost died.  Not figuratively.  Not metaphorically.  Literally.  I LITERALLY almost died 3 weeks ago...and I am still trying to figure out what to do with the emotions I've been experiencing ever since it happened...

Wow...where to even begin...I've been trying to write this blog for almost 3 weeks, but something very strange and unfamiliar has been happening to me each time I sit down and work on it...I'm at a loss for words.  This is not an experience that is even slightly familiar to me because I am NEVER at a loss for words.  Never. Ever.  

Most of us, unfortunately, know what it feels like to see someone we love become ill or pass away.  But, rarely does anyone ever have the experience of feeling their own impending death.  It's an experience I wish I hadn't had.  And I'm discovering that it has rocked me to my core.  I'm not really sure what to do with the feelings, emotions, fears, and thoughts I've had over these past 3 weeks...A lot of my memories of that night are blurry.  Parts are missing, I have lapses in time, and I've also discovered that many of my memories of that night are mirrored.  I have asked my family about the details of that night, and am learning of more and more things I thought were reality, but in fact, are not exactly as I recall them...

I woke up on Thursday, February 29th, and I felt a little blah, had a bit of a headache, but nothing horrible.  I thought it was just the post-exertional malaise (PEM) from a really fun, but busy previous week and weekend.  This is not something out of the ordinary for someone with Long Covid so I didn't think much of it.  However, I woke up at 5:40 A.M. Friday morning absolutely freezing.  I covered up with an extra blanket and burrowed under the covers.  When my husband woke up at 6:30, he took my temperature and it was high, 103.4. I had planned to go out of town with him for an appointment, but stayed home to try to sleep off my headache and fever instead.  

I finally drug myself out of bed around 12:30, took some ibuprofen, and settled into the recliner for the rest of the afternoon.  My headache and fever were both gone by 2:00, and I felt decent other than some body aches.  I was sure I must be coming down with the flu.  I took it easy the rest of the day, and even had a couple of hours where I felt relatively "fine".  Then, around midnight, when I was about to head to bed, I got a bit chilled.  I covered up with a blanket, asked my husband for another blanket and some ibuprofen, and decided to just wait it out before going to bed.  That's when things got ugly.

My husband went to hang up some laundry and my daughter headed off to bed.  I stayed in the living room, in my recliner, alone.  That's when I began shaking uncontrollably.  My teeth were clanging together, I was unable to sit still in my chair, and the shivering grew more and more intense.  I know now that what I was experiencing was rigors, which was an indication of worse things to come.  

My husband came out to see if I was ready for bed and found me in that state.    My breathing was becoming more difficult, and I was becoming more and more light-headed.

I began repeating, "Help me!" over and over as the rigors became more intense, but my husband couldn't hear and/or understand me.  My daughter came out of her room and asked if I was having a seizure.  She is the one who noticed the backs of my arms were blue.  My husband then saw this and noticed my face, especially around my nose and mouth also becoming a purplish gray.  They both told me I needed to go to the ER, and I told them I couldn't.  At that point, I knew I could not walk as far as the front door, let alone get into a vehicle and ride across town in that condition.  They then said they were going to have to call 911, and I said OK.  I had no idea what was wrong with me, but I knew that I needed help.  Immediate help.  

The next few hours are a blur for me.  I know when the EMTs arrived I was in very critical condition.  My blood pressure and oxygen were dangerously low.  My temperature and pulse were dangerously high.  I know they worked on me in the ambulance for 10 minutes before getting into place for the ride to the hospital.  I know I was given a breathing treatment.  I know I was put on 5 Liters of oxygen.  I learned that when they took my temperature at the hospital it was 105.3 degrees Fahrenheit.  I know my lactic acid was elevated.  I know my kidneys were in acute distress.  I was diagnosed with Septic Shock.   

When it was safe to transport me, once my vitals were in a safer range, I was taken to Lincoln where I spent the next two and a half days receiving IV antibiotics, Heparin shots in my stomach, and had labs run multiple times a day.  I was prescribed oral antibiotics to continue at home.  My bloodwork was inconclusive as to what caused my body to go into Septic Shock, so the doctors' theory is that I contracted a virus of some sort, unknown at this time, that caused the entire series of events to quickly unfold.

The unknown is scary.  The fact that I am now more susceptible to getting Sepsis is scary.  Having chunks of time I cannot remember and learning that. things I thought I did remember did not happen the way I picture them is scary.  But the scariest part of all of this are the after-effects that I had not expected to happen.  I had no idea...

Since being discharged from the hospital and being back at home, something is different with me.  Yes, there is the fact that I'm still not feeling well, haven't gotten back to my baseline yet.  But it's more than that.  Emotionally, that's where my struggle is, and I don't really know how to explain it...I am withdrawn, feel very hyper-sensitive and over-stimulated.  I startle more easily.  Some days I want to sleep 12 hours and some days I don't want to sleep at all.  I can feel myself getting annoyed quickly, agitated, less tolerant of others.  I feel very emotional, cry at the drop of a hat...I feel vulnerable, exposed, and very alone and unable to be understood by others because I don't know how to really put into words quite what these feelings are.   

I've been dealing with Long Covid, the loss of my career and life as I know it for 2 years now.  And it's so, so hard...but this is different.  This was fast and unexpected and unavoidable, and it almost took my life in a matter of minutes...and I don't know if these feelings I'm experiencing are common or "normal" for people who have come close to dying or if it's just me...but it's been a rough 3 weeks, to say the least...

Garret

Garret...I have had so many things bottled up in my head since October 8th, that it's hard to even know where to start.  I guess the first thing to tell you is that when you left us, you took a piece of Harley with you.  She will never be the same.  You were her world.  In her eyes, you were the epitome of perfection.  No matter your mistakes or your flaws or the demons you fought, no one ever did or ever could measure up to you.  She loved you unconditionally pretty much from the day she met you.  For the better part of 18 years, it was always you above all else...

Your birthday recently passed...but I don't think there are birthdays in Heaven.  You are forever 22, forever young, forever with so much still left to see and to learn and to experience...I know some people don't believe you go to Heaven if you take your own life, but I do not believe that.  If there really is a God, and I know you believed there is, I cannot believe that He would punish someone who was already hurting and struggling enough to do what you did by not allowing them into Heaven.  

I like to think that Allie came running to you, butt wiggling the way Boxers' butts do, so happy to see you, and you just as happy to see her.  I know that would have been the absolute best reunion to see!

But, gosh, Garret, you are so missed, so loved, and you have left such an emptiness in the world, in so many homes, in so many lives, in so many hearts.  I will never understand how you could do what you did, how all the love so many people felt for you wasn't enough to save you, why you weren't able to see in yourself what so many others could see in you.  You were one of a kind, and you have left an absence in this world that will never be filled.

Thank you for loving Harley the way you did.  Thank you for the laughs this past summer when you were here at the house.  And most of all, thank you for continuing to watch over Harley, for coming to see her in her dreams, and for knowing when she needs it the most.

We will continue to miss you and love you for the rest of our lives...until we meet again...

New Perspectives, Christmas Eve, and Ugly Crying

I belong to a couple of Long Covid groups on Facebook; one is a group called Survivor Corp, which is a great public group to join for information and support if you or someone you know is suffering from the after-effects of Covid.  A woman whose husband has been dealing with Long Covid for almost 3 years recently posted something that really resonated with me.  She said that her husband had attended appointment after appointment with every type of specialist imaginable, and there just weren't any answers or resolutions for his symptoms.  (I know this scenario all too well myself.) She said when they went to see a cardiologist, they were given the best advice of all.  He told them that if her husband had not improved significantly after 4 months with Long Covid, the chance of recovery wasn't very likely to happen.  BUT, he told them that in 2 years her husband would be feeling much better.  He told them it wouldn't be because the symptoms had noticeably improved, but because they would have had time to grieve the loss of the life they'd had, time to grieve the changes and the illness, and would have learned their "new normal" though she said she hated that term.  (As do I at this point.)  She said it really was true; life was better now, after 2 years, than it had been because they'd learned how to accommodate for his limitations.  She said their children had learned that "Dad" couldn't do certain things with them (playing in the yard, going on amusement park rides, etc.).  She said her husband's friends no longer looked at him sympathetically when they saw him with his cane or riding his mobility scooter; that they'd adjusted to the changes and now talk and joke with him the way they had done before he had Long Covid.  That new perspective is something I need to work on for myself...

I have had Long Covid for 2 years now, and I haven't gotten past that grieving stage yet.  There are still days that are so hard I have fleeting thoughts that maybe it would have been better to have not survived Covid than to have had a relatively mild case, but then dealt with all of this for the past 2 years.  I would estimate that 3-4 days out of every 7 days of the week I have tears running down my cheeks while my husband helps me with my personal care and getting dressed because I'm so sad and angry and humiliated that I need someone to help me get dressed every day, someone to assist me with regular, routine tasks, with activities of daily living and even some executive functioning skills.  

My therapist and my disability lawyer have both basically given me the same advice: You can only control your own actions; don't worry about the things you can't control.  Well, I really took that to heart this year for Christmas.  I began my shopping back in early September.  I carefully chose everyone's gifts based on what I knew about them and their personal tastes.  I purchased multiple gift bags and gift boxes to make wrapping easier because I knew it would be exhausting.  I demanded that my husband get our living room remodel finished before Christmas Eve, which I was hosting.  I went all out.  I bought new matching paper plates, napkins, soup bowls, plastic cups, foam coffee cups, sparkly plastic spoons, the works.  I even bought a Christmas dress and "Merry Christmas" leggings.  I went all out in ways I never had before, and I have been hosting a "Soups and Snacks" Christmas gathering for the past 17 years!  I was controlling the things I could, and I wanted everything to be PERFECT.  And, honestly, it was. 

And then I paid for it.

On Christmas Day my head was pounding and I had dizzy spells throughout the day. I was completely exhausted.  The week between Christmas and New Year is a blur.  I honestly don't even remember those 7 days, and I didn't leave the house for 13 days following Christmas.  I was exhausted; mentally, emotionally, cognitively, physically, I was completely drained.  

This past week involved some ugly crying too...Thinking about school starting back up prompted me to think about what I would have done in class on that first day after break.  I started thinking about how I would give them Bell Work, with directions projected on the whiteboard.  

"Write one paragraph sharing your favorite part of Christmas break.  

Write one paragraph sharing your least favorite part of Christmas break.  

Write one paragraph sharing anything you'd like me to know, any topic you choose.  You do not have to share aloud in class, and no one will read them except me." 

I would then have used the rest of the class period to let students who DID want to talk and share things do so, using it as a speaking, listening, and asking appropriate questions lesson (which is a 6th-grade standard).  As I talked about it with my husband and daughter my longing to be teaching came back with a vengeance.  It's a physical ache in my chest, that longing to be in my classroom, to be with my kids again, to feel their energy and excitement.  I miss laughing every single day because of things my kids said or did.  I miss that feeling that I can't even describe in words when their faces light up because something "clicked" and they are learning and understanding and are developing the passion for reading and writing that I have.  There is nothing else in the world that feels the way it felt to teach and to see my kids LEARNING. 

And that's when the ugly crying happens...when I allow myself to feel the grief of no longer teaching...