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Surviving

If My Body Makes You Uncomfortable… I Will No Longer Apologize

*Warning* This is long, and involves some emotions and scenarios that may trigger strong feelings – but that is understandable, since my journey has been long and has created a lot of intense feelings, as well. 

If My Body Makes You Uncomfortable… I will No Longer Apologize

I put on a dress that is more form-fitting than I remember, and I turn in front of the mirror, looking at myself from all angles.  I ask my husband if I’m a little too this, or a little too that, to pull it off.  He says, “You look beautiful, but if you don’t feel comfortable, you shouldn’t wear it.”  He holds my gaze for a moment longer than is necessary.  Oh.  I have raised a red flag, and we both know it.

We’ve all got our own beliefs, and our own unique relationships with food and our bodies.  We’ve all got some trauma – I don’t think any of us are immune.  After the “red flag” dress incident, I did a live master class with the coach of a program I’ve been involved with for the past few years and I came to understand that the two psychological blocks that I still struggle with most when it comes to accepting my body are, “I’m too sexy” and “Authority figure”.  During the master class, one incident came through to me loud and clear.  I relived it as though it had just happened:

It was the summer after my Freshman year of high school.  I was meeting up with some friends and was wearing my absolute favorite outfit: White overall shorts with black folded up cuffs that had little flowers on them, their blossoms turned toward the sun.  White FILAs with black trim.  A white cropped shirt with a high neck – I guess it would be called a ¼ turtle neck if there ever was such a thing – and ¾ sleeves.  It was the mid 90’s, so best believe my bangs were teased a few inches up on top of my head and I had on a mess of earrings and a necklace or five.  When I wore that outfit, I felt like I could conquer the world.

Someone who loved me and who I truly believe had my best interest at heart, stopped me and said, “If you keep walking around like that, one of these days you’re going to get raped and no one is going to feel sorry for you.”

At that point I had never told a soul, but I had already been raped two years prior, when I was twelve.  She had no way of knowing that, and her comment was not meant to be cruel.  But she knew something I also inherently knew – that girls who are raped aren’t always looked at as victims, but as seductresses.  One of the reasons I hadn’t said anything was because I was afraid, first of all, that no one would believe me.  But the hard and undeniable truth about why I stayed silent is that I believed that in some way, I had deserved what had happened to me.  I was afraid that, deep down, I was a bad person and that God was somehow punishing me. 

Now that I have children of my own, I panic when I try to figure out where that thought came from.  Do my teenaged babies have similar thoughts?  How long had I been grappling with that, so that when the 18 year old brother of my friend raped me, I thought less about what the hell was wrong with him and more about what I could have done to deserve it?  It might have been a seed planted by my Catholic Grandmother, who threatened eternal damnation with the slightest out of turn behavior.  Or maybe it was because I had erotic dreams at what felt like a young age – the first I can remember was in the fourth grade.  Good girls don’t have those kinds of dreams, do they?  Not in polite society, they don’t.

I wanted to be a Good Girl, worthy of Good Love.  I never wore that outfit again.

I remembered that incident, but I guess I never realized what a profound impact it had on me.  Looking back, I completely changed the way I dressed after that.  Photos from that time period would show that I was almost always covered up.  I remember buying a pair of size 10 jeans and deciding they were the perfect fit for my size 0 body. 

After the master class, I’ve let my mind wander to incidents throughout my life where those two psychological issues have come into play.  I meditate every morning, and so they tend to start flowing then, and progress throughout the day, like a flashback montage from a sitcom. 

Over and over again I see it: The message that I need to make sure I don’t make others uncomfortable with my body, or with my muchness – the thing that makes me, ME – and if they are uncomfortable, it is my problem and I need to solve it.  I am a people pleaser at heart, and deeply empathic, so you can imagine how easy it is for me to see when I make someone uncomfortable.  By their facial expressions, their eyes, their body language… and of course, by the words that come out of their mouths – well intentioned or not.

Here are a few of my stories.  The stories that shaped my view of my Self and of my Body.  I don’t tell them in order to shame the people in them, at all – I understand, so deeply, that we all have our own beliefs, and our own body and food traumas.  I know that they strongly influence the way we look at ourselves and the way we interact with and view others.  I share these because I have to believe that I’m not the only one. 

I can’t be, can I?

** In the fifth grade, my favorite female teacher pinches my chin and turns my head this way and that.  She tells me that with my facial structure, I could be a model someday.   I am over the moon.  It’s the first time I recall that someone suggested that I was pretty.  At my dad’s office Christmas party, one of his co-workers asks me that standard adult question for children they don’t really know: What do I want to be when I grow up?  I lift my chin and say I want to be a model.  The adults around me laugh, and one says, “Oh honey, modeling is for tall, pretty girls.  You should really focus on something you can study.”  Oh.  My face falls and I look at my feet.

Years later, when I’m asked to do some modeling and appear in a few commercials, I always enthusiastically agree.  I enjoy every moment of the work, but I never accept payment for my time.  I tell them that the experience is enough for me.  Somewhere, deep down, a voice whispers, “You are worthy!” But I know that only tall, pretty girls should get paid for that kind of work.

** I am a Sophomore in high school and one of my best friends writes “Ho” next to my name on the inside of my Science textbook.  I ask her why she would do something like that.  She tells me she’s just irritated at me, always walking around with a self-satisfied smirk on my face.  I tell her I don’t know what she’s talking about – what self-satisfied smirk?  She says she can’t quite explain it, it’s just the way I walk around.  She apologizes for writing that in my book, but says that sometimes, there’s something about me she just can’t stand.  Oh.

If one of my best friends can’t stand me, how must everyone else feel?  So I try to shrink smaller and get quieter and be less irritating and look less self-satisfied.  I try to make sure my smile never looks like a smirk. 

I look in the mirror and wish I knew what it felt like to be self-satisfied.  I ask my reflection, but she is as clueless as I am.

I become a very, very good listener and at parties, I’m always the sober one who makes sure everyone is safe.  My senior year, a friend tells me I’m not invited to a sleepover we were planning to go to the next weekend.  I ask what happened and it turns out, the host doesn’t really like me.  She told my friend, “I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I feel like she just doesn’t have any personality.  She makes me uncomfortable.”  Oh.  I have gone too far, and now I have disappeared, entirely.

** At nineteen, my significant other nicknames me, “Fat Ass”.  Our friends all laugh because he’s obviously joking – I weigh only 98 pounds.  But he is not joking.  I’ve always been a picky eater, but the things I absolutely detest are mustard, pickles and BBQ sauce.  Anything spicy makes me feel like my mouth is on fire and I can’t breathe.  So, he makes food that should never be spicy, spicy.  Mashed potatoes so spicy that even our friends who love hot sauce can’t eat them.  When we grill, I beg him not to spice mine.  Our friend catches him putting extra pepper on my steak and says, “Hey, isn’t that Dre’s?  She didn’t want it spicy.”  He laughs and says that’s why he’s making mine the spiciest.  If I’m having a sandwich, he puts mustard on it.  If we’re having chicken, it all gets doused in BBQ sauce.  Pickles get put on every plate, extra on mine, so that the juice soaks into my food.  Eventually, everything I try to eat at home either makes me gag or is so spicy that I can’t swallow.  Work becomes my sanctuary, because I can eat lunch without him ruining my food. 

On my 20th birthday, I weigh in at 93 pounds.  I don’t know that I can get any smaller.

We get a new computer and scanner, with dial up internet.  He decides to make me a present with his new toys.  He sneaks into the closet while I’m changing out of my work clothes and takes a photo of my Fat Ass.  When I turn around, he acts as though he just wanted to say hi and welcome me home.  It is the 90’s and we’ve never heard of a digital camera or smart phone – in order to see that photo, he has to fill up the rest of the roll of film, drive to the local Walgreens and wait to get the film developed.  Then, he scans the photo onto our computer and searches the web for photos of models with the nicest rear ends.  He downloads them, one by one – via dial up internet.  This is a significant investment of his time.  He arranges them just so on the screen – a blown up photo of my Fat Ass in the center, fully surrounded by gorgeous women, each with a Nice Ass for comparison.  He prints it, wraps it up, and presents it to me at dinner.  He says I should hang it up in our bedroom for inspiration.  “You’re welcome!” he says, smiling.  He seems very proud of his handiwork. 

I don’t say thank you.  I don’t know how to say anything.  I go to bed hungry, again.

We have a party and I hide in our room, crying.  I can’t live like this.  We go to couple’s counseling and he only attends the first session.  He believes that since he’s happy and I’m not, it’s me who needs therapy.  When I decide to leave the relationship, he is devastated and tells everyone that it came out of nowhere.  Our friends call me a bitch for breaking his heart – he’s such a great guy, how can I be so heartless?  I’m afraid that eventually, I will kill myself if I stay, and the thought terrifies me.  It doesn’t matter, though, because he is the one with a broken heart. 

They have a bonfire and burn all of my things. 

Later, when I fall in love with a mutual friend of ours, I take him to lunch so that he hears the news from me, first.  He laughs and tells me, “You’ll never keep his attention.  You’re too bookish and anyway, he’s so fit and you’re, well….” He gestures to the food on my plate.  Oh.

** I am 26, and I guess I have managed to keep his attention.  We are married and have our first child, a baby girl.  I’m able to stay at home with her and she is the center of my universe.  I have never experienced such bliss.  We join a mommy and me play group and go once a week.  My daughter has so much fun.  I know I don’t quite fit in, but I try.  After a few months, one of the ladies I’ve made friends with asks me to lunch, and I can tell she has something on her mind.  I ask her if there’s anything she’d like to talk about, thinking maybe something is wrong.  There is.  She squirms in her seat, looks away from me and begins to speak, “The other ladies in the group asked me to talk to you.”  I take in a breath and say, “Ok.  What’s up?”  They don’t want me to come back.  There’s just something about me, they’ve agreed.  She looks me in the eye and says, “You’re just so…” she gestures at me with her hand, up and down.  “You know?  It makes them uncomfortable.  I’m so sorry.”  Oh. 

I know she really is sorry.  It doesn’t hurt any less, though, especially when my little girl doesn’t understand why she can’t see her friends.

** I’m in my early 30’s now, with two delightful children.  Our youngest has been sick a lot since he was very small.  I’ve had a hard time recovering from the hemorrhages I experienced after his birth and I don’t know it yet, but the 7 pints of blood I received during emergency surgery are wreaking havoc on my endocrine system.  My husband and I are struggling to connect.  I plan a surprise trip to Las Vegas for his birthday, and invite along a couple who are good friends of ours.  In the weeks leading up to the trip, I’m helping my mom clean out her closet and come across a sparkling red dress she’s planning to get rid of.  She’s quite a bit taller than me and a few sizes bigger, but the dress just calls to me, so I try it on.  The way it fits makes my nerve endings tingle and I know, with some alterations, this dress will be a stunner.  For the next two weeks, I spend nap times altering the dress in secret.  The more it takes on my shape, the more excited I am to surprise my husband with it on his birthday. 

We are staying at the Bellagio and have dinner reservations at a nice restaurant on the ground floor of the casino.  My girlfriend and I get ready in our room, and the guys get ready in theirs.  She does my make-up and hair, which has never been my strong suit, and I slip on the dress.  She steps back and says, “Oh, Dre.  You have never looked more beautiful.”  I look in the mirror and can’t help but agree.  We step out of the elevator to meet the guys and I see the shocked look on his face. 

I smile so hard my face hurts. 
I do a little twirl and by the time I have spun back around, the surprised look on his face has become something else.  I feel the color drain from my face as I see, first, a look of horror and then one of disgust.  He leans toward me and hisses into my ear, “How could you do this to me on my birthday?  Everyone will be looking at you, and they’ll all think I’m here with a hooker.  Did you even look in a mirror?”  I can’t get words to form.  This was not what I expected.  Before I can respond, he looks at his watch and says we’d better go, or we’ll be late for our reservation. 

At first, we walk together in front and our friends follow behind us as we make our way across the casino toward the restaurant.  I try to keep my head down, but he is right – heads are turning.  People are looking.  I cross my arms across my chest and try not to let my tears fall.  I can feel the hostility rolling off of his body.  Finally, he decides to walk in front of me so that people can’t see me coming.  My sweet friend walks closely behind, to shield me as best she can. 

Once seated at our table, she reaches underneath to squeeze my hand, and while the guys are looking at their menus, she mouths to me, “I’m so sorry”.  I quickly choose an entrée and excuse myself to go to the restroom.

I head straight for the door, and as soon as I am out of view of the table, my shoes are off and I am running full speed across the casino, one arm across my chest.  People are certainly staring now, but I don’t care.  I take the elevator up to our room, trying so hard to fight my tears.  I rip off the dress and throw it in the garbage.  I wash the make-up off my face, let my hair down and change into something else – anything else.  I honestly can’t even remember what.

When I get back to our table, he still won’t even look at me, until my friend says, “Oh, how’d you do that so fast?”  Seeing my change of clothes, he looks relieved.  On our way out of the restaurant, he puts his arm around me and says, “Thank you.  This is much better.”  Oh.

We decide to go to counseling and he is reluctant at first, but eventually begins to share.  He says he is terrified of losing me.  It never occurred to him that I could die until I hemorrhaged after our children’s births.  It made him realize how much he had to lose.  I say I can understand that.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I might die, either.  It certainly wasn’t part of our plan.

He confesses that he’s also afraid some man who likes books and the theater might swoop in and steal me from him.  I ask why this is suddenly an issue, more than 10 years into our relationship.  He says that before, he thought I was a 4 and he was a 10, and why would a 4 cheat on a 10?  He never thought he had anything to worry about. 

I am stunned. 

He tries to backpedal, to explain that he was just young and dumb, and NOW he realizes I’ve been a 10 all along.  He says that really, it’s a compliment because he thought I was just beautiful on the inside and now he knows I’m beautiful inside and out.

It doesn’t feel like a compliment.

He says, “I just need you to help me, please.  I can get a handle on this if you can just help me feel secure.”  I have always told him that there’s nothing we can’t get through, as long as we get through it, together.  So, I agree.

At first I gain 5 pounds, and then 10.  Soon it’s 15 and finally, 20.  It’s not enough.  People still look at me.  He needs them to not look – just until he feels more secure.  I dye my hair dark brown and stop wearing contacts, only glasses.  The clothes I buy for my new size are loose and shapeless, and I fill my closet with a sea of black, grey and brown.  I get into the habit of dressing like a hobo most days, and it lasts a very, very long time.  I only wear make-up when we’re going somewhere together.  I stop making eye contact with strangers.

Eventually, I stop making conversation with the grocery store clerks that I have known for years.  They give me gentle looks of concern, but don’t push.  I feel so alone.  One night I am lying awake in bed as he sleeps beside me.  In the shower that morning, I couldn’t recognize the feel of my own body beneath the soap.  I begin to panic and a voice deep inside me whispers, “What have I done to myself??”  He rolls over and wraps his arm around me.  He snuggles his chin into my neck.  He sighs and whispers into my ear, “You’re perfect.”  Oh.

I try so hard to stay his version of perfect.  But I am suffocating my Self in what feels like someone else’s skin.  I can save this marriage if I stay and become someone else, but I know that if I do, I will lose my Self forever. 

There is no turning back. 

From all sides I am told to Stay. Stay. Stay. But this cage is just so small and my Self just does not fit.  In the end, I choose to set my Self free, and all I can do is have faith that she will find a safe place to land.

** I have a new job, and I’m incredibly excited.  It’s such an amazing opportunity for me.  My boss texts me and asks what I’m wearing, and I tell her.  I’m touched at how thoughtful she is, texting to make sure I’m comfortable.  I spent an hour picking out my dress, and I feel beautiful, stylish and confident.  She asks me to send her a photo, and I do.  She tells me she approves, and informs me that I will need to send a photo of myself prior to going to work, anytime I’ll be in contact with customers.  I ask her why.  She says she needs to make sure I don’t look too sexy – that men tend to look at me, and she’s concerned it will upset their wives or girlfriends and we’ll lose customers and sales.  She doesn’t want me to make anyone uncomfortable.  She just can’t risk it.  Oh.  My shoulders drop and my confidence seeps into the cold floor beneath my feet. 

** I’m at an industry event with the man that I love.  It’s winding down, and people are heading home, but the band is still playing.  A new friend and I are cleaning up, and find ourselves dancing to the last song of the night.  She is sweet and kind, and I’m thrilled to be here with her beneath the starlight.  She tells me I look fabulous in my dress – just stunning, really.  I smile and laugh.  We feel connected.  She grabs my hand and twirls me around, and says, “I’m so glad my husband isn’t here!”  I look at her quizzically, smile and say, “Why?”  And she responds, “If he saw me dancing next to you, he’d never want to see me naked, again!”  Oh!  Oh.

** I’m serving a group of women, and we have a wonderful rapport going on.  We are vibing, big time.  The room is getting busy, and so I step around the bar to pour for them and one of them comments on my outfit.  I thank her – it’s one of my favorite thrift store finds and I always feel good when I wear it.  I step back around the bar and can tell that they’re discussing me.  I find myself a task that takes me out of hearing range – I don’t know that I need to hear what they have to say.  On the next pour, another woman in the group says, “You look so amazing!  I want to ask for your secret, but I don’t think I want to know.  I just love living life too much.  I could never have the kind of dedication it takes to look like that.  Life is too short not to enjoy it!”  Is that what I look like?  Like I don’t enjoy life?  Oh.

** I am 39.  I’ve been living with Rheumatoid Arthritis, an Autoimmune Disease, for several years now, but I’m still in the throes of processing my grief.  I’m handling the disease naturally, so I manage my symptoms and flare ups through my gut health, and that means a very strict diet.  I’d say, in the stages of grief, at this point I’m firmly in the denial phase, with bouts of anger. 

I don’t understand why my body has turned on me – on itself.  Sometimes I punish it by eating things I know will cause it pain, and that makes absolutely no sense at all.  It is me, and I am it.  But I do it, anyway.  This malfunctioning, broken body is the physical manifestation of the young girl I banished to the dark and empty basement of my heart, so long ago.  The woman I continued to kick every time I made another person uncomfortable.  Why couldn’t she just be the Goldilocks that everyone was looking for?   Why did she always have to be so MUCH?  Her Muchness has always been just TOO much. 

I realize now, that for my entire life, I absorbed message after message, telling me that my body was unworthy of love and acceptance – that I was unworthy of love and acceptance, unless my poor body found a form that made everyone comfortable. 

Everyone but me.

I commit to healing my mind, body and spirit and it is the most incredible journey of my life.  It takes a lot of time and dedication, but I begin to heal my body traumas, and learn to stop punishing myself so harshly.  I begin to understand my own journey.

On day 3 of a 5 day water-only fast, I ask my body why it turned on itself and caused itself such pain.  It answers so clearly that it feels etched eternally in stone, “My love, my heart, my spirit.  I was only following your example.” 

Oh. Oh no, oh no, oh no.  What have I done to myself?

In that moment, my head buried in my hands as I sit on the Earth, my body empty and pure, I feel suddenly at peace.  I, who had long ago walked away from God, and religion and the church, feel the unmistakable presence of my Creator.  Suddenly I feel intensely comforted as though I were a newborn child, lovingly cradled in my Creator’s arms.  The world looks so beautiful from here.  A gentle voice whispers, “You are perfect.”   I take the deepest of breaths… Oh. 

Even so, it takes some time to start truly believing it.

** I’m 43, now.  I have been doing an awful lot of work on myself.  My kids fear that my full-grown hippie wings will be sprouting any day, now.  My grief has progressed now to acceptance, and I feel like I’m teeter-tottering on the edge of the newest stage of grief, recently added to the 5 stages by a protégé of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross: Purpose.  I listened to an interview where he discussed the major decision to add on to Kubler-Ross’s ground breaking grief research and he said that if he hadn’t experienced the death of his son, he never would have known that a final stage even existed beyond acceptance.

Purpose.  What is the purpose of my disease?  Well, it’s certainly taught me A LOT about myself, and about what my body does and does not like.  I feel like my body has been whispering to me for the entirety of my life, but I’ve ignored it.  Sometimes maybe because I’m being obstinate, but most of the time because I’ve trusted other people’s whispers or shouts over my own.  In truth, that happened a lot of the time because I truly can’t help but want others to be happy and comfortable. 

I ignored myself until my body screamed bloody murder, but I don’t do that anymore.  We can whisper again, now.  Because I have finally accepted that my happiness and comfort doesn’t come last.  It never should have, but I didn’t know that.  I just wanted to be a Good Girl, worthy of Good Love.  What I’ve finally realized is that I, too, am worthy of the kindness and compassion that I was so intent on showing everyone else, all this time.

And that’s what THIS is all about.  This very long and drawn out story about my body, and whether or not it makes other people uncomfortable.  Someday, I hope a very long time from now, my joints will be so twisted that I won’t look like myself anymore.  I won’t be able to walk, or hold a pen, or maybe even type like I am now.  I may not be able to feed myself.  I don’t know what my smile will look like, or if I’ll still be able to laugh without it causing pain.  I try not to think about that future.  But I do know that some people will look at me like that and feel uncomfortable.  And that is not my problem.

When that day comes, I don’t want to look back and wish I’d loved my body, and appreciated it for what it’s done for me.  I don’t want to look back at pictures and see how I hid myself and my accomplishments, how I hid the beauty of my body in case someone found this magnificent work of art uncomfortable.  I want to look back and know that I honored it, that I loved it, and that I allowed it to be loved. 

My body was created, lovingly, in my Mother’s womb.  Just as my children were created in mine.  What an incredible miracle life is.

This beautiful body of mine is a glorious gift.  And every time I hide it, feel ashamed by it, or treat it as though it is not good enough, I am rejecting that gift.  I am telling my Creator that it is NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  And I will not do that anymore.  I don’t want you to do that, either.

And so, If My Body Makes You Uncomfortable… I Will No Longer Apologize. 

I won’t shrink, or hide, or cover up, or divert your attention, or try to show you how smart or funny or worthy of respect I am.  I won’t be self-deprecating in order to help you feel better about yourself, or your beliefs.

It has taken me so many years to realize that if my body makes you uncomfortable, if *I* make you uncomfortable, just by being myself, it’s not about ME.  It’s about you, your beliefs and the culture you subscribe to.  I will no longer try to ease your discomfort because that is not my job – it’s yours.  Your discomfort is your own body, mind and spirit’s way of saying, “Look inward!”  So, I will no longer rescue you from that discomfort, even though it’s my nature to ease the suffering of others.  I won’t save you, but I’m certainly here and willing to help you along in your journey.

These are some of my stories.  There are so many more.  I’m not asking for sympathy.  I’m also not trying to vilify anyone – if you see yourself in these stories, I’m not judging or shaming you.  I’m happy to talk with you, if you’d like.  If you feel strong emotions, I invite you to look within and examine the beliefs that led you there.  And then you get to decide – do you want to keep them, exchange them or get rid of them?  I also invite you to share, as you feel comfortable.  Because I know I’m not the only one, and neither are you. 

We are all such beautiful creatures.  It’s about time we celebrated – don’t you think?

Categories
Allergies Health and Nutrition Kids Parenting Special Needs

Both Sides of The Fence

Note: I realize this topic gets people riled up – all I ask is that you read to the end before commenting.  Thank you!

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I’ve kept my mouth shut and my fingers still as the vaccination battle has raged and burned anew here in California and elsewhere across the nation over the past several weeks.  I’ve read articles, observed heated debates, seen some people show compassion and others spew hateful venom.

I read the heartfelt plea for parents to immunize, penned in the 1980’s by beloved author Roald Dahl who lost his young daughter to the measles in 1962.  My heart hurt when I saw photos of the infant infected with measles by unknowingly being in the waiting room of a doctor’s office with an unvaccinated child whose parents didn’t know what was wrong.

Sitting silently here at home, I felt empathy for both sides of this passion-filled argument because I am a mother who is not at all sitting on the fence between the two – I occupy both sides at the same time.

My eldest child is fully vaccinated and my youngest is not.  With a family history of having severe reactions to high doses of medications, ~ For example, I went into anaphylaxis from a large dose of Benadryl at age 5, and ever since, have been allergic to the medication doctors give in order to control allergic reactions.  Irony, anyone? ~ I chose to break 11 year old Ali’s immunizations into one and two dose applications over a series of appointments when she was little.  Sure, it meant more trips to the doctor and more co-pays, but her doctor, who had also been my physican for a number of years, agreed that it wouldn’t hurt, especially if it calmed my worries and kept her safe.  It seemed to be a very reasonable compromise between vaccinating and not wanting to harm my child with overexposure.

When Blythe came along, our insurance coverage was with an HMO that would not allow me to break up the inoculation schedule.  I offered to pay for the office visits myself and even the vaccinations, if necessary, but they refused.  When I then said I would take my two month old baby to see our former doctor and just pay out of pocket, they wouldn’t let me leave.  By the time they finally coerced me into allowing them to give her the full set of shots, the room was filled with several nurses and every pediatrician on staff, all of them telling me I was endangering my child.  Although they never threatened to call child protective services, they let me know that they all felt my parenting was not only questionable but negligent.

On that day, I allowed medical professionals to bully me into ignoring my maternal instincts, and I have made sure to never let that happen again.

The problems that began shortly after that couldn’t be directly tied to the vaccinations at the time.  Blythe was fussy and had a weird rash, she had screaming fits, her body would tense up and her eyes would bug out, but then she would be fine.  The doctor’s office said she had colic and eczema, and when the majority of the symptoms faded after a week or two, I felt okay about letting them give her the full course of shots.  Crisis averted, I was just an overprotective mother worrying for nothing, right?  Little did I know that her Central Nervous System had reacted to the preservatives in the vaccines and was on the verge of waging war on my sweet baby’s body with the slightest provocation.

I delayed Blythe’s second set of immunizations by a few weeks because we were celebrating my 30th birthday with friends and family, and would be traveling.  At 5 months old she was still having occasional screaming fits, but was otherwise a healthy, happy baby, developing on or ahead of schedule in every way.

And then.  I took her for her second round of vaccinations and our world spun upside down, around and in any possible direction other than right side up.  It remained that way for the next three years and I lived every moment of every day with the knowledge that I allowed my child to be injected with something that acted as a catalyst for more pain, more heartache, more turmoil than a child ~ any child, mine or yours or that kid over there, even the one who acts like a complete asshole half the time ~ should ever have to endure.

My point is this: We all love our children.  We want the best for them, to keep them safe and healthy and happy. The great majority of us would never knowingly do anything to cause harm to our babies.  Only two percent of the population has an adverse reaction to vaccinations, most of them mild, and that is an amazingly low rate, especially when we consider how many people, scores of them children, died or had long term complications from the illnesses that these vaccinations not only protect against, but have nearly eradicated in our modern world.

But.  But…  When your child is in the two percent; when it is your child whose body is tortured every day from within and there is nothing you can do to help or soothe; when your softest touch brings her pain; when her health problems increase with regularity and a flu that any other child would get over in 24 hours is life threatening; when she reaches an age where she can speak and describes the way she feels as being on fire inside; you can’t help but relive that moment in your mind – that moment when you held your happy, healthy baby on your lap and watched her get her vaccinations ~ created to keep her healthy! ~ and as much as you want to, with every fiber of your being, you know that you can’t take it back.  You can’t travel back in time and do it a different way, or not do it at all, because even that would be a better choice than this living hell; you just watch your child live with the pain.  And you?  You live in fear because danger lurks everywhere, threatening to take her from you without a moment’s notice.

Close your eyes for a moment and imagine that life for your child, and for yourself, and before you come back to reality, take a deep breath and be thankful that your child is among the 98 percent.  You don’t ever want to know what it’s like on the other side.

If you were to meet 7 ½ year old Blythe today, or for those of you who know her, to just observe her now, you would never suspect that she is the child I described above.  Believe me when I tell you that I gave the slightest, most gentle description of what life was like for her.  For us.

B face

Blythe is among the few who have been able to make a full recovery, after some other underlying health issues were discovered and managed.  She is, once again, the happy, healthy child I held in my arms so many moons ago.  In the years now that she has been well, I have made sure to thank my lucky stars on a daily basis for this opportunity to have a second chance at keeping her healthy.

I’ve wrestled with the choices several times over the past few years – should we take a chance and try to inoculate her again, now that she’s healthier, older and stronger?

Would it be safer for her to have a known thing – the vaccinations – in her allergist’s office so that we could hopefully deal with the possibility of anaphylaxis quickly enough to keep her health from plummeting back down into the abyss?

Or would it be safer to hope that she won’t come into contact with the illnesses the vaccines protect against and not risk purposefully pushing her into that fiery inferno that we both remember so well, that still haunts our dreams, even now?

But here we are with a measles outbreak.  Blythe is still unvaccinated and is at significant risk.  Her half-sister is three months old, too young to be vaccinated, and we have her to think about, as well.

I can see both sides of the argument.  The protective mother of a child who medically could not be immunized rages at the fact that parents who chose not to vaccinate for non-medical reasons have allowed our herd immunity to break apart in such a way.  I am relying on you, village, to help protect my child and you are doing a shitty job of holding up your part of the bargain!

On the other hand…. I do know what an adverse reaction to vaccines can bring.  I have seen it and lived it and watched my child suffer, and wished a billion times that I hadn’t let her be fully immunized that day.  If I had known what could happen, ~ what could really, really happen ~ to my child, I would have feared it, too, more than anything I’ve ever feared in my life.

Which brings me to my final point.  Blythe and I, along with the other parenting figures in her life, have decided that she needs to be vaccinated.  At this point in time, the risk of catching and/or spreading a life threatening disease is too great.

Can I take a moment to tell you how wonderful and brave my 7 year old daughter is?  And can I also tell you that for the past few weeks, as we’ve discussed this choice amongst ourselves and with her doctors, I have not been able to take a full, deep breath because my heart has taken up residence in my throat?

I am terrified.  I know what can happen.  I didn’t read it in an article or see it on television or hear a story about someone’s roommate’s brother’s friend’s baby.  I saw it with my own eyes and lived with it.  And yet, we are going to vaccinate our child because it’s what’s best for her, and for the rest of the population.

Talk about taking one for the team.

For those who have not vaccinated out of fear of what may happen, or because of previous adverse reactions, please know that there are Pediatric Allergists out there who have developed allergy tests for each and every vaccination.  Blythe will undergo an allergy test prior to every inoculation, which will be administered in the allergist’s office, one at a time.  If the tests indicate an allergy to any one of the traditionally used vaccination formulas, though, we still have options!

Organic vaccines with no preservatives (which are what cause most problems) are now available, and although they can be quite expensive, an allergic reaction to the test means that insurance companies must cover them.  They are mixed and kept on ice as they are overnighted, and must be administered within 24-48 hours of their creation.  Today, right now, in this privileged, scientifically advanced world we live in,  there is no reason for healthy children* to remain unvaccinated.  Research and find a way.  If I can do it, you can, too.

When I broke the news to Blythe that the allergist’s office could absolutely get her caught up on vaccinations and could also make certain she wouldn’t have an allergic reaction (as opposed to attempting to treat a possible reaction), she gave me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, threw her arms around my neck, and together, we cried.

Of all the tears we’ve shed over this battle in the past 7 years, at last… we are crying tears of joy!  The world is finally hers.

B back

*I specified healthy children because there are some with medical issues and compromised immune systems that would not be able to handle immunizations of any kind.  These are the kids we need to help protect!

Categories
Life in general Surviving

Always Ok

Here it is December, and while I set a goal of writing one post per month in 2014 and even decided to try my hand at 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo in November, I can say with fervor that I failed those goals.  I can’t even find the time to write one article per month for our local monthly publication which has generously offered to publish anything and everything I decide to write, as long as it fits into their word count needs for the month.  In 2014, they only published one article of mine, because that’s all I managed to submit.

So much has happened.  I got married in June (whoa!!) and 6 days later, so did my ex.  They’ve since had a baby, a little girl who is now three weeks old and I got to hold her and smell her lovely baby smells at less than 24 hours old.  My mom mentioned later than when she heard how much time I spent holding this sweet little girl who is the half-sister of my daughters and yet, technically, nothing to me, she worried that maybe it hurt me, somewhere inside.

Maybe it should have?  Perhaps when I held her, I should have searched for similarities between my daughters and this little baby and felt bitter about my ex-husband having another child with his new wife while I’m left unable to bear more children.  But I didn’t feel that way.  In the moment, I felt so grateful that they welcomed me into their hospital room and allowed me to be a part of this monumental moment in their lives.  I felt so much love for that little life, the sister that my daughters will grow to love and cherish.  And then, weeks into having her home, I had to smile as I listened to my ex describe sleepless nights and be thankful that it’s him and not me.

Sometimes, I worry that my military upbringing has taught me too well that when we move on, we move on in every aspect – physically, mentally and emotionally.

Should I be happy holding my ex-husband’s baby without any angst?  Is that normal?

This past Monday, we had to put our Dobie boy down.  His name was Hank.  I’ve written so rarely that I don’t even know if I’ve properly expressed how much he has meant to me, the last two years.  Over the past week, we’ve talked about how we shouldn’t be so upset, because he’s “just a dog”.  But he wasn’t just a dog.

How can I tell you how soft and velvety his ears were?  Dobies almost always have their ears cropped, but none of the 4 homes who adopted our Hank before us cropped his ears, and I was so thankful.  He had the biggest, dopiest smile.  He was such a love.  We had him in our tasting room every Saturday, and most Fridays, and even those who disliked big dogs,  or Dobies in particular, fell in love.

He loved to run the vineyards and his nose detected even the faintest hint of deterioration in the wines we had in barrel.

He was more than a dog.  He was the child we could not have together.

But over the past few months, his behavior had gotten to be questionable, at best.  We hired a dog behavior specialist (something you should consider being, if you want to make lots of money – seriously) and he said that with 50 years of experience, he had never encountered a dog like ours.  Not terribly promising, I must say.

He used to love playing with other dogs and then suddenly, he couldn’t.  He used to sleep through the night and then without warning, he wouldn’t.  Instead, he would just pace and poke us as we slept.  Finally, a friend mentioned that a dog he’d had in his youth had had a stroke and displayed similar symptoms, and so we made an appointment just days before our (delayed) honeymoon to get Hank’s brain scanned.

He had a tumor on his frontal lobe.  It was growing rapidly, which explained his discomfort and how unpredictable his behavior had become.

So, we put him down and I’m OK.

I’m Ok and I feel guilty for feeling Ok, because no one else in our family is Ok.  Hank was such a part of our daily lives.  He was the one who kept me from pressing “snooze” every morning; the one who chased down rogue balls on the golf course; the one who taught us to accept his adoration and love as though we deserved it.

I don’t know how to mourn properly.  I have lost so many in my lifetime.  I only know how to celebrate today, and those who occupy my mind even years after saying good-bye inspire me to reach out and make contact, but I’m always Ok.

I’m always Ok.  Is that Ok in the grand scheme of things?

Categories
Life in general Surviving

Second Chances

When a caterpillar wraps itself up in a cocoon and the world goes dark and still around it, does it know what the future holds? 

How does it feel to lie there, completely alone, and sense yourself changing into something you’ve never been, while still yourself on the inside?  Fondly remembering the past, the only life you’ve ever known, but accepting the inherent truth that you no longer belong there.  The light must be blinding, when it’s time to come out and show your new self to the world.  How rapidly your heart must beat as you cling to the wood beneath your feet and feel the wind rustle your fragile wings for the very first time.  How long does it take you to build up enough courage to trust those beautiful wings to carry you to worlds you’ve never imagined?  I wonder, lovely creature, will you ever truly realize your fantastic beauty and all that you are now capable of, or will you spend your life believing that you are nothing more than a caterpillar?

—–

I had the rare opportunity to witness a butterfly emerging from its cocoon this past weekend, amidst the fervent beating of hummingbird wings.  It was incredible, especially when, as we checked its progress over time, we realized that the fuzzy thing still inside the cocoon was actually a new caterpillar, who emerged from the other end over the course of the day.  I didn’t know they did that!  New life, from both ends of a cozy cocoon.

My mom told me recently, without me having mentioned the butterfly to her, that it’s time to lift my head.  When my former life fell apart, I spun myself a cocoon and shut out the rest of the world.  I didn’t know who I was, or who I was going to be.  I didn’t know how to explain why I needed everything to change without causing hurt, so I just didn’t say anything.  I hid myself inside that cocoon and began my transformation, not knowing what form I would take, or how long I would need. I just knew it was necessary to my survival.

The funny thing is, I emerged from that cocoon some time ago, experiencing the world close around me, but refusing to fly away from my safe and cozy place.  Had I witnessed that newborn butterfly trying to crawl back into its empty cocoon, I may have said, “Silly butterfly, you can’t fit back in there, now.  It’s of no use, you’re no longer a caterpillar.”  But there’s no telling exactly how long it takes a butterfly to realize what it has become.

I have such a wonderful, amazing new life.  One I never could have dreamed for myself.  I have experienced so much joy, growth, contentment and peace as I transitioned. 

But there was a part of me, possibly several parts of me, that were terrified to take flight.  I have these beautiful wings and the world is opening up before me, but what if I’m just a caterpillar?  What if these lovely adornments on my back are only an illusion?  Or worse, what if they are real, but I’m not worthy of them?

I have only mentioned him here once, the man I share my life with.  In a way, I’ve also weaved a cocoon around my love for him in some effort to protect it.  His name is Nathan.  He’s been there, patiently waiting for me, from the moment we met three years ago.  He has never minded that I move at the pace of a caterpillar carrying wings on its back.  But as I took each step, he told me stories of the way my wings dazzled in the sunlight and fluttered in the breeze.  He believed I could fly, long before I’d even thought it was possible, but he never pushed me to take flight.  In time, he helped me to not only see myself as he does, but to finally take a good hard look at my own reflection and accept all that I have been, all that I am, and the possibilities of all the things I may one day become.

I took my mom’s advice and lifted my head.  And you know what I realized?  I was already soaring above the ground.  But I was clinging to the remnants of my cocoon, carrying it with me, letting it weigh me down and keeping me from fully embracing my life and all of those who are in it.

So I let it fall to the earth below and flew freely, utterly and completely, for the very first time.

Categories
Life in general

Good Leaders Aren’t Bossy

There’s been a lot of talk lately about the word “bossy” being used to describe assertive, successful women versus the word “leader” for men with the same qualities.  Personally, I have never called a bossy person of any gender a good leader, nor have I called a good leader, man or woman, bossy. 

The difference between someone who is Bossy versus someone who is a Leader, in my opinion, is the respect that they do or do not show and/or give to their supporters.

I am a natural Supporter – for lack of a better term, I often refer to myself as a “Beta”, the person who directly supports the Alpha.  In a wolf pack, the Beta is usually the Alpha’s mate and she is given an equal amount of respect by the pack as the Alpha, because they recognize her role as one of importance.

But for us humans, as women in leadership roles balk at being called Bossy, I’d like to give my perspective on the rarely recognized role of Beta, or Supporter, or as the masses often call us: the pee-ons, worker bees or followers.

On the slope of a wooded hill near my home, the sun rises each morning and silhouettes a Pine tree that towers majestically above the rest.  It stands tall and straight, its limbs swaying gently with the rhythm of the breeze.  From here, on the opposite hillside, the pine appears to be the King* of the Mountain, surrounded by his subjects.  Over many decades, he somehow managed to get more nutrients and sunlight than the rest.  Even as the tallest and biggest tree, he withstood storms, floods, droughts, parasites and myriad other forces of nature, continuing to thrive even as others fell around him.

Why?

Pine afar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From afar, he appears to stand alone, greater than the rest.  In truth, he is superior because of what lies at his base.

Pine up close

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is tall and wide, rough and rigid, powerful and stoic.  His Queen*, his Beta, is a Manzanita.  She is petite and svelte, smooth and curvaceous, strong and resilient.  Long ago, they were each faced with a choice.  He could have used his might to dominate their shared space so that she could no longer grow.  She could have given up or grown in another direction, as the Manzanita sometimes will.

Instead, the beautiful solution they created allowed them both to flourish and share each other’s strengths, creating a lifelong, symbiotic partnership.

She will never tower above the others or be the first to feel the sun’s nourishing light, but she doesn’t need to – because he does.  When the wind comes whipping through the forest and his strength is put to the test, he doesn’t have to worry about his roots giving out – because she is there, keeping their foundation solid.  There are patches of her soft, silky bark growing on his trunk, and his pine needles are draped over her long and winding arms. 

To sit benePine & Manzanita Danceath them and be surrounded by their comfort is one of the greatest joys in my day to day life.  I am inspired by their tenacity, their acceptance of their natural roles, and their ability to be at once so dedicated to their mutual goal of survival and so respectful of each other’s inherent character.

In my mind, a great leader finds his or her Beta, whether it be a mate in personal life, an assistant or “right hand (wo)man” in professional life, and treats that person (or people) with the respect that they deserve.  Recognizing that alone, goodness can be achieved, but together, true, long lasting greatness is possible.  When such an amazing partnership is formed, other people want to be a part of it, crave to see it succeed, and delight in “following” their leader.

I used to try to be an Alpha, but for years now I have been a proud Beta.  I am an innate Supporter, and in that role – both in my personal and professional life – I thrive when I’m able to collaborate with a good Alpha and use my creativity, intellect, wit, attention to detail and quiet, nurturing nature to make magic happen.

I will always happily work with a good leader, but I refuse to work with someone who is bossy – whether they be man, woman or child.  Because I may not be an Alpha, but I won’t tolerate being walked on or disrespected.

How about you – are you an Alpha or Beta?  Do you think there’s a difference between being a Leader and being Bossy?

* I’m calling the Pine a He and the Manzanita a She because I spend a great deal of time with them and I feel that those “gender roles” are accurate.  However, I do feel that the Alpha and Beta in any relationship can be either male or female.