One.

I remember that morning.  Walking downstairs, pulling out the last pregnancy test, and for my own peace of mind, peeing on it.  The results read positive immediately as the liquid soaked across the strip.  I had never gotten a positive.  In our almost ten years of marriage, and countless test, there had never even been a possible hint of a second line.
My whole pregnancy, I resisted the urge to take more test. Just to see it again. I wondered if I'd ever have another positive test, or if we'd go back to 'unable to get pregnant.'  It didn't end up mattering because we made the permanent decision after things went horribly, to prevent any future pregnancies.  The risks for my life and our sons were too much for us to take again.

That test. That one and only positive pregnancy test, it resides in my underwear drawer. I still look at it occasionally.  I try to figure out how I feel about our whole journey.  It's such a mixed up thing that I can't think on it too long. Most of the time.
But, even with the aforementioned permanent procedure, I know there's still a small possibility.  Occasionally, things will play out and I'll get anxious enough to take another test.  And, every time, despite logical me wanting it to be negative, I whisper, 'Be positive, be positive.'

For a long time I refused to call myself infertile.  And, I certainly didn't struggle with my infertility.  It just was. We were content with our children being adopted.  I had long since stopped wondering what it might be like to have biological children.  It didn't matter to me.
The whole and honest truth is that in the parenting, the day in and day out stuff, it doesn't matter. They're all amazing, and silly. Maddening, hard, and wonderful.  They each come with their very own set of incredible gifts and challenges for us as parents.

So my longing is separate.  My longing is for that of feeling like I finally belonged as a woman.  I didn't feel excluded before so my words may be hard to completely understand.  But, it's the best I can do with the words I have available.
If I'm completely honest, it's the longing to redeem the things I feel like I still missed out on.  Asher never had hiccups in utero that I felt.  He never woke me up moving or kicking.  The further along I got, the less I felt him move (likely from his small size, my ample fluid, and his low muscle tone).  The birth. Even if I could just be awake and have my husband in the room, that would be enough for me.  To hear his first cries.  To see him still connected to me through his umbilical cord.

So I keep that test.  I moved it to our new house.  Jason asked about it.  He thought it seemed weird.  And, a little gross.  It is.  I know this.  I hope that someday I'll be able to just take a picture of it, and throw the actual plastic test away.  But, for right now, I need it.  I need it tucked in that drawer, reminding me, that even if it was only that one time, I didn't carry the label of 'infertile.'  And, when my heart longs to do it again, as it occasionally does, I can look at it, hold it, and grieve the way things went. I can wonder for a bit if things hadn't gone so wrong, if we might have gotten to experience it again.  Then, I can tuck it away safely, with all of my other hopes for what I wanted things to turn out like, wipe the tears, and move on with my new set of hopes and dreams.

There was no healing.

We recently got the official news that Shilo will not be able to walk independently.  It wasn't a surprise.  And, we're thankful to have something concrete so that as we work to make our house as accessible as possible for her, we can keep this in mind.  The cause is likely extended intubation brain damage.  It's more complex than that, but that's the best way to explain it. 

 

 

I recently sat in on a speaker, sharing with mothers an inspirational story.  The gist of it was that her son was sick, and it took much longer than it should have to figure out the diagnoses.  By the time he was diagnosed, he was at great risk of permanent damage and death.  He spent four days in the hospital.  And, he miraculously completely recovered.  No lasting damage.  Completely back to himself.  Everyone around me had tears running down their cheeks.  All glory was given to God.  He is so very good, after all.

I remember so many times in Shilo's first year where I wondered when our happy ending was coming.  I mean, we did what we were called to.  We stepped up and adopted a child that society saw as less than.  Surely we deserved great rewards.  Certainly God would show up at any time, and prove how very proud of us He was.
But, he didn't.  There was no miraculous healing.  There were hard days and nights.  There continue to be hard days and nights.  And, to really finalize the memory of those three months inpatient, we have the daily reminder of her inability to walk. 
I'm certain no moms group will be inviting me to tell her story.  It's a story where things were hard, then got harder.  It's a story about a life of a child with a disability, that has had diagnoses upon diagnoses added to her medical files.  It's a story where God does not show up in a grandiose way.
It's also a story about a little girl that completely wrecked us.  And, continues to.  That little girl smiles through blood draws.  She hugs me every day when I pick her up from kindergarten.  And, she changes the hearts of everyone she meets.  I don't mean that lightly.  I'm convinced her smile originates in the depths of her soul, and passes joy on to everyone around her. 

 

 

I don't need a big grand healing.  I need the daily dose of grace, reminding me that He is indeed sufficient.  I need the conversation with God where I ask the hard questions and He just silently whispers to keep asking.  Even if it's for the rest of my life.  'Grace upon grace, my daughter,' he reminds me, even when there are no answers. 
And, I need to share her story.  Our family story.  About how there were hard things, then some more hard things, and currently, there are hard things.  All that we have the ability to do is walk through those.  Perhaps our story makes it much easier for others around us to relate to us.  Perhaps the hard stuff is simply a result of living in a world where things are just not perfect. Through it all,  we will continue to give all glory to God.  He is good, after all.







Posing.

These are a few pictures from our vacation that I love.  Playing in the sand. Kite flying.  Wearing her puddle jumper and goggles despite the fact that she never went anywhere deep enough to need either in the ocean.  They're real.  They make me smile as I remember how fun it was.  How relaxing it felt.

While we were there one night, a family arrived at the beach.  All of them were wearing nice clothes. The mother walked into the water, and started posing, as the father took pictures with his phone, while giving instructions of how to turn to get her hair to flow more, and her chin in just the right position. I continued to play with Abigail while taking in the family.  They did rehearsed videos of walking and holding hands, acting surprised when a shell was given, and numerous takes of each person to get just the right angle and picture.  All on cell phones-so they weren't professional pictures.  I have no idea what their reason was.  Nor, am I saying that there may not have been a legitimate reason to do this.  It just struck me as intriguing as I watched all of the other families capturing pictures as their children ran into the ocean with boogie boards, built sand castles, and looked for shells and creatures on the beach.  I couldn't figure out why they would need to work so hard to capture perfect pictures when the beach is an amazing way to make perfect memories.  The whole thing has stuck with me.

The past weeks have been filled with appointments.  Mostly for Tiny.  Although, Big's MRI and oncology follow up for her glioma was in there as well.  Overall the appointments weren't horrible.  But, we've been bombarded with information.  Some suspected.  Some a complete surprise.  And, as we officially started the process of genetic testing for Tiny today, I recalled all of the times people have said, 'well, he looks normal.' 
My thoughts skipped to the church we belong to.  It's full of people who are a hot mess (spoiler alert, all churches are).  But, they're all so willing to share their mess.  It's a beautiful image of what the body of Christ is to be.  So many places, everyone looks the same.  They talk the same.  They pepper their language with how great God is.  All the time. 
But, the body isn't made up of parts that have it all together.  It's made up of my daughter with an extra chromosome who uses a wheelchair.  It's made of people who have been addicted.  People who have had abortions.  People who hate others.  People who need glasses to see clearly.  When all those parts connect, and work together, it's just a big jumble of imperfect.  There are hard conversations about forgetting to make things accessible for people who use wheelchairs.  There are sometimes hurtful things said to one another.  Everyone shares in the mess, the same way our physical bodies sometimes have parts that don't work well with others. 
There are other places like ours.  I'm sure of it.  There are also lots of places that look like the family at the beach.  The ones who say, 'well he looks normal.'  As if saying, 'I know we are all imperfect.  But, at least we can pass for having it all together.'  It's a badge.  Only post the great pictures.  The uplifting stories.  If you share something hard in your life, make sure to follow it with, 'but, I know that God is good.'

But, we want so badly to look normal.  Churches.  Families.  Individuals.  We pose.  We take the same picture adjusting the angle over and over until we have the ones to post that looks just right.

The truth, we're all broken.  When we go to the beach, we get sand in our bathing suits.  And, if you live here for long, you are going to experience hard things that make you question things about faith, and God, and those around you.  You're going to realize that the people who try the hardest to look 'normal' are just as broken as the one who is noticeably a mess.

We're a mess.  Our beach pictures.  Our home.  Our children's chromosomes.  Our faith.  And, if sharing our journey, honestly, helps one other person be brave, it's worth it.  I have found it's much more fun to just enjoy the beach than to dress up and pose.  Sure, there's more sand, and possible sunburn.  But, the memories are pretty amazing.
 

casting and such.



At the end of October, we took a few day family trip to Brown County state park to play at the indoor water park, and enjoy the outdoors a little.  It was our last water hurrah before tiny got casted.  I have wanted to thank the many people who helped make it possible for us to go.  We were thankful for this time together.  It turns out, it had been a long time since we had gotten to just spend time in nature as a family of five.  As little has gotten bigger, and still been unable to walk, we've stepped back from some of the things we love doing, like hiking, to find activities that work better for all of us.  It was so refreshing to get outside, and even have areas that we could use her wheelchair.  The pool was zero entry so both her and tiny could easily play independently.  There aren't often places we go as a family where it feels like everyone enjoys the activities, but this was a wonderful rare exception.
Of course, we came home, and tiny got casted a few days later.  Shilo got sick, and we finally found out that she had a parasite (where or how she got it is unclear).  Tiny got sick, and was tested for diabetes.  He did not have it, but his blood work was really wonky so we ended up being referred to endocrinology.  They did more blood work.  More wonkiness.  We go this coming week for a more precise test-and hopefully some answers.  Big had her follow up MRI and oncology appointment.  Her tumor is stable, and we get to wait six months before we have to do it again.  Little had an abnormal spinal MRI that we met with neurosurgery about, and we have two more test before we decide what to do with it from here.   And, little continues to have severe bowel issues despite the fact that all test point to the parasite being gone.  So, as always things have remained exciting in our home. 

But, the pictures from our trip are a great way of ending with the fact that our lives, despite the chaos of medical, are often a lot more like others, than not.  Thanks again to all those who helped us in many capacities to get to enjoy our few days away!

 

 

beautiful view.

water play

enjoying the ball

her snake, killer.

if you're happy and you know it.

teaching her the art of selfies.

an adventure while the littles napped.



one of my favorite moments from the trip.

swimming in the big pool.

sliding.

swinging.

more selfies.

grumpy face. 

family selfie.



the last bath before his cast. 



first cast, and elephant with a  cast.

 

 

this is their personalities.

on the way home, he fell asleep eating m&m's.  can you spot it?

second cast, done.  elephant as well.



Advent

Advent.  The season of looking forward.  Expectation.  Excitement.  Anticipation. Celebrating.

No matter where I am in life, it always feels like there is this relentless hope that accompanies advent.  Remembering that Christ came like He said He would.  Hoping for His return.  The whisper of reconciliation that makes people believe that things might just be set right at any moment.

The next few weeks are calm for us.  The appointments are done for the year.  The presents are (mostly) bought.  School is on break.  We get to sleep later.  Tiny turns two. We see family.
But, January is working to overshadow.  It looms, just in the distance, reminding me of all the lingering questions.  The neuro-surgeon consult for Shilo.  The endocrinology consult for Asher.  The MRI and oncologist appointment for Abigail.  And, once that's over, we start February with Asher's second Mehta casting. 

For the past year, medical stuff has been relentless.  It's been a tag team of appointments, and new diagnoses, surgeries, and big questions. It's been a year of unexplained chronic bowel issues for one child, and new bowel issues for another.  Literally, my days are filled with a lot of shit.  And, despite the extra stuff, the regular things didn't show mercy.  We still had therapies.  And, homework.  Dishes. Laundry.  My kids still felt like they needed meals and snacks.  Books read, and snuggles. 

My whole being said enough months ago, and yet, there was more.  And, I didn't even realize how far I had gone into the darkness, until I sat in my house one Friday, desperately planning a way out.  So I nervously, and bravely, sat in my doctor's office the following Monday.  She, being the incredible doctor, and person that she is, was compassionate and empathetic.  And, we talked over medicine.

Last night, big and I went shopping together for a few things.  We spent the whole time laughing really hard.  People staring at us sort of laughter.  It had been a long time since I had laughed like that.  It was beautiful.  And, freeing.  It reminded me of who I was before.  I'm not sure when before was.  A specific day.  Or week.  A month.  An event.  But, there was a before.  One where I wasn't enveloped in darkness.  I'd forgotten that it existed because it had gone away so slowly, and so fast.  Like time seems to do.

So, as January tries hard to surround me, as future works to draw me back into a dark place, I finally have help.  I have an advent in my life.  It brings with it hope and the belief that things may just all be okay at any moment. 

Words.

Words are kind of my thing.  I have always loved reading them.  I've always been sensitive to harsh ones.  And, I have always clung to the ones that I find beautiful, uplifting, and kind.  There's nothing that lets me know I'm loved like words.  These are all the words that are sitting next to my bed right now that people wrote about me.  Some of them likely don't even know I've hung onto them and read them over and over.

One of the many things I have anxiety about is going places with my children without my husband.  It isn't because of the utter chaos it is going to bring.  That's just how our family does life.  It's because of all the words, the fear of words, and the knowledge that strangers are going to say things to us.  Most of those things are innocuous, although sometimes slightly annoying.  Like when I'm carrying both of the younger children into a store because I can't push Shilo's wheelchair and a cart at the same time and someone says, 'wow, you have your hands full.'  Yes, I literally have my hands full.  Thanks. 
But, often, they are not.  I have been called a whore multiple times because I have children of different races.  People ask things about adoption that aren't appropriate such as, 'why didn't her mom want her?'  Or, people say things like, 'What's wrong with her?' about Shilo.  Or the time a man tried to preach the gospel to me so he could invite me and my colored child to his Bible study for colored people.  He really liked colored people, but didn't tolerate the loudness and foul language they use. Or even seeing someone I know from the past who says, 'you have ANOTHER kid?'  Or, the woman who explained over and over to me one time, 'I just wouldn't be able to love somebody else's kid.  Don't worry, you'll have a kid of your own someday.'   
As a result, before I go out into public places by myself with my kids, I have to talk myself through what to do if others use words that are hurtful.  It might sound silly, but the times I've been affronted, I have been caught off guard, and didn't respond.  So I go through scenarios.  Words.  Responses.  I edit and re-edit them so my children will hear and see that it is okay to not allow people to treat us wrongly, and do it with grace.  I take deep breaths.
When I'm out, I'm so caught up with caring for my kids, 'kind and gentle hands' 'I need you to leave the groceries in the cart' 'you need to tell Shilo no if you don't like her touching you' 'stop chewing on (grossest thing you could ever find) it's not food.'   And, I'm never ready for the words.  Never. 
As much as I want to forget them, as I want to give people the benefit of the doubt, they stick with me.  They embed in my heart. They exacerbate my anxiety.  So much so that I recently realized that I've just stopped going places very often.  It's too much.  It's physically hard to do things with a very active toddler and a child in a wheelchair.  The lifting, carrying, getting the chair in and out, it wears a girl out.  But, not so much so that it might keep me from doing things.
The words though, they have done it.  They have made me not want to go new places, or do new things. They have me avoiding storytimes because of a specific person, and one of the library branches because of someone who works there. That's not okay.  Please think before you judge.  And, if by some chance you make a snap judgment, as we're all prone to do, keep it in your head.  Leave it there.  Feel free to go on believing it if you want.  But, whatever you do, do not say it out loud to the person you're judging. It's your issue.  Not theirs.  I promise you, from experience, they have enough of their own.

My drug of choice.

I took this self vow that I would live more honestly.  If someone said, 'How are you' I would respond honestly.  Most days that means, 'I'm struggling.'  I would tell people I have anxiety.  I would show people our home, even if it's messy.  I don't want it to be for pity.  It's not pitiful.  It's life, and sometimes it's really hard.
This new habit hasn't been without a lot of heartbreak.  Lots of people love the realness.  They appreciate hearing that other people are struggling.  But, some people see the opening of vulnerability as an easy in.  It's not always intentional.  But, when I share my struggles and someone responds with how it's a spiritual deficit, a parenting deficit, a spousal deficit, and just about every other area of my life, it makes one want to retreat.  Don't get me wrong.  I am deficient in all those areas.  I could make you a whole freaking list of where I fall short.  But, my hope in being real isn't to shine light on my sucking at things.  It's to shine light on how everyone feels not good enough.  And, if we can stand together and say, 'yeah, me too' our shortcomings are much less scary.  There's hope that maybe we aren't as big of failures as we sometimes feel.

This week we found out that Asher's scoliosis has gotten worse and we will begin casting to try to straighten his compensatory curve, and prevent his congenital curve from worsening as quickly to prolong surgery.  We found out that he does indeed have a bar opposite his hemi vertebra guaranteeing both that the congenital curve will get worse, and that he will need surgery to correct it at some point.  I LOVE having a definitive.  I hate what it is.
When he is casted he can not take a bath, or be in water.  I'm glad we're starting it going into the winter.  But, the boy loves baths.  The two weeks prior to casting are fall break so we're planning a trip to an indoor water park for a few days (the mid-west in October isn't conducive to outdoor water play).  We like to try to do things to balance and redeem the hard. 

I've been in avoidance mode since the appointment.  Constantly checking facebook (despite the fact that I'm trying to take a break from it), e-mail, reading articles, anything I could find to fill my mind with fluffy things.  I'm not interested in the countdown in my head.
So this evening, as I was making dinner, I wasn't that surprised to find myself fighting tears.  I know where it ends every time.  I don't know why I don't just allow myself to process it, work through it, and move forward.  Everyone in my home would benefit from me changing this habit.  I don't get much done.  I don't spend much time actually focused on my kids.  I just escape.  Distraction is my drug of choice.  It numbs things.  It's free.  Nobody else knows. 

 It, like other drugs, is temporary.  It doesn't actually change reality.  Eventually, I have to lay down in my bed, and all the things are still there, flooding my head.  Vying for my attention.  Preventing me from the escape I'm hoping for.  Just closing my eyes for some hours.  So I turn on mindless television, and fall asleep to that. 
It works for a few days.  But, at some point I'm doing something that demands me to not have a screen in front of me.  And, I lose it.  Fall apart.  I desperately clamor for a way to go back to numb.  But, it's too late.  So I wade in.  It's deep.  Thick.  Hard to make it through.  And, it's all just compounded with all the other shit that was already there.  Perhaps some day I'll be strong enough to just jump in from the beginning.  I'll join all the other brave people getting dirty.  I'm there today.  The people with me are much kinder than those voices that tell me I can escape things.  They remind me that I'm strong, and brave, and I can do hard things.  And, I can be real about how much doing hard things sucks sometimes.  This is one of those times.