Spirit

Mike and got married, quite quickly, right before he left for his third deployment. We became pregnant with our oldest child almost immediately after getting married (quite possibly even our wedding night). Literally five days after discovering we were going to have a baby, he left to go to Iraq. I was in a new state, a new city, a completely new lifestyle, and a thousand changes were coming at me a mile a minute. My best friend left. Back in those days, there wasn't the internet in Iraq. There was very infrequent phone calls. The main mode of communication was snail-mail and even that was sparse and somewhat unreliable. Don't get me wrong, it was nothing like WWII days, but it wasn't the same as how things were when we finally left Iraq for good.

Everything in my world was changed. My entire life plans, my entire life everything was completely turned upside down. I was never "supposed" to be able to get pregnant. I was far from every single person I knew. So much so that I called a local church, and a sweet, sweet woman (who didn't even know me) came with my to my first doctor's appointment. 

I am a Bryan Adams fan. I like his music, a lot. I had heard he did the soundtrack for a movie about a horse, Spirit, and without ever hearing it I bought it. This music spoke to my heart in every way. It conjured up images of my husband and played, musically, everything I was feeling. Adventurous. Like a fighter. Broken. Trapped. Forsaken. In love. This music gave me courage. It made me braver. I had no idea at the time, how much courage and bravery I would need in the months to come. I had no idea...

While listening to Spirit, Lolli was growing away in my body. Every single time I played the music, she would kick and become incredibly active. The only other time she was equally as active was when I played Chief's recorded voice. I thought that she liked it. My sisters and my mom, would tease me and say I was crazy. And I'd just shrug my shoulders. 

We hadn't listened to that music in at least five years. I sort of forgot I even had it. Then all of a sudden Lolli found the CD and asked if we could play it. I laughed and said I used to play that all the time when Chief was deployed right after we got married. So I turned it on. She danced and sat still and listened to the entire album. Now, if you know Lolli, she loves to dance, so that didn't surprise me much, but she doesn't usually sit still for an hour listening to music.

Then when she got sick, she would ask for me to play Spirit. In particular, she would ask for one song called "Run Free" on the Spirit album, which was my favorite of all the songs. Yes, it's heavily synthesized and I wish it was actually played with an orchestra instead of keyboards, but the music brings up something in me. Apparently it does to Lolli too. She told me when we were on the way to the hospital that this song was "our song" and that if either of us ever feel lonely or afraid we should listen to this song and remember that we're not alone. 

This is her song. She loved it in my womb and she loves it now. It makes her light up. It makes her smile. As I'm sitting here writing this, she is currently humming the tune and running around with her brother. 

Maybe I wasn't crazy after all. Maybe that music really did have the ability to console two scared human beings, who both wanted Chief to come home alive and well. Maybe it didn't just give me courage. Maybe it gave my growing child courage too.

Aloe

I'm not good with goodbyes. In fact I'm horrible at them. I become a bumbling mess of complete emotional chaos. Truth is, if you know me, you know that I hate emotions that are sad. I always want to be cheerful and upbeat and happy and silly. I want to make jokes and I want to laugh. So when goodbye rolls across the dinner plate and I am actually faced with a situation where there are no jokes and there is no humor...

If I'm honest, I'm the biggest coward I know. I've spent an enormous amount of my life grieving something. I've spent an incredible amount of time trying to forgive the demons that have gone bump in my life. I've worked so hard to walk away from  the waterfalls of tears and to move my psyche to a place of joy. Life is too short to cry. I swear I've cried so much for so long that I just don't want to do it anymore.

But you... You're forcing me to go through it, over and over again. You're forcing me to say goodbye when I don't want to and you keep forcing me to hurt. And I don't understand why. I don't understand why you bring these people into my life and you make me love them with every fiber of my very self and then you move them away or deploy them away or you take them away. I don't understand. And it hurts. And it makes me cry. And it makes me feel so small and so helpless.

Sitting here in my beautiful marriage, my home, with my children and watching the people that I love as part of my self hurt so much is like daggers. I would trade my self to make them feel better. I would bend over backwards to make them laugh. And you know how hard I try to make them laugh! How hard I try to bring even a small amount of joy to their hurt hearts. Because comforting them is maybe some retroactive way of knowing that no one will ever feel what I have felt in my life. All the hurts I've endured alone... All the tears I've cried alone.

Everyone thinks I'm so strong. I'm not strong. I'm a walking basket case that's probably one more damned goodbye away from having my heart ripped out of my chest. Loving people hurts. It's a simple fact. To love another human being is to open up all sorts of beautiful emotions, but it's also ripping pieces out of your soul and handing it to someone else and saying "Here! Take care of this. But if you don't, I'm helpless to defend myself."

It all sounds so romantic, doesn't it? I find it ugly and complicated and wonderful and messy. I guess it's strange that I'm able to love people like that without it being romanticized in my own heart. Maybe that's the gift that you have given me. But it hurts. And it leaves me feeling broken. Because I am so freaking helpless. I can't fix anything. I can't help anyone. I can't cure any illness, or prevent any tears, or make marriages happen or people to fall in love. I can't. And I wish I could.

I have endured a lot. It probably sounds sick but I'm grateful for it. I'm grateful for all that you've put me through. Because every single one of those hell-on-earth experiences sucked me closer to you, like an aloe plant pulling out a splinter. It hurts like heck, but it brings out the ugliness and puts new growth back in its place. You promote my healing. But you always have to sucker punch me, because I'm just that freaking dense and I don't give up control easily.

You have brought me some beautiful people to love. And I really do love them. I really do. When they laugh, it warms my heart. When they hurt, it hurts my heart. When they're sick I want to help them. When they're excited I want to listen. When they're angry I want to support them and defend them. When they leave for horrible places that I can't go...

So here I sit helpless. I sit broken and sad and angry and vulnerable. But I need to be. Because I've never let a weakness dominate my life before and I'm not about to start now. And the more I expose myself the more you suck the splinters from my heart.

As I just finished that sentence this was what started playing on my iTunes: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Jesus, please come, today. And I find that to be so spiritually fitting for what I want to say.

Come and save the broken ones. Their hurts are so great and their needs are so astronomical. Come and save this broken one. I'm a basket case.

Lolli

The past several weeks have been incredibly emotionally challenging for me. We had multiple hospital hang outs, which concluded in a lovely week long stay at hotel hospital. We've been to countless doctor's appointments. My daughter has had blood taken from what can only be every single vein imaginable in her skinny little seven year old arms and hands.

It all started with my child not wanting to eat anymore. If you know Lolli, you know that the girl is the skinniest human being ever, and her not wanting to eat is not really good. That lasted for a week. Then her coloring got awful. Her eyes looked sunken in and terrible. Later that morning, she started throwing up. Not just a little bit, she was throwing up when there was nothing to throw up. She was throwing up things that were beyond possible for her to throw up (buckets of what looked like water when she hadn't had any, and there was no acid in it. And to be honest, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't sat right there with her the whole time and watched it all happen.). By the afternoon, she was bad. She was really bad. She was completely gray. Off to the ER we went. She didn't have a fever. She said her stomach didn't hurt, but she didn't want to eat either. She was just thirsty. Really, really thirsty (something she'd been all week long) and she had a headache.

At the ER, her kidney function was low (dehydration). She was borderline hospitalization, but since her pediatrician knew me very well, (from the triplets' medical needs), and she hadn't thrown up in several hours, he knew that I could take her home and if she got worse I would bring her back. Well, in the car she started throwing up buckets again. I can only guess she was throwing up stuff that had re-collected in her stomach because she had nothing to throw up (or so I thought). Back to the ER we went, and stayed there until about three in the morning.

The next day, she went to the doctor. He took one look at her, and said she needs to go in the hospital. So off she went. She was initially admitted for dehydration. She had no other symptoms other than that she didn't want to eat, and she would randomly get horrible stomach pains and throw up. No fever. No aches and pains. No diarrhea. No sore throat or cough or runny nose.

In the hospital they did random labs (like they normally do) and discovered that her white blood cell count was low. Her bone marrow was actively working to make more white blood cells (which is good) so the concern wasn't that big at that point. Her white blood cells were not freakishly low, but they were low and her pediatrician wanted to watch that. He said it was possible that a virus could attack her white blood cells, but that wasn't very common and they should be back to normal the next day. Well, in a nutshell, they weren't. They were lower the next day. And lower the next day. And the next. And the next, for over a week.

Lolli started to perk up a bit, and she was eager to get out of the hospital, so we asked to be discharged and if we could do all of these tests as an outpatient. Her pediatrician said that was fine. Well that night, from a weak immune system (having very little white blood cells will do that to a person) and having been exposed to all things sickness in the hospital, Lolli spiked a fever. And she looked awful again. She started throwing up in the middle of the night. The next morning we went back to the doctor. He looked at her again and he said, "I think she needs to go back to the hospital." Lolli said, "Will I have to have an IV?" He said "Yes you will." She started crying hysterically. I think at this point the child was just done. She was done with being poked. Done with being prodded. Done with feeling awful. He said he would put her on a lot of medicines and she would have to come back tomorrow. He said because her immune system is so weak, he was very concerned. She had one more night at home, and one more chance for her body to work.

We picked up a plethora of medications for my child. And I have to be honest, watching my always healthy little girl look the way she did was heart breaking. But I was hopeful, that the antivirals, the antibiotics, the anti nausea medications would all work together to keep her healthy. Well that first day, she threw up all of the medicines (because they were very strong). I was scared to call her doctor, but he said a couple of times is normal on such strong medicines. She had one more chance, or she would go back to the hospital. At this point, I forgot to mention, that she was having routine blood draws to watch her WBC (White blood count). So many that they were recognizing and remembering her by name in the hospital lab.

A couple more days went by (where she was stable) and she started to slowly improve. Then one of the days, she all of a sudden had energy again. I told Chief that I thought her WBC count was up. You could sort of tell. I think it was obvious when it went down (she would lose all of her energy) and then when she would get a wave of new ones it would go up again. But this day was different. She had good energy. She was alert. She was different. That day her labs showed her WBC count was normal. Her bone marrow was working extremely hard to make it normal, but it was the first promising blood test result we'd had in weeks. Because they were finally normal, she's able to have them once a week now.

So, we're watching them. It's been incredibly difficult. It's been heart breaking to have conversations about leukemia and bone marrow biopsies about my child to her doctor. It fills my heart with so much compassion for so many mothers who are currently nursing their cancer stricken children at this very moment.

I don't know if we'll be in that group of people. If I trust my instincts, I would say no. I believe that she had a random fluke virus that went hogwild on her white blood cells (Seriously! A virus attacked Grigio's stomach and killed that sucker, so why would it be impossible to believe one would attack white blood cells?). Right now we're still waiting. Hoping for great results and waiting. But thanking God SO much for her strength today. Thanking God for each moment with our children. Thanking God for the reminder that time is SO SO SO precious and we shouldn't take any moment for granted. Thanking God for our children.

Butterflies

My daughter was recently given a Butterfly habitat for her birthday. The way the whole process works is that you're given (or you can buy) a butterfly habitat (where they'll live) and you get a code for five free butterflies. You have to submit the request for the butterflies because the caterpillars arrive alive and you have to make sure you can tend to them.

Our caterpillars arrived about four days ago, and let me just tell you, this is probably the most fascinating experience ever. Watching the caterpillars grow is crazy. They come so tiny and skinny, and after just a few days they're already over an inch long and really "fluffy"! In a couple of days, they will go into their hibernating stage where they'll turn into a butterfly, and then we'll release them.

My daughter isn't exactly happy about that portion of the event. She says we need to keep them and she doesn't want to set them free. 

I find that there is a life lesson for myself in that perspective. I too, don't want to set my butterflies free. I want to keep them close to me always where I can make sure their healthy and safe. 

Most people would probably label me as a pretty enormous force. I'm brazen. I'm bold. I'm confident. I know what I want. Most people would say that I'm pretty hardcore. Most people think that there doesn't exist a man on this planet who could be more dominant than me. Most people think that I must always wear the balls, because I'm rarely caught in a dress. Most people think that I win because I can't seem to handle the notion of losing.

When I sit next to you my big giant balloon deflates and this massive wizard of oz persona shrinkwraps down to just little old me. Insecure. Quiet. Pensive. Thoughtful. Fragile. Gushy. Mushy. Sappy. Crying at the drop of a bucket. Incredibly focused on looking pretty.

It's been ten years. Ten years that I have loved you. Ten years that you've been transforming me in to this aspect of myself that I've always wanted to be. Ten years of experiencing life through the picture frame experience of your love.

It's crazy because everything is intertwined and so defined by your presence that my life is really sort of divided in two: before you and after.

I'm not afraid to be fragile, which is completely miraculous, if you know me at all. You make me bolder. You make me braver. You make me fiercer. So when the conversation comes down to whether or not I would do this all over again if I had to, the answer is always a resounding hell yes. And I know that the crap I write is sappy. I know the words I say are incredibly gushy and dramatic. I can't help it. It's not that I have anything to prove, it's that I've got something to show. I'm not so comfortable with this sensitive side of myself. I am fumbling around in confusion when I have to show the way you light up my world in front of other people.

Crisis

I think in the life of every Christian, there comes a moment when you stand still and you honestly have to say Where the hell are You? I have heard it so often said that to say that, to even think it is complete blasphemy but I'm going to have to call BS on that. I think to reject it, shove it down, deny it is the blasphemy. To admit it. To dive into it. To cry out about it and mourn it is the truth. And isn't a relationship only a relationship as long as it's truthful? When it becomes mired in deception and secrecy then it is on a slippery slope of destruction. I don't want that, ever, with You.

So I'm sitting here in my grandfather's red chair and I'm saying Where the HELL are You? Because I don't have the faintest idea as to what You're doing. I'm not interested in the wishy washy, stereotypical "christian" answers. I don't want Bible verses shoved down my throat, and I don't want people telling me to just keep "holding on". I am hurt. I am angry. I am having a pity party. And what comforts me is that I know You at least bought the party hats and You're here... somewhere... even if I can't see You.

I feel so fatigued. I feel so broken. I feel like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel of my existence and everything is confusing and complicated. I feel like throwing in the towel and running away as fast and as far as I can. Why? I feel like I'm my own echo and like I'm my own shadow all at the same time. And the sound that keeps playing over and over and over and over again is Why? Why? Why?


I miss You. I miss the comfort of You and the peace that washes over me when I can feel You. I miss the assurance of Your understanding. I miss being able to grasp everything that was happening. And now I don't. Now it just seems like an avalanche of confusion is blasting down this mountain that You've expected me to climb.

I know I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. I know I should be grateful. You've given me the world's best climbing partner ever. And he truly is amazing. I don't know how I would function without his existence. I am terrified that one day he'll wake up and take off. I should be glad that I have four living children. I should be thankful that they are walking around here with me.

Why do I feel so broken? Why is it so easy to destroy my will? I don't want to do this anymore. Why can't I have some miracle and some amazing scenario of magic?

Please come back here to me. Wash away the confusion and just come back and let me feel Your love. It's all that sustains me. As much as Chief helps me to endure, You! and You alone are what keeps me alive. Apart from You I am nothing. I have nothing to give and no way to thrive. I need Your comfort. I need Your embrace. I need Your understanding. And when You come I will be whole again.

My Valentine Birthdays

The memory of their birth is incredibly traumatic. In fact, the whole experience, from the seven months of strict bed rest, the constant nervousness of their or my death happening at any moment, the complete loss of my last few precious months alone with just Lolli, was traumatic. It was hard. When I reflect back on it, probably the most valuable lesson (and probably one I am still continuing to be taught) is to take every single day one minute at a time. Seriously. Stop thinking so far ahead. Stop worrying so far along. I just have to deal with this minute, this moment, this contraction, or back ache, or bad medical news, or a thousand other "or's".

I think that happened because the future was too overwhelming. I was four weeks along when I was put on bed rest. That was escalated to strict bed rest a week later. If I thought in terms of the long months of laying down, I would have had a nervous breakdown. If I thought in terms of the overwhelming medical problems that our unborn babies were facing, I would've had a heart attack. If I did anything beyond handling each second on its own, I think I would have collapsed. It was completely bigger than I could have contemplated.

I did so much to try to prepare myself for their sick bodies. We were heavily warned. We were given videos to watch, tours of the NICU, books about sick preemie babies, classes... I did everything I could to prepare myself. We were very well warned that Grigio could die and IF he lived he'd be mentally handicapped for life. He'd probably not walk, talk, or do anything. There was just too much he didn't get...

The surgery was excruciating. When they wheeled me into the operating room, I was bawling my eyes out. I sat there sobbing uncontrollably. I remember apologizing to the nurse who was trying to comfort me because I just couldn't stop. I was so done. Psychologically. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. I had nothing left of myself and there I was, scraping the bottom of the barrel of my existence, trying to "let go" of the whole process. They were going to be born. And then we would see...

They were so sick. They were so tiny. Charchee was the only one who looked "normal" (if you can consider a 12 inch long 2 lb, 13 oz baby hooked up to a thousand machines monitoring her every move "normal"). Brun was so, so, so sick. Her skin was transparent. She was covered in hair. Her every single rib was incredibly pronounced (even when she was exhaling). She didn't open her eyes. She barely moved. She was so broken. Grigio was doing very well. His lungs weren't very strong, but considering they didn't expect him to live he was such a surprise! His "angel kisses" (cowlicks) were completely evident. One on the front of his head, and another on the back. I like to believe those were there where his guardian angel kissed away the lack of nourishment and nutrients and healed his brain.

The first year was hell. Literally. Leaving them at the hospital and coming home was hell. Bringing them home was hell. It was more difficult than I can adequately explain. It was painful and frustrating and terrifying and awful. There were no beautiful late-night moments of snuggles and kisses while they nursed. There were no moments sitting there with precious bonding. There was no time that we got to just be together because there was always another one to feed, or more pumping to do, or more diapers to change, or more notes to document for their doctors. In every single picture, Chief and I both look like we were the living dead. I'm not kidding you.

But now... Now I have three five year old children standing in front of me. Now I have three communicating, learning, walking, discovering, challenging, trusting, developing children in front of me. Now I don't have to change diapers anymore, or pump, or feed endlessly. Now we can go on "adventures" and discover things together. Now we can play in the backyard, or go to a museum, because their immune systems can handle it. Now we can sit and talk about life and flowers and why bees are black and yellow. Now we snuggle and cuddle and bond without the urgency of moving on to the next feeding, or life-need. Now when they're hurt, I can kiss their owies away, instead of standing by their hospital bedsides helplessly wanting to fix their ailments.  Now we can talk about what foods to eat and why they're good instead of just rushing through one baby's feeding because the next two are screaming for theirs.

They're amazing children. And they're still hard, don't get me wrong, but things are so different now. We are no longer just surviving and I love that.

A woman asked me the other day at the store what my secret was because they're so well behaved. I told her that I couldn't take any credit. I said, "Truthfully, each day they choose to behave how they behave. Some times they make good choices and some times they make bad ones. I am so thankful that they most often choose to make good ones. We have poured out prayer for them, over them, with them from the second we knew of their existence and God deserves any credit that I could try to take for myself."

So today, in my heart, as I am preparing to celebrate my most precious triplets' birthdays in a week, I can only look at them and say Look what God has done!