Thoughts of simpler days

I miss my pre-accident brain - it's ability to concentrate for long periods of time, to put complex thoughts and feelings into words. The 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle now a 10 piece wooden puzzle for toddlers. I sit down to write, to sort out my thoughts, and I find a vacuous space where there used to be a playground of words. This phase in life also being, perhaps, the most difficult to articulate while respecting boundaries. The past seems so present. Maybe it still is. 

The 3-year-old little boy sits on the stairs. He has been sitting there for over an hour, arms folded across his chest, chin up. Crocodile tears streaming down his face.  

Sitting in time-out is our umpteenth attempt to get through to him, and it seems to be failing.

I sit next to him and say, "All you need to do is apologize to your older brother, and then you can go back to playing," I say. He stares ahead silently.

I had tried everything we could think of up to that point, and now we were down to this- a battle of wills.

"God, please help me," I pray silently. I had sensed this boy's stubbornness from the time he was still in the womb, and most days, it's what I admire most about him. Something tells me the moment is bigger than an apology.

"Luke, I know you don't want to say sorry, but if you feel sorry, can you touch your nose for me?"

Heaving silent sobs, he touches his nose, over, and over, and over, and over again. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Finally.

I call Camden over and explain that the nose tapping is what we are going to use, in lieu of an apology for now. Hugs, laughter, back to playing Legos.

What I'd do for motherhood to be that simple once again, but while I yearn for those simpler days, it's these days- these infinitely more complex days- that I think I'll long for the most when they're gone. It's these soul-stretching, knee-bending days that make my heart feel like it wants to burst with pride for the amazing humans that they are becoming, despite all of my imperfections.

I pray that life is kind, but doesn't enable them. 

I pray that they stay close to the water's edge, while knowing they need to push off. 

I pray that they don't abandon their maddening stubbornness.

I pray that life bends, but doesn't break them.

The frenzy

Near death experiences do funny things to the human mind. They seem to awaken a once-dormant part of the brain and sets it into a mild frenzy- of getting things in order, in the event that death should come knocking again. I've spent the past several weeks catching up on private journaling and scrapbooking, and finally printing my blog after 13 years. Perhaps even more interesting than the post-near-death-experience-frenzy is the personal evolution I could see as I read my blog posts. They started out light and superficial in 2010 when I started my blog, brushing on the funny things that had happened throughout the day. I had forgotten so many of the stories and little antics of the kids. By the time I got to my last blog post, it was surprising how much has changed throughout the years. How much I've changed. I've become a more serious person, less social, a bit of a navel gazer, but hopefully more honest. I miss the woman I used to be in those lighter times, but am proud of all she's overcome throughout the years.

As I read back on Hengxin's adoption blog posts, most of which I've unpublished, I cringed a little, worrying that I overshared parts of her personal story. A friend recently posted something on Facebook about the line that's drawn where one person's story ends, and the other person's begins. That is, perhaps, one of the greatest challenges of blogging- to identify and honor that fine line, because often, they feel so interwoven with our own story. I've had to remind myself to be gentle and forgiving of the woman who posted what now feels like oversharing. She was doing the best she could at the time.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I learned reading through so many years of journaling and blogging reminded me of just that- we're all just doing the best we can at the time.

A moment of peace from a few weeks ago that I wanted to remember

The part people rarely talk about

 I don't think a day goes by when someone doesn't ask me how I've been doing since the car accident, so I thought I'd share an update. I'm thankful for the kindness that so many continue to show me daily. Four months have gone by, and in many ways it seems like it happened yesterday, its effects still present in my everyday daily life.

Physically, things are improving, slowly and steadily. After months of chiropractor, physical therapist, and massage appointments, my body is on the mend. Yesterday I jogged a mile on the treadmill, albeit slowly and not all at once, but I was so happy, I thought I'd cry. It was something I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to do again. Long ago seem the days of marathon running and Spartan racing. Not long ago seem the days of moving around the house with a walker. The human body, and its ability to heal, is a miracle. 

Mental recovery has been more of a challenge. If there is one thing the past four months has given me, is an awareness how much we take our brains for granted. I hope to never again take for granted the brain's ability to go into autopilot, to take shortcuts, to withdraw seemingly forgotten information at a moment's notice, and to zone out to preserve energy. Recovering from a TBI seems a bit like being at Disneyland, all day every day, with the lights, sounds, and overstimulation. Even on the best days, a brain, unlike the rest of our body, can never fully rest. It must heal, even as it continues to work around the clock. Overall, the trajectory has been upward, but the headaches and brain fog continue, especially after a long day of teaching. But I love my nursing students, and it's they that make the evening brain fog worthwhile. The trouble word-finding is at times amusing, although usually not to me.

 Emotionally, it's been a rollercoaster, but not the fun kind. It's the kind from nightmares where they forgot to put in seatbelts. It's the most invisible aspect of recovering from a traumatic brain injury, and it's the part people rarely talk about. There were so many times when I wished for an outward scar, to remind me people to give me space and time, and grant me patience. Most days it feels like someone put all of my emotions in a Masen jar, shook them up, and then poured them out on a table. Socially, I've shied away from people and social situations outside of my job, unsure and insecure of how I come across with such a thoroughly shaken Masen jar.

But I am grateful for so many reasons. Healing is chugging along the right track, and I'm optimistic that life will someday be close to the way it was before. But it's my angel husband that I'm the most thankful for. The caregivers of those suffering from brain injuries are unsung heroes. There have been days when the emotional lows have reached such blinding depths when I wished I hadn't survived the crash. Days when I didn't trust myself to be alone. I knew my husband was a good man before- the very best I'd ever met- but it has been this experience that has made me realize that there were not only angels in the car that day protecting me, but angels on earth sent to carry me through the aftermath. After almost 22 years of marriage, I love him more than ever. He deserves a medal for putting up with and still loving me through it all. On a particularly difficult day, when my thoughts and words were jumbled, and I was becoming frustrated with everyone and everything around me, he wrapped his arms around me and said, "I just want you to know, you're doing great." 

On the two month anniversary of our car crash, we had our family pictures taken. In the days leading up to the shoot, I had reached one of those depths, questioning if God had gotten it wrong when He spared me that day. Blinded, I couldn't muster up a single reason why I had survived. A few days later, Hunter Leone, our talented photographer, posted our family photo to his social media page.

When I saw the photo- the Masen jar, again thoroughly shaken- I sat down and wept. This was why. They were why.

In a conversation with  my girls recently, as we reflected on 2022, I said it had been the worst year of my life. But on second-thought, it certainly has not been the worst. The hardest, yes. But I haven't lived 41 years to not realize that it's the best things that come from hard. It's the most worthwhile changes that come from hard. And I don't think I've seen the end of the blessings that have come from this hard.

The Split Second Lament

As a wound nurse, I often heard my patients lament how quickly life can change- all in a matter of a split second- with a life-altering outcome. Compassion, I've learned, is usually the costliest virtue. It's the things and people that we feel the most compassion towards, that we've paid the highest price to feel compassion for. As much as I wanted to understand what my patients had experienced when they described the split second event that landed them in my care, I never really did. I had never paid any sort of price to feel their pain until this week. And yet, I realize I still don't fully understand. But perhaps now I can relate to a small sliver of the "Split Second Lament" that my patients talk about.

Last Monday as I was driving home from work, I took a different route home on back roads. A mile from home, that split second happened. A car missed a stop sign and hit my car. We were both driving at about 55mph. The impact sent my car into a spin, throwing it against a power pole that split from the impact and fell onto my car. 

Thankfully, I remember very little other than waking up to the woman who I collided with, standing at my car window, distraught and trying to wake me up. The police and ambulance had already arrived, and I was quickly taken to the emergency room. I had been unconscious for about 13 minutes.

My memory of the day prior to the accident were gone, and it was surreal trying to piece the events of the day back together. Slowly and with deliberate effort, I was able to get most of them back. By nothing short of a miracle and guardian angels, the only injuries I sustained were a bad concussion, difficulty walking for a few days, and a laceration with a few staples to the back of my head. The concussion is what seems to be taking the longest to heal.

I remember thinking how odd it was having the nurses and doctors ask me the same questions to assess alertness and orientation that I had been teaching my nursing students that same morning before the accident. I learned first-hand that it's surprisingly easy to fake knowing the right answers to these questions. 

The week has been slow with plenty of rest and an empty mind, per doctors orders- without reading, screens, music, or lengthy conversations. The headaches, dizziness, and nausea have been steadily improving. My mom thankfully came to help me and has been wonderfully kind and attentive. She has always been the best nurse.

The strictest part of my doctor-ordered "brain rest" ended yesterday, but my thinking still seems slow  and concentrating is painful. I've caught myself being repetitive and forgetful. Even writing this has been a struggle. It's like there's a slow and ineffecient secretary in my head that's struggling to retrieve the files I want from the back room. I've questioned if I'm pushing my recovery too fast by sitting down to write this. The lazy secretary from the back room is complaining and says she thinks so.

I'm optimistic though. To bemoan my situation would be ignorant and to ignore the hand of God would astoundingly ungrateful. I see the smashed car in our driveway, as we await the insurance assessor, and I can't believe that so much destruction could happen in 2 seconds, with the person inside sustaining only relatively minor injuries.

As I sit here writing, I weep as I think of the little boy in the school bus who died in that same interesection a few years ago, also because of a missed stop sign. My doctor told me to expect feelings of weepiness in the coming days. But it's my first good cry that I've had since the accident, so I'll just let it be. Tears of sorrow for the little boy who never made it back home that day. Tears of gratitude for my second-chance and the outpouring of kindness we've received. Tears of tenderness for the Idaho Power lineman who worked on removing the pole, who has called several times for updates and sent flowers. 

I'm so thankful for the meals, kind words of encouragement, and support we've been given. I'm grateful for so many reasons, more than I can possibly express.

I loved the earrings I was wearing at the time of impact and I wanted to recover them from the car. The impact was such that they were knocked out of my ears. I found one on the passenger seat. The other was in the back corner of the passenger side of the car. I learned that day how much I had underestimated the power of centrifugal force.

I'm thankful that my mom took this picture one day when the headaches were particularly bad. My sweet dogs haven't left my side. 

Nursing Pinning Ceremony

I was honored to be asked to speak at the Pinning Ceremony for my first cohort as a nursing instructor. We went through so much together, learning so much and feeling like we were barely surviving along the way. Even if I teach for another hundred years, they will always have a special place in my heart.

________________________

If you will, come with me on a journey in time. The day is September 11th, 2001. Many of us remember it vividly. Do you remember the shock and fear in the air that was almost palpable? We knew life would never be the same again. But then, do you remember the people who ran into the burning buildings to rescue those inside, and the people who chose to crash their own plane to save innocent lives on the ground? And then later, those who joined our nation’s military, knowing our country was headed for war? They were, and still are, some of our nation’s most remarkable heroes.

Fast-forward 20 years to 2021, and another war was raging, but this time the war wasn’t against terrorists, but against a tiny virus, smaller than a grain of sand, and invisible to the naked eye. Again, there was shock and fear, and we knew life would never be the same again. But we soon discovered that the real enemy wasn’t the virus. It was the unknown. We were fighting to keep hope and unity alive in the face of despair and blame, because this seemed to be destroying lives faster than the virus was. While most of the world stayed inside, you came out. You walked towards the front lines of the war on the pandemic by enrolling in nursing school. I don’t know if you realize how remarkably brave that was, especially considering some of the horror stories we heard that were coming out of the hospitals. I don’t know if I would have done the same. Like the heroes of September 11th, you are my heroes. Thank you.

When you took my class, I often shared with you what I affectionately called, “Rita’s Blunders.” If you’ll remember, some of them were real doozies. I didn’t share them out of self-deprecation, but in hopes that by sharing some of my worst mistakes and humiliations in nursing, that perhaps you won't repeat them, and in some way it will help me redeem myself from those mistakes. 

May I share one more of Rita’s blunders? I’ve shared portions of this with some of you.

Many of you know that I come from a large family of nurses and doctors. I had big shoes to fill when I became a nurse, and I certainly didn’t want to be the first to bring shame to my family’s extensive legacy in medicine. I was determined to do things right. I was starry-eyed with idealism. I wanted to be perfect. Maybe some of you can relate.

Fast-forward a few years again. The year was 2017. I had been a nurse for 14 years and the fire that had been lit when I entered the nursing field was now only a small flicker. It was nearly extinguished. I was looking into other career paths, seriously considering walking away from nursing forever. I was tired, discouraged, and disillusioned. Tired of the 12-hour night shifts. Tired of swollen legs, catty nurses, and perpetually feeling like a zombie, even on my days off. Discouraged that I always felt so inept and like the village idiot among my coworkers. Disillusioned to feel like most days I was waiting tables for ungrateful restaurant patrons rather than saving lives. Now, I know some of you can relate.

As I contemplated new career paths, I took a job in a long-term care facility to help pay the bills. Honestly, it wasn’t a job I was excited about. In fact, the only reason I took it was because it fit my family’s schedule. This time though, I did something different as I started my new job. I simply surrendered. I let go of my idealism and my need to be seen as perfect. I silenced the cruelest critic I knew- the voice inside my own head. I leaned into the imperfect, messy, and sometimes frustrating nature of nursing because imperfect, messy, and frustrating is what you’ll inevitably get any time you work closely with other humans. 

In surrendering and allowing the world around me to be imperfect, I discovered something astonishing. It was actually quite beautiful. It was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes,and I could see a world of beauty and wonder. I saw it in the lines and wrinkles on my patient’s faces. But I now saw that they weren't simply lines and wrinkles, they were roadmaps of their lives. What I had once heard as complaining and long-winded stories, I now heard as the beckoning call of people long forgotten by society who simply wanted to be heard and seen- not unlike you and me- to know that their life still mattered. I watched the tender, at times, angelic ways my co-workers cared for their precious patients. I watched the last breath escape my patient’s bodies in their sacred final moments of life- sometimes surrounded by family, sometimes with no one else but me. I was watching the miracle of human life. But most importantly, I realized it wasn’t miraculous because it was perfect, but because it was simply human. I realized that very little separated me from my patients. Seeing and loving them as they were gave me permission to see and love myself, and to grant myself grace. I hope nursing does the same for you.

As I speak of surrender, I’m not implying a surrender to mediocrity. Far from it. Set a bar for yourself and keep it high. But strive simply for daily improvement, rather than perfection. 

Here’s the thing… you’re going to make mistakes. I promise, you will. If you’re like me, you'll make lots of them. And then when you do, simply recognize them honestly, learn from them, improve, forgive yourself, and then move on.

So often, we hear people say that they strive to “Live with no regrets.” But let's pause and unpack this. This philosophy might not be all it's chalked up to be. In fact, I don't believe it should be our goal nor is it achievable. What does "no regrets" really mean? I love what Brene Brown said about regrets. She said, "No regrets" doesn't mean living with courage, it means living without reflection. To live without regret is to believe you have nothing to learn, no amends to make, and no opportunity to be braver with your life. I believe that what we regret most are our failures of courage, whether it’s the courage to be kinder, to show up, to say how we feel, to set boundaries, to be good to ourselves. For that reason, regret can be the birthplace of empathy. When I think of the times when I wasn’t being kind or generous—when I chose being liked over defending someone or something that deserved defending—I feel deep regret. Regrets about not taking chances have made me braver. Regrets about shaming or blaming people I care about have made me more thoughtful. Sometimes the most uncomfortable learning is the most powerful.”

Perhaps it’s this lack of reflection and empathy that is the reason so many nurses seem to be hemorrhaging out of healthcare, and moving into other fields that require less vulnerability. Perhaps if we embraced regret and the imperfect nature of dealing with ourselves and others, we would strive to keep improving rather than beating ourselves up for falling short. Because really, isn’t every today tomorrow's rough draft? 

By the time I left that job, I had lots of regrets. There are so many things I wish I had done differently, but it was the same vulnerability and authenticity that led to my regrets that also preceded the quiet, magical moments I spoke about earlier. I wouldn’t give up those moments for a lifetime of no regrets.

Do you remember how after clinicals I would ask you, “Where was the magic?” and we would take turns sharing where we saw it? It was to remind us- to remind me- to look for the beauty that hides in the invisible people and places that we often overlook in the busyness of being a nurse.

I’ll tell you where I saw the magic every day. I saw it in the swan, the peace, the captain’s helm, the flamingo, the key, the angel’s wings, the unicorn, the umbrella, the pearl, the crown, the owl, and the star. I saw it in each of you.

No matter how much the rigors of the past year may have left you feeling beaten down, caused you self-doubt, and landed you in regrets- there is something intrinsically unique that only you bring to this world. Thank you for sticking out the past year.

So, here are the main lessons that the last 19 years of blunders in my sometimes stellar (but usually less-than-stellar) nursing career has taught me. 

Take the magic that’s in you and with it, have regrets. But try to learn from them quickly because the sooner you realize you are wrong, the less time you’ll have to spend being wrong. Be unfailingly kind, even when it isn't reciprocated. View yourself with the same compassion you view others, and forgive yourself deeply. Steer clear from people who gossip, even if the gossip isn't about you. Double-check the blood sugar before you give the insulin. Sometimes crying with someone, without saying anything at all, is the most powerful thing you could ever say. Live with integrity, even in the small things- especially in the small things. Remember that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent- don’t give them that consent. If life requires that you drink from the bitter cup, do so without becoming bitter yourself.

...And this is the main lesson I learned: I am always the student, only sometimes the teacher.

Words are far too inadequate to communicate how proud I am of you. Thank you for being my teachers too.

The broken puzzle

I wrote this blog post several months ago and left it as a draft, never publishing it. There has been merciful healing since, and overall, we are all doing well.

But I know so many people who are struggling right now. So, so many people. No matter how perfect other people's lives look online and in social media, we all have our private struggles. I think that is perhaps, the most noxious part of social media- the feeling that only we struggle. But none of us get through life unscathed.

I remember walking through the house the day after this all happened, walking around my home in a daze- a stranger in my own life. Suddenly, all I wanted was to go back to the days of diapers and toddlers- the very days that I had impatiently wished away. To go back to when life was infinitely busier but so much simpler- the days I never thought I'd ever want back.

And then I realized that these are the days that someday I'll be wishing back. These complicated, emotional, beautiful days of preteens, teens and young adults. The days when all of my ducklings are under one roof and I can see them evolving into amazing humans, right before my eyes- all of the hard work of the younger years starting to pay off.

____________________________

I’m not quite sure where to start this blog post. I typically don’t have a hard time finding words, but some things seem to elude human language. Oversharing is a fine line- one I don’t wish to cross, but I’ve learned a powerful lesson over my years of blogging. The more we name things- the more we call them out- the less power they have over us.

Our family recently had a close brush with suicide- one that came far too close. The wholesome illusion I had of my happy little world seemed to shatter in an instant. Life turned upside down, and it felt like we were looking at a scattered puzzle that we were now realizing never matched the picture on the box. How did we miss this? How had we become so wrapped up in trying to perfectly balance it all, that we had missed the crumbling foundation?

Far too quickly, I discovered how inept the system in place is for navigating such events. As I placed call after call, trying to figure out what we needed to do and where we needed to go, I wondered how families with fewer resources navigate the same pothole-ridden system. Then came the grim realization that many never get the chance to make it this far, and with that same realization, a sense of gratitude that at least we had been given the chance to try. 

The help came, treatments were put in place. The right people were placed in our path at the right time. Some days it still feels like walking blind-folded through a maze.

As the dust begins to settle, the real work of reconstruction begins. Schedules adjusted, priorities realigned, emotional and physical energy redistributed. Our time and energy, once negotiable and something we gave far too much permission for other people to control, are now non negotiable. As the pieces of the puzzle start coming back together, the picture is, in fact, quite different from what was on the box. We are still working on it, but I’m determined that what’s coming together will be better than before.

My hope is that mental and emotional health will someday be something that we talk about as openly as we talk about high blood pressure or a broken leg. Mine have taken a hard hit, but each day is getting better, and I'm learning that sometimes it’s okay to not be okay. In the meantime, I’m sitting back and letting the competing emotions of anger, guilt, shame, grief, regret, anxiety, and gratitude battle each other out. Emotions that never before seemed to want to sit together at the same table, now each demanding center stage. Each day, I’m trying to place each one back in its respective place- into the emotional time and space that I’m willing to grant them. Some days I’m successful, other days I’m not. In the end, I know it’s gratitude who I need to keep on center stage, even as all the others try to drown her out. She’s the one who helps me to be more present in my life- to realize that no matter the challenges, the gift of life and love are the greatest gifts of all. She’s the one who keeps reminding me that things are going to be okay.

Changes and higher bars

These past two months have had some big changes. At the beginning of April, I walked away from the job I loved. It had my heart and soul, and it surprised everyone, even me. I deliberately stayed unemployed for a month, giving myself time to self-reflect, recover, and commit to taking the advice I gave to Camden two years ago, before he started a summer job at a scout camp. 

On the long drive to the camp to drop him off, he struggled with feelings of self-doubt. I told him, "This is the chance to reinvent yourself. The camp is far away and no one there knows who you are. You're going in as a blank slate. Take this chance to rewrite what's on that slate. If you've always been shy but want to be outgoing, be that person. No one knows any different. Make a list of who you want to be, and from now on, be that person."

The moment I knew I needed my own clean slate came when I watched a co-worker publically berate another co-worker. It was a tongue-lashing: humiliating and cringe-worthy. I watched quietly. Given the story I had been told, it was well-deserved so I did nothing. Later on, I learned the full story from someone else and I realized that there had been a huge misrepresentation of the truth. I wept from shame. I had not only stayed quiet, but I had actually enjoyed the verbal onslaught. Me. The person who values integrity and kindness above all else. The person who would rather have everything she owns be taken before she would willingly be unkind. The outer lack of loyalty that I showed from having sat silently paled in comparison to my own self-betrayal.

It wasn't only that moment. There were other changes in myself that I wasn't proud of. I was becoming judgy, jaded, and at times back-biting. These are changes I can't blame on other people. It's me. I'm responsible for what's written on my slate. But I knew I needed to walk away from a storyline, with its well-established characters, in which the ending had already been written, and a plot that would never stop repeating itself. I was not proud of the character I had become in this story, and she needed to be left behind.

I intend to rewrite what's on this new slate rather than letting others do it for me the way I have in the past. As I'm doing so, I'm seeing my life and its purpose with new eyes. A good husband; beautiful children who love me; an amazing home; a wonderful new job; the financial means to not only sustain life, but to enjoy it also. Yes, I've been blessed, but God didn't give me all of these gifts with no strings attached. With each blessing, He's raising the bar. With each blessing, I'm expected to be more, to be better than I was before. Having the luxury to wallow in the mire of poor integrity and pettiness is not what He intended when He blessed me with so much.

I'm excited for this next chapter of my life. It's been a challenge and soul-stretching in its own beautiful way. But life was never meant to stay the same. We were never meant to stop evolving. Even the chapters without the happiest endings have lead me to the one I'm on, and for that I will always be grateful.

Four years

Every year since we adopted Hengxin, I often find myself lost in thought around this time. Four years. It seems like both yesterday and a lifetime ago that we were preparing to making the biggest leap of faith any of us had ever taken, and perhaps ever will take in our life- the anticipation that made me physically ill at times, the fear of not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, and the frantic preparations we were making to embark on this journey with its unknown destination.

I've recently had a number of friends ask me about adoption- how we were led to it and what struggles we've faced along the way. Several of these conversations have spanned for hours, but if someone were to ask me to describe adoption in one word, it would be simply grief. Grief has been interlaced in every part of the journey, in some form or another, by no fault of her own. Our story is somewhat unique because we adopted her at an older age. We went into it knowing- but not really understanding- that adoption is a far cry from the child's "happily ever after." If anything, it's just the beginning of a long and difficult cobblestone road.

But I've learned a deeper lesson- that around every corner that grief sends us, there awaits its ever-patient counterpart: redemption. To grieve is one of the bitterest cups that we will ever drink from, but redemption is perhaps the sweetest antidote. It sits patiently, waiting for the chance to show us how the deepest of pains can become our greatest of blessings. I wonder how often I turned the corner and walked right past, not noticing that it was waiting there for me.

As we celebrated the Chinese New Year this year, with our menial party of a few decorations and poor excuse of overly-Americanized Chinese food, I found myself grieving again. I thought of how much better the celebration would have been if she had been in China. It seemed like a pathetic replacement for the week-long festivities she had enjoyed as a child and, once again, I found myself lamenting and feeling guilty for what was taken from her when she was adopted- what I had stolen from her.

But as I watched her laughing and playing with her siblings and friends that night, seemingly unaffected by the ineptness of the party, I realized that while so much has been taken from her, sometimes redemption isn't just waiting around the corner. Sometimes it walks into a room, hand-in-hand with grief. Both giving room for the other to stand, not competing, and just allowing each other space. Certainly she must have felt a longing for the festivities of her childhood, but didn't allow it to rob her of the joy of the moment.

I wish I could go back to the woman I was four years ago and tell her to sit back and buckle her seatbelt for the coming ride, but to rest assured that every bit of the journey would be worth it. Hengxin is a special girl with inner strength that most of us would never develop in several lifetimes. She is the embodiment of how grief becomes redemption, if we allow it to. I once told her that I never wanted her past experiences to become a stumbling block, but that I wanted them to become her stepping stool that takes her to greater heights. She has followed my instructions from that day far beyond anything I could have accomplished. I have so much to learn from her, and realize that in so many ways, we were never her rescuers. She has been ours.

Turning pages

I've missed my friend behind the keyboard- the one that helps me sort out my thoughts and line them up like little toy soldiers. It's hard to jot down life and condense its intricacies into small little words. Words are always so inadequate. The depth of what we are living can never just be bottled-up and poured onto a page. I imagine that after we die and are reviewing our life, our stories won't be told in words, but in feelings, both our own and of those whose paths we crossed. The emotions are what I'm trying to remember through these small words.

Life is changing every day right before my eyes, and I don’t know how to stop it or slow it down. It reminds me of the cartoons I used to draw in the bottom corner of my notebook pages when I was bored in class as a kid. Each drawing was identical to the one on the page behind it with only a tiny difference. That was the key: little changes. As I flipped the pages, slowly at first, the drawing would come alive as the small movements of each drawing morphed together.

The pages of the notebook are flipping, more quickly now than ever, except the image at the end looks nothing like the image at the beginning. And yet, as much as I miss the simplicity of that first image, I would never want to go back to it. That first image seems both just a heartbeat ago and a lifetime ago.

Having moved around from country to country so much as a child, the memories of my childhood aren’t split up by years or school grades, but by countries. Before Mexico. After Brazil. While in Colombia. I think the memories of my early adult years will always be split in two: before the adoption and after.

Tonight we sat around the dinner table and laughed about things the kids used to do as babies. The way Lauren’s scream could raise the dead. How Luke would make that weird frog sound in his throat when he tried to say Camden’s name. That Calista was my happy little Buddha. How Camden’s name was almost Landon but dad won out on in the delivery room. That Mila’s latina name doesn’t fit her platinum blonde hair but it fits her feisty personality. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hengxin silently staring down at her plate.

“It’s not fair,” I thought. It’s not fair that her scrapbook begins at age 11 and that these conversations will always be uncomfortable for her. It was the after-adoption version of myself that simultaneously lamented this and realized that this has become a normal part of our life. And it’s that same after-adoption version that feels heavy with guilt for having ever having allowed this to feel normalized. Before I would have never understood the irony of the paradox.

It was after the adoption that I couldn’t bring myself to say that we adopted our little dog, Effie. That’s not a verb that I can share between children and animals anymore.

It was before the adoption that my Heavenly Father was the silent man in the sky. It was after that he became my friend.

It was before that I thought that love was simple. It’s after that I realize that love is one of those things that can never just be scribbled on a page and confined to just four little letters. It’s what brought a farm boy and a city girl together when they had hardly anything in common. It’s what has me folding the eighth load of laundry in a day, knowing there are still three more to go. It’s what made us go across the ocean to bring someone home that we had never met, and it’s what kept her from going back when she wanted to. It’s what I’ve pleaded with to God to give me when I didn't understand.

Yet it’s the same little word written on a page in her handwriting that means so much to me because it’s love that has made her blossom- imperfect at best- but as small and simple as that.

I remember as a child flipping through the blank pages of my journal, wondering what stories would someday fill the empty pages. Both the good and the bad have. Now I see that in those blank pages was written the story of a lost little girl, who after 11 years, found a family and was very loved. There's a story of an angry and hurt little boy who grew into a giant with wisdom beyond his years. There's a little jester who kept the kingdom laughing with his wicked sense of humor. There are three little girls, each as different from eachother as can be, with their own unique gifts to the world- the gifts wrapped so beautifully and ready to be opened. The love story from the first few pages between the farm boy and the the city girl told of how while love is fostered during the easy times, it is grown during the hard. They learned that it's their lack of commonality that made their marriage stronger than ever after 18 years. Their story is my favorite.

Life has unfolded in ways I never imagined it would and brought us to places I never thought I'd be. If there's anything I've learned about blank pages, it's that I'm not meant to be the story-writer. I never was. And what fills the pages is more beautiful than anything than I could have ever imagined.

"What is a family?"

The car was quiet as we drove home. I turned up the radio to try to ease the tension of the silence. The past two days we had been going around in circles, working through the hard and the gritty- the unseen challenges that only adoptive families know far too well.

“I have a question for you,” she asked quietly. “What is a family to you?”

I was confused. “What do you mean? It’s what we are.”

“You tell me, ‘In a family we don’t say those things to each other,’ or ‘In a family we don’t treat each other that way.’ I’m not sure if your meaning of family and my meaning of family are the same.”

Huh…. I was stumped. Wasn’t it obvious? It’s what we had put everything on the line for. It's what we've been trying tirelessly to give her since before we had even met her two and a half years ago. 

Carefully I asked, “Let me ask you this first. What is family to you?”

She told me of each of the families she’s been in throughout her life: biological, orphanage, foster, and now adoptive. She had been given “a family” so many different times. Each a world apart in their differences. Some good, some bad- each leaving its own mark, its own scars. I finally understood another little piece of why adjusting to living in our family had been a challenge at times. 

What is a family? I asked myself that for the first time. I prayed silently as I gathered my thoughts, knowing my answer would be pivotal in our relationship. 

After a few moments, I asked her, “Have you ever seen a baby learn to walk?”

“Yes.”

“A baby starts out crawling. It’s all she knows how to do. It's all she can do, but the day will come when she wants to learn how to walk. Learning isn’t easy but her parents are there and so are her siblings, helping her to stand and steady her balance. They walk beside her, holding her hands for support and catching her when she falls. The baby is learning to do something difficult but she knows she is safe because her family is there to catch her. As the baby gets older and stronger she begins to take steps on her own. Her parents have to stand back sometimes and let her do it on her own, knowing that sometimes she will fall and sometimes it will hurt. But they're there, sometimes holding her up, sometimes just standing by. They will never be far away, even when she’s walking completely on her own.

“I guess I see a family kind of like this. A family is a training ground for life. It’s where we learn to navigate through what the future will bring. It’s a safe place to make mistakes, a safe place to fall. It’s a group of people who, no matter how badly we mess up, will always be there, will always love us. It’s the people with whom we learn how to work through disagreements. It’s the people with whom we learn how to love. Some day you’ll have to know how to navigate the world without us always by your side, but we’ll never be far.”

In her short time with us, even within the realm of traditional, she has seen so many different types of families. Each unique in their own way, and at times creating confusion as to what she should expect from her own. Sometimes even I don’t know what to expect from an adoptive family. What’s normal? What’s not? I’m still learning how to walk too.

We talked about the million different ways to be a family. Ours isn’t necessarily the right way. It’s certainly not the only way. There will undoubtedly be things she wants to do differently with her own future family, and that’s not only okay, but to be expected. 

She had that bounce in her step as she walked through the door when we got home, that bounce she has when we’ve broken through another glass wall- one of the countless walls we’ve shattered over the past two years. I felt lighter, my heart fuller. Grateful yet again for one more lesson I’ve learned along this path we blindly set out on not too long ago. Grateful for the realization of something I had taken for granted until then- of what family is to me. Grateful for my own parents and the family that taught me how to walk.

Change

The longer Dennis and I are married, the more I realize how truly different we are in so many ways. He finds comfort in permanency, in consistency, and knowing that tomorrow will look like today. I find comfort in new beginnings, and feel exhilarated by change and risks. I'm always turning things over, looking for something new.

The last six months I had began feeling the dreaded feelings of stagnancy settling in again. Every year or two, inevitably it comes knocking, and it can be suffocating- I imagine from my upbringing. Change was the one thing we knew would always come when I was a kid- a complete overhaul of everything we knew, and the one thing that will help a third culture kid survive is to learn to embrace change.

Over the years I've learned that I have to give those feelings a space and at least some voice, instead of always trying to suppress them. Living in the same small town for thirteen years now and with no foreseeable plans of moving, has provided lots of practice.

One of the least disruptive ways to quench my thirst for change was to enroll in a BSN program, to finally finish my nursing degree. After 14 years, I'm back in school again remembering why I never liked math. That was the easy part of the decision, but in order to make time for school, came an unwanted change.

For the past two and a half years, I've worked as a school nurse at a local high school. I loved my job- the students, my schedule, the amazing on-site daycare for Mila, the teen moms, the staff, and only 7 minutes from my house... in so many ways it felt like the perfect job. But to open time for school, I needed to condense my hours, which meant leaving the school. It was an emotional and difficult decision to make. I shed many private tears in the days leading up to leaving. Not a day has gone by that I haven't questioned whether or not that was the right decision to make.

I took a new job at a long-term care facility, which in many ways has proved to also be a blessing, but has also been disheartening to once again get back into what feels like very mechanical, assembly line-type nursing. Non-stop running for 13 hours, crabby patients, and constantly keeping in mind the CYB (cover your butt) mantra that nurses have to live by in our sue-happy society. I had forgotten the steep learning curve that comes with clinical floor nursing. I have to remind myself that in order to get away from this type of nursing, I need to continue on with my schooling.

Unfortunately, my first night off orientation and the first week of school also coincided with the week that one of my children had surgery, and Dennis was out of town. To say that it was overwhelming would be a vast understatement.

People often ask how things are going with the changes that have come from the adoption. Most days are good, some are quite hard. I've come to the conclusion that there will be some things that will always be a challenge just due to the nature of adopting an older child, and that learning to adapt to a new normal will be my lifelong undertaking. I love change, thrive on it- but somethings simply may never change, and that is a pill I'm learning to swallow.

Many car drives alone to the pharmacy have provided private space for tears and prayers, hoping to understand the things God wanted me to learn and become when he first sent us down this path. But I'll never regret the decision to walk it because of what it has given me- a renewed relationship with God, a family that has grown stronger through adversity, and a bond with my husband that can never be broken. I never want to go back to who I was before this all. I thank God every day for the companion he gave me to walk this road that sometimes feels so very lonely. Dennis has been my saving grace, my rock, and my dearest friend in this world. While I seek change in the other areas of my life, this is change that I pray will never come.

The unwanted companion

I've sat on this post for weeks. It's been several months in the making as I've debated a hundred times whether or not it's something to be shared. I never thought this would be a part of my life story, but here we are. I suppose all that's left to do is to accept it for what it is- a personal Gethsemane of sorts- and to perhaps someday learn to embrace it.

I wonder what my children will say someday about the journey this has been over the past few years. Not only bringing Hengxin into our family, but so much more. Older parents tell me these years are both the most challenging of raising a family, as well as the ones they miss the most. It's been a long road and there are miles yet ahead of us. As my children get older, what will be the story they tell of these days? What will be their story? I suppose all I really know is my story, or how life appears through my lenses.

A few weeks ago I walked the dogs through the subdivision where we used to live, to unwind after a long day. It was dark, the street lamps illuminating the sidewalk in sporadic spotlights; like a silent, empty stage. I had memorized the way the roads looked in the dark, having trained for many races throughout the years in the early hours of the morning or late into the night after the kids were in bed. Walking the darkened streets felt like visiting an old, familiar friend. I paused as I stopped in front of our old house. We had lived there for almost 9 years. It felt like a family member, long forgotten. An unfamiliar car sat in the driveway. The trees bigger than I remembered them. The glow of the interior lights shone softly onto the street, the quiet movement of shadows behind the curtains. I stood now as a stranger in front of what was once so familiar to me- transfixed- every inch of the house holding a thousand memories. It was a hallowed space that had once cradled us through the earliest days of our family. Those years had been hard too. Simpler, but still hard. Unbid, the tears began to fall- feelings of despair welling up, like they wanted nothing more than to swallow me whole. How was I going to survive this time in my life, and cross all of the mountains that stood before me? It was insurmountable. It was sometime before I was able to continue walking. I was taken back by what was stirred in me that night. I thought I had been doing better. I thought that the worst had past.

It took me months, even years, to see it for what was. I had dismissed it as normalcy- or at least my normal- for so long that it never occurred to me that perhaps it was something more. It ran deeper than the grief of what I had lost over the years, or of what I'll lose in years to come. It was more than the stress and fatigue that come from being the mother of a large adoptive family. It had become a canker, feasting away at any hope I had for the future. It had planted seeds of resentment and harvested bounteous crops of anger. It stole away my optimism, leaving feelings of despair and darkness in its wake. It had companioned me for so long that I scarcely knew it was there anymore. It was just the way things were.

I soon realized that my dark companion had a trusty side-kick: guilt, its loyal friend. I had no right to feel this way. I had seen God's hand in the past two years in ways that few people do throughout their lifetime. I had felt His love for me more than I ever had before. What more did I want? I have a good husband. Healthy children. Beautiful home. Good education. I was ungrateful, I told myself, and ungrateful people are bad. I confided in a friend that some days I just wanted to disappear- to be forgotten.

I received a call one afternoon, asking if I'd give a presentation to a church youth group about anxiety and depression. As a nurse, a day rarely goes by on the job when I don't address some form of anxiety and depression, but still I was confused as to why I'd be ask to give the presentation, of all people. However, I accepted and began to study. For weeks I researched and read anything I could on the topic. I interviewed people who suffered from them. I prayed and fasted, pondered and studied more than I ever had for any class. It was during one of the interviews that a question began to form in my mind. Could this be me? I rejected the thought but it never left me, quietly tugging on my pride, like a persistent child tugging on his mother's shirt.

With reluctance I asked to assessed by a physician. I wasn't surprised when he said, yes, I most likely was depressed. But still, it didn't feel the way I thought it would.

How long had I been this way? I couldn't say for sure, but likely it had been simmering for years, with the last two years helping to rear its head in full force.

Within a few short weeks of beginning medication coupled with counseling, my lenses began to clear. The way I had felt for so long was not normal. I saw people differently. I saw myself differently. Anger towards the hard things of life, lessened. Resentment towards those who I had felt hurt by, softened. The grip on difficult things from the past, that for so long I had clung to, began to loosen. And with that loosening started coming the first rays of forgiveness. The heavy shroud of darkness began to lift.

But with the clearer lens came a deeper understanding. Medication was simply a tool, not the cure for my depression. The rest depended on me. There were boundaries that needed to be put in place. Physical health that needed to become a constant, rather than an occasional sprint. Spiritual self-care needed to take priority. The people dearest to me in my life needed to be drawn in, rather than pushed away. And others, perhaps, needed a little more distance.

Relapses still come- more than I wish they would. I imagine to some extent they perhaps always will, but this is a journey, and I might likely have this travel companion for quite sometime.

I once heard it said that to feel joy in our life, we didn't have to change the context of our lives- our family, our job, our home- but that it could be found even in the hardest of days and the darkest of nights.

I felt that joy as I observed the happy chaos at the dinner table the other night. The constant interrupting of excited little voices to tell us about their day at school. The creative and (sometimes) subtle ways my children come up with to tell me that my cooking leaves much to be desired. The caveman-esque table manners of the youngest child that makes us laugh. The sneaking of unwanted food to the dog waiting eagerly underneath the table. The sticky little arms around my neck to thank me for the dinner that remained mostly untouched. The incredible mess of food an dishes left to be cleaned up- the remains of an abundance. Happy, beautiful chaos.

These are the days- the hardest and the happiest of life- that surely I'll miss the most. I thank God for the journey, even with its less-than-desirable travel companion, because it's after the darkest nights that the dawn of all that's good and beautiful seems brighter.

The visitor

Just seeing her made my heart ache- Rosalbita Frias, my maternal grandmother. "This can't be a dream... she seems so real," I kept thinking. And yet still I knew I was only dreaming.

I sat in the galeria, sunlight streaming through the huge windows that looked out to the garden. She sat next to me at the round table next to the TV- the same table where I've spent so many hours talking and laughing. It was covered with a flowered table cloth, just like it always has been, with a dainty crystal vase and colorful floral arrangement. I could see the wood paneling with our pictures on the wall behind her- the greenery that so abundantly filled the room.

The lines on her face, the way her silver hair swept across her forehead, the pearl earrings, and those eyes- so beautiful and brown and vacant. I saw her as I last remembered her, tiny and frail with her mind a million miles away- tucked several decades ago in the past. Stolen by the grip of Alzheimer's.

I looked down at her hands and realized how deeply I had missed seeing them. Her hands... they told the story of her life- thick and calloused, laced in the lovely wrinkles that one only earns after several decades of life. They told of the sacrifices she had made for her small family, of the triumphs and of the heartaches. How many times I had seen those hands expertly craft hundreds of empanadas. How many times they had cradled the animals she so tenderly cared for. She rubbed my arms as I talked, the way she always had, her eyes staring off in the distance.

I wept as I talked to her, knowing by the vacancy in her eyes that she didn't understand what I was saying. I didn't care. I just needed to talk to her. 

"Ritita," she called out to no one in particular. During the years after she lost her memory, I had always wished she was calling for me when she said that, but I knew it was for her sister whom I was named after. I pretended she was calling for me.

I told her about everything that had been hard for me lately, about how inadequate I felt to face the challenges that lay before me, about how much I had missed her. I wept as I talked, just needing to free myself of the weight. She responded in confused and jumbled words. I didn't expect anything else.

But slowly a change began to come across her face. It started with the crease between her eyebrows softening- the same worried crease that had deepened as her memory was taken from her. Her hair began to darken and the hollowness in her face began to fill out. Her jaws regained their natural teeth and within moments I was looking at the face of the grandmother I remembered when we had moved to Chile when I was 7 years old.

She looked at me differently now. Her eyes finally seeing me. She was radiant and healthy, the way she looked in the years before my grandfather passed away. She spoke clearly, fully in the moment. She talked to me for sometime. She had always been a talker. I just listened, and listened... and listened, the way I had done so many times as a child as I watched her work. I don't remember anything she said, and somehow it didn't matter. Just knowing she was talking to me was enough.

After sometime, she hugged me in the firm embrace I had always remembered and my heart felt like it was going to burst. Her wonderful grandmotherly scent, so familiar and sweet, filling me up. All too soon, the dream was over and I awoke, aching for her to stay near.

My grandmother had come to visit me, of that I have no doubt. It had been too vivid of a dream for it to have been simply a reorganization of thoughts, the way our minds do when we are asleep.

I've thought of her a lot lately and I'm not sure why. Perhaps she experienced some of the same challenges I've been experiencing, though I've never been told if she had. Perhaps our thoughts are drawn to those deceased family members who experienced the same things we're going through as they quietly help us along. 

Our time together that night, though brief and fleeting, was precious to me. She had come to remind me that despite the veil of mortality that lies between us, she is there for me, rooting for me and helping me along the way, as are my other grandparents and loved ones who've gone before me.

Rainbows in the making

I remember staring across the restaurant with what I knew full well was nothing more than selfish envy. The newly adopted toddlers in their newly purchased clothes, adorable and smiling at their newly acquired parents who lovingly spoon-fed them breakfast. They were absolutely darling. I glanced across the table at the preteen sitting silently in front of me, expressionlessly poking at her food.

We had had custody of her for a little over a week and I had caught several glimpses of how amazing she was, but I had also quickly realized that we had our work cut out for us.

I was tired. I didn't want more work, even if it had been cut out just for me. I just wanted easy. And the toddlers looked easy. I felt ashamed of myself. I knew better. We all had our work cut out for us, even the parents of the toddlers.

The hotel where we stayed in Guangzhou housed several adoptive families, all on the last leg of a long journey as they awaited to finalize their child's paperwork at the U.S. consulate. Each morning at breakfast as we saw adopted toddlers and young children, I had to remind myself that God's plan for us was sitting across the table from me- not across the restaurant.

How to stay real and honest about the hard parts of life, without feeling like we have to turn everything into butterflies and rainbows? Life is so much more than that. It's gritty and hard sometimes, and that's okay. It's the very nature of what's hard that unfolds the beauty of the rainbow. Rainbows are what come after the storm, not inspite of them. The two are inextricably linked- one can't be appreciated without the other. That's why I write about the hard stuff, to give meaning to the victories that otherwise I would have overlooked.

Yesterday was a rainbow day for me- a day that to anyone else might have seemed like just another ordinary day but, to me, marked a huge milestone for both of us. We drove to another long doctor's appointment, and chatted and laughed easily the whole way there and back- a blessed relief from the uncomfortable silence we usually experienced on appointment days. Some things we talked about were a stretch for her, but she talked calmly and directly about how she felt about issues that in the past had quickly flared into defensiveness and anger. The evening was also lovely. Uneventful. It ended with sweet notes she had written and left for me and Dennis underneath our pillows. Ordinary events with extraordinary gains behind them.

She's perhaps the most resilient person I've ever met. She has every reason to not be the kind and gentle person that she is. And yet the longer she's home, the more I see the damage that was done during those many years in the orphange, usually so subtle that most people miss it- damage that only love and time can begin to heal.

She's learned everything at warp speed- all of the little things that we take for granted. How to give and take in a relationship. How to express emotions in a healthy way. How to recognize an ally without labeling it a foe. I couldn't be more proud of her.

And yet there are still tough times. Times when both of us want to call a time-out and walk away.

A few weeks ago we were there- in the middle of an awful storm. I felt like I had nothing left to give- no more patience, no more understanding, nothing. I sat at my desk at work one morning, wondering how I was going to find the strength to go home and do it all over again. It wasn't just that I didn't want to, I couldn't. My emotional reserves had run dry. I felt completely empty. Just then I got a knock at my office door and a student asked if I'd consider being video interviewed for a school project she was doing. The topic- learning to find faith in yourself during your lowest moments.

I sat down on the stool, the video camera began to roll, and the rawness of all we had been through, and all that is yet to come, came to the surface and I began to cry. I cried as I addressed the topic of the interview- the lowest time in my life. It was just a year ago when we brought our daughter home. When everything that seemed like it could go wrong in our life, seemed to be going wrong. Times that made me shudder to think of, and that sometimes- like that very day- things were still hard. Really hard. But that I realized that finding faith in myself meant reaching out and not trying to doing it alone.

I was so embarassed. I hardly knew her, and here I was spilling my guts and blubbering like an idiot.

She turned off the camera and quietly told me that she had been adopted too as as child. That things had been hard for her too, and that sometimes they still were. I was stunned. I had no idea. We talked for some time, both shedding tears. She encouraged me to keep going, to keep loving my daughter and to never stop, even when she seemed to push us away. We embraced and I knew that once again God had intervened on my daughter's behalf. I drove home that afternoon, noticing the warmth of the sun for the first time that day. A heavy darkness had been lifted.

Little did I know that just a few days later, we would reach an even lower point- lower than we had ever reached before, and that the darkness would feel darker than ever. But it didn't last long and I had to remind myself that it's that very ebb and flow that often characterizes adoption. Hard moments, followed by even harder moments, and then a breakthrough when you can finally catch a glimpse of what it is everyone's working towards, and the view is breath-taking.

I think back on those days eating breakfast in the hotel in Guangzhou and I realize that I would never trade her for one of those darling toddlers. Not a hundred of them. Even with all the past year has brought, I know now, with more perfect clarity than ever, that she was always meant to be our daughter.

There will be more storms, of that I have no doubt, but we learn from each of them. For me, mostly how to handle (or not to handle) myself during those raw and difficult moments. The storms have a way of unearthing every vulnerability and insecurity in myself that I thought I had learned to manage, or that I never knew even existed. As much as I tire of how deeply I feel everything, it was the emptiness I felt that day of the interview that scared me the most. I never want to go there again. So, I will try to take each storm and embrace it for what it is- a rainbow in the making.

I'm grateful to Kat, one of the amazing advisors at our school who was present during the interview,for capturing the moment.
(Posted with the student's permission)