What I Will Tell My Kids by Jen

The first time I told the story of my severe postpartum anxiety, I had to think about what I was doing.

Telling my story out loud, on the internet, where it would live forever. Where someday, my kids will see it. That was scary, so I almost didn’t tell it all.

I was going to leave out the part about seeing a demon hallucination because Good Lord, I don’t want my kids to read this someday and think I was crazy.

I was going to leave out the part where my husband couldn’t figure out a way to take care of me, because he is such a good man and I don’t want his name to be bad at the village gates.

I was going to leave out the part where my family doctor and pediatrician both told me that I should really just try to calm down, take a bath and drink some chamomile tea, because they were good doctors really, even though they dropped the ball on this one.

I think the instinct to sugarcoat is legitimate and for lots of reasons. Maybe I wasn’t ready to handle the whole truth of the thing. Maybe I felt that if I gave them less attention, I could strip those days of their power over me.

My biggest fear was that my kids would not understand my story when they were 12 or 15 or 25. That they would think I didn’t want them, or couldn’t handle them. Or that I was unhappy with them. I never want them to see a story in the news like this one and wonder “Did you ever want to do that?”

The answer is no, but I hesitate to give it, because I know it’s not that easy. The honest answer is more like no, but…I understand how a choice like that can be made and how it can even look like the greatest act of love in the eyes and heart of a sick mom.

Ultimately, I decided to tell the whole truth. I did it for right now, because there are still too many women who stand in front of doctors and husbands and mothers and friends who just don’t know how to help them.

Not because they are bad doctors or husbands or mothers or friends. But because we still don’t have enough support systems out there, enough classes, enough hotlines. We still see mental health as a very personal issue and we look away.

We look away.

So I also did it for years from now, when I will tell my kids this:

I went through a bad time, caused by all the crazy hormones running through my body. I didn’t sleep for days. Your dad was just starting a new job and he thought I was a really, really strong mama and that I would pull myself out of it. And he couldn’t miss his first week of work. He took me to the doctor who told me that I just needed to relax. He took me and Annie to the pediatrician who told me take a bath and drink some tea. He trusted them to know what to do.

I finally did get help, but not before some really scary things happened.

During that time, I never stopped loving you. I never stopped wanting you. In fact, hugs from you were the only thing that made me feel better. When I thought about leaving, I was taking you with me.

There was never a moment when I didn’t want to be with you.

Lots of mamas get sick like this. And it happens in different ways. Some mamas look like they didn’t want their babies, but we can never know what a sick mama is thinking. What she needs, more than anything, is love. Love and help. Don’t judge her. Help her.

Even though it was hard, the best things came from me telling my story. It helped all the mamas who knew me to be more aware of themselves and their mama friends. It helped more than a few mamas get the help they needed. Until we do better with organized outreach for sick mamas, this is what we have, telling our truth and spreading it one mama at a time.

So that if you or someone you love ever feel this way after having a baby, people will know what to do.

And remember…It’s not your fault. You will be ok.

If you or someone you know is struggling with pre- or postpartum depression or anxiety

If you need immediate help, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
If you are looking for pregnancy or postpartum support and local resources, please call or email us:
- Call PSI Warmline (English & Spanish) 1-800-944-4PPD (4773)
- Email support@postpartum.net

May is Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month. In honor of Dana and me and all the mamas who have recovered, please don’t just look at the new babies. Look at the new mamas. Are they ok?

PSI Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month Blog Hop

Her Heart is Broken. But Her Life is Not.

Dana’s post on Tuesday was powerful.

But there’s more..

Four days after her dad died, I met her at a shopping center so she could find something to wear to the funeral. It was a beautiful day in Southern California, and our girls were happy to be out. They played at my feet as Dana tried on and modeled dresses. She’d look great in a paper bag, so really we were waiting for the one that spoke to us. “And says what?” she asked ruefully. “Perfect for Dad’s funeral?”

On the way out of one store, there were huge floppy hats. “I’d love to wear a big hat to the service” she said. But after she put one on, and looked at herself for a long moment, how it hid her face, she took it off. In my heart, I was proud of her for not hiding under the brim. Dana doesn’t hide, not even from the most difficult moment in her life.

We had lunch at the nicest restaurant. Who cares that we had a two year old, a one year old and a six month old? Nobody was going to say anything to us–we’re twelve feet of woman coming at you and on that day, we were projecting some big-time mama space.

We drank a whole bottle of wine. The girls happily let us sit for over two hours. That hasn’t happened in the history of the world, so our guardian angels knew what we needed. We talked and she cried. But we laughed too. It was one of those moments after someone dies where normal life is fighting to share space next to grief.

I missed Alan’s funeral because of a long-scheduled multi-family vacation–which I was willing to cancel, but Dana would hear nothing of that. She sent me a selfie on her way to the service, looking like a Steel Magnolia. “I’m praying for you” I texted back. “I know” she replied.

Since then, not all the days have been easy. But some have been easy. And not all the days have been hard. But some have been hard. Dana is present for it all, and handles each with grace, because she prays for grace and asks us to pray grace over her.

Her heart is broken. But her life is not.

In the last two years, several of her friends have also lost parents.

Dana does not pull away. She goes to them and brings faith, hope and love. She cries with them. She shares her resources and rallies the rest of us in prayer. She knows this shadow, and that where there is shadow, there is light. She brings the light with her when she comes.

When she gives, she gets. When she gets, she gives. And each time a piece of her heals.

The best thing is that she does this all out loud and in front of her daughters. So they are learning an amazing lesson about grief and giving and grace.

Happy Mother’s Day to my soft, strong and beautiful friend. You are an inspiration and I love you.

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It’s Mother’s Day. We have amazing mothers, and that’s why we never write about them. The love in our hearts is too big for words.

It’s Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month. Dana and I both suffered Postpartum Anxiety. This is a big issue for us, so please, don’t just look at the new babies around you. Look at the news moms, too. Are they ok?

But May is also the month of Mary, mother of Jesus. She understands death and grief, the struggles and joys of motherhood. She is our first best model of a woman whose heart was broken, but not her life. She prayed for grace and became it. She went to others in need with faith, hope and love, and shined a light into the darkness.

So for all the mothers on Mother’s Day, we offer this prayer, the Memorare:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left unaided.

Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me.

Amen.

The Wasteland

My dear and beloved T.S. Eliot begins his epic poem, “The Wasteland” with the line, “April is the cruelest month,” and for me, the end of April through the beginning of May feels like a wasteland.

On April 23, 2013, my dad received a radiation treatment that was a last resort for us, for him. Beginning in October of 2012, as his lymphoma spread, his chemo treatments failed. In the month of April, we received two big blows. We were hoping that he would go to San Diego for stem cell therapy, a treatment that held the hopes of really good results. The day before he and my mom were supposed to leave, they got the news that his cancer was growing, rendering him ineligible for the treatment. I was with my parents when they got the call and it was the first time, during his whole bout with cancer that I had seen my dad truly break down and cry.

The second blow came the day before the radiation shot. The hospital called to inform him that this particular treatment isn’t covered by Medicare, and would cost $40,000. They then asked if he would like to go ahead with the treatment. For the second time, my father cried. He told us that he didn’t want to use that much money. He cried in the kitchen where I had eaten every breakfast of my childhood. Where he fixed chocolate malts in the summertime. At the table where we laughed. Where we fought. Where we three now cried together.

The dates are hard for me. On the 23^rd he got that shot, which had the most negative of side effects. On the 28^th, we went to see him in the hospital where he was in treatment for extreme pain. Mazie and Violet picked him a white rose and brought it. His face lit up with joy to see those girls. May 3^rd, he collapsed at home and my mom realized she couldn’t care for him alone and he went back to the hospital. May 5^th, a CT Scan showed lung caner and we stopped all treatment. May 7^th, we decided to bring him home. May 9^th, he left the hospital. May 11^th, he left us.

The days leading up to April 23^rd, then to May 11^th, wear at my soul. I feel physically different. My anxiety picks up. It’s hard to breathe sometimes. My body aches. I told my friend and dance instructor that my muscles are so tight lately and that even though I’m faithfully in yoga classes, my flexibility seems to be getting worse. “It’s because you’re not releasing.” He said matter-of-factly. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You know.” he said, “Emotionally and physically. You can’t do it right now.” And he’s right. Don’t you love friends who know? I feel like if I release these emotions, I’ll drown.

But what is the lesson? What I am learning is to be gentle with myself. I don’t fake being ok. I don’t overcompensate with loud laughter or a huge smile. And that’s all right. My friends who know are loving me right through this. Many of us feel like we always have to be strong, like we can’t be the ones who break down. But right now, I am broken, and that is ok.

I spend my days not stressing about what didn’t get done. Right now, that stress is too much for me. My girls and I take longer at dinner, listen to French music, dine by candlelight. In my sadness, I delight in them.

Many people tack on to their grief advice the phrase, “your dad wouldn’t want you to be sad,” and I hate that. Because deep down in my heart, I think he would want us to be a little sad. Who wants to be forgotten? Who wants to be not missed when they’re gone? What I don’t do is allow my grief to stop me from living. There can still be smiles among the tears. There can still be bursts of light in the darkness. We do a poor job of thinking that things must be black or white. There are not only two choices.

So during these 18 days from April 23^rd to May 11^th, I’m remembering that. I take my girls on outings and we have fun, but I also allow a space for my sadness. We talk about things that Zsa-Zsa would have loved and I let them see the tears flow from my eyes. We go to Disneyland. We opt for a little longer of a walk and push bedtime back 15 minutes. We live gently. But at night, when the house is quiet, the hole that he left in my heart opens up and I feel utterly lost in a world that just doesn’t make sense without my daddy.

If you are grieving, if you are struggling emotionally, please be gentle with yourself. Allow yourself a space to grieve. Forgive yourself for your moments of sadness or anger. Embrace your struggle. Avoid people with whom you have to “fake it.” If you take a hard look at it, they probably aren’t your true friends, anyway. Surround yourself with your definition of beauty, with things that make you happy. Get a latte. Or a beer. Or a vodka gimlet (the drink Dad and I had together in New Orleans) and raise your glass to us. Smile and cry. And know that the sun will rise again tomorrow.

In Favor of Opting Out

Do you know about this Common Core testing?

Do you really know?

I listened to two third grade teachers explain tonight that there are TWENTY 45 minute blocks of testing. TWENTY. For third graders. All on a computer, reading text and answering questions about the text while scrolling through and trying to keep track of where they are. And then having to read two pieces of text and then write a 2-3 paragraph essay where they CITE from the two pieces of text. Typing on a computer, while scrolling back and forth.

Can you do that???

Let me tell you what we will learn from this type of testing.

We will learn that if we’re going to test third graders on computers, we had better spend more time teaching them how to use a computer. Some schools have already started assigning 40 minutes of keyboard homework a week.

Don’t look now, but what happens if a student doesn’t have a lap top at home?

And we’ll learn that we need to make sure the directions are written at grade level and aren’t so long that the kids have to scroll through them.

That’s right–directions so long that they don’t fit in the screen and require third graders to scroll. Rule number one in the blogging world is to keep your posts short enough that people don’t have to scroll. So they don’t, you know, LOSE INTEREST. And that’s for grown-ups.

And also that the text pieces need to be grade level texts.

You might think that would be a given. But then, copyrights cost money, and things aren’t public domain until they are 100 years old. I learned this lesson when I asked why on earth we were testing 11th graders with Thoreau. Thoreau. “Because he’s free”. And those are the kind of solid, research based answers upon which these tests are built.

And also that if a third grader has to navigate six feet of scrolling screen to read two pieces of text, then type a two paragraph essay in which they are required to cite the afore-mentioned texts–at some point a lot of them will say the third grade version of “F*ck it” (which for some of them will be “F*ck it” and really, who can blame them)–and just hit “Enter”.

We will not learn what the child actually knows or how effective their teacher is in the classroom.

Elementary schools are producing children who excel at one thing: reading directions. You think I’m exaggerating? Watch this: in the Fall, the school districts will make teachers sit down with their data and try to figure out how they can be more “effective”. Teachers aren’t stupid, they know that too many Americans believe that low test scores equal shoddy teachers who drink coffee and read the Sports page while their students run amuck. So they will generate action plans that look something like this: Spend more time on keyboarding. Practice scrolling. Familiarize students with academic direction language. Practice these skills every six weeks and re-evaluate.

I do not believe in conspiracy theories. The Bad Guys In Washington are not purposefully trying to create a whole generation of worker bees.

But they are creating a whole generation of worker bees. Standardized testing was a nice dream. In practice it has been a disaster that will require decades of recovery in the US.

Maybe you are a college educated stay at home parent who has time to fill in the gaps of your child’s education. Maybe you can afford private school, which looks nothing like this.

But if you aren’t and you can’t, then what?

There’s only one thing to do: opt out. Not because the test can hurt your child.

Because the test is hurting the quality of your child’s education. That’s a BIG and DANGEROUS difference.

Rescue Task Force to Nepal

In times of widespread disaster, I am always impressed by the way the world responds. Sometimes, though, it’s hard to know where to send your money so that it will have the most impact. We’ve posted before that Dana’s uncle, Gary Becks, founded and still works with a global volunteer disaster relief organization, Rescue Task Force.

Rescue Task Force currently has two teams scheduled for Honduras and El Salvador bringing dental care, clean water, and medical services and a team leaving for Cambodia and Laos this Thursday. But even though all of their US-based teams are tied up helping in other areas, Rescue Task Force has a team that is based in Bangkok, Thailand, that is working to get disaster supplies and relief to the victims of the earthquakes that have rocked Nepal.

100% of donations made for Nepal will go directly to supplies for the earthquake victims. All of the aid workers are volunteers and will hand deliver food, clothing, blankets, basic toiletries, and baby necessities. If you would like to donate, please visit www.rescuetaskforce.org And join us in praying for the families in Nepal and the rescue workers that are so desperately trying to reach them.

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