Saturday, June 30, 2012

Spiritual Battles


The days following my last post about Baby Melvin were the most powerful and spirit-filled days of my life. There is so much inspiration and detail in what my family experienced that I want to be sure and do it justice. I am currently writing out the story slowly so that I can capture all the richness and detail. It's so important to me that others can understand the depth of it all. I hope to post it soon.


Taking our old sign down!



In the meantime I wanted to post an update. We adopted Baby "Melvin", only through the grace and love of God. He is no longer an orphan. He is our son and has a brother and two sisters. I hope he is ready to be completely overwhelmed by love because his siblings are stoked for him to come home. They are already arguing over who gets to take care of him. It’s such a good problem for a former orphan to have!



I wish I could say that I’ve been giddy. On cloud nine. Unfortunately, that’s not completely the truth. We went to visit “Melvin” for the first time exactly one week ago. That night before I went to bed I took a small dose of medication that doctors have been trying to get me to take forever. I finally broke down and figured, hey, they’re doctors. Maybe I should take this. About two hours after I took the medicine my husband had to call 911. I was literally having a heart attack. My heart started beating rapidly and I couldn’t catch up with it. My chest burned, I was shaking, and extremely hot. I was lying on the floor in a fetal position when the EMTs got to our house. After a long night in the hospital, I was discharged with the orders of, “Don’t ever take that medication again”.  Don’t worry, I thought. That day I wrote up our later to share with everyone about adopting Melvin and Sunday we went to visit him again. When Monday came around God took us on an incredible journey. The whole thing was very emotional and nerve-racking and exciting all wrapped up together! But with each day I felt like the side effects of the medicine had not completely worn off. I had horrible chest pain, rapid heart rates, shortness of breathe…it just didn’t go away.



Wednesday night, after we knew “Melvin” was ours we went to the NICU to see him. My chest got so bad during this time that when we were done I went straight downstairs to the ER. Again, I was admitted and checked for everything under the sun. No blood clots, heart enzymes look good, I had an abnormal EKG but I’ve always had that. My heart beats to its own unique drum. I’ve been on that rodeo before years ago with a cardiologist. Ultimately I was discharged with the doctor shaking his head. No one knew what was wrong. I knew I wasn’t making it up and I had a family and new baby to get back to. It’s not as if I wanted to be taking time out to get my heart checked.



Thursday a nurse from our insurance company called to see how everything I went. I told her how discouraged I was. That I could hardly go up the stairs without my heart going bonkers and the chest pain was just constant. She gave a small sigh and told me a personal story of her own. That she had gone through a spell of anxiety attacks that were nothing like she thought an anxiety attack would be. I had to admit I always pictured someone bending over and breathing heavy, as if they had just won a race. However, what she described to me was exactly what I was feeling. She recommended therapy and maybe a mild sedative. I hung up with her and felt slightly relieved. Maybe I wasn’t dying after all! On the other hand, this was nothing like I had ever experienced. And it’s not as if I stifle my emotions. I wear everything out there on my sleeve for people to read and know. If there was a stressor happening I was sure I would know about it. I quietly noticed, however, that just thinking it was an anxiety attack made it a little better. This was simply ridiculous, how could this be? Usually when I am stressed out I can just relax and breathe it away. I’ve always been able to bring my own heart rate down. This sensation was somehow completely connected to my subconscious, in a place that I had absolutely no access to. I was not able to shut it off or even talk to it and say that everything was ok.



A follow up appointment to the doctor the day after resulted in a prescription for Xanax. That’s just what I need. More side-effects. I took it just in case things got really bad but my hope is to not utilize it. More important than the medicine, what I began to do was pay attention. I noticed that every time we talked about the baby my heart would do loops and I would feel a burning sensation in my gut. Off and on I felt like I would pass out and literally had to stop thinking or talking about him. Many times I mentioned to my husband, “I don’t think we should finish this adoption. Look at me!” I mentioned this to a friend and she instructed, “Tell Satan to leave you alone.” Wow. Seriously. When would the enemy be more active then when God had just performed a miracle the way that He had. I marvel at how many people were ministered to through this journey and I know God’s work could all be undone if I just don’t adopt Melvin. If I just walk away and say, ‘Sorry, just kidding, we don’t want him anymore. My heart can’t handle it.’ I know she’s right and we’ve begun praying over the spiritual battle raging in this house. As usual I seem to be the main target here and in certain moments I am more terrified than ever to move forward. I am actually thankful for the time that the NICU has given us for me to get my act together.



What I have noticed are the triggers. I’ve always been very sensitive to smells. A certain smell can throw me back into summer break after sixth grade watching the summer Olympics. Ninety-nine percent of the time I LOVE these moments. With just a whiff I can be apple-picking on a farm or on my first airplane ride. I’ve always been especially sensitive to the smell of my babies. That was one of my hesitations of adoption, which I actually wrote in a blog. I didn’t want someone else’s baby because they might smell different. It turns out that “Melvin” smells fantastic, just like a newborn. It also turns out, however, that the smell of a newborn no longer brings me back to my first three children and the wonderful memories that they bring. I can’t even say that it brings me back to Wyatt, but it must. I don’t pull up a visual or a memory, but rather a physical reaction. Every time we have gone to the NICU I notice a burning in my gut and a pounding in my chest that I cannot control. I can’t breathe it out or tell it to go away. We go. I smell. Instant reaction. Interestingly, I notice, as I change “Melvin’s” diaper, the smell of infant baby poop actually does resurface the old happy memories. I go right back to the old nurseries my kids had and the love I felt for their squooshy faces. I find this a poignant thing to notice since I don’t have a baby poop memory from Wyatt. I do have a newborn smell memory from him, though. There has to be a connection here.  



Included in this observation is simply noticing how much my senses are being bombarded. Just being in a NICU is overloading. The last time I was in one we were being given a tour to see where Wyatt would be staying. Then there are the monitors. The incessant monitors, always telling us if someone is breathing or not. I know that this is a good thing. Except for the fact that we spent three weeks hooked up to one, day and night, listening for Wyatt’s heart rate. Every time it dropped I would jump up, shift around, lie on my left side, grab an oxygen mask and listen for the rate to go back up. I listened to every beat of that boy’s heart until they took the monitor off to perform the cesarean. And then it never beat again.



So when we’re holding “Melvin” and his oxygen saturation alarm goes off I go into panic mode. It’s not that I take any physical action. However my insides escalate to the point where I feel sick. The nurses keep telling me to calm down, that it’s no big deal and that I need to stop staring at it when it goes off. The truth is that I’m not sure how to break a habit I didn’t even know I had. I didn’t know that a NICU would terrify me. I didn’t know that medical alarms will send me into a full room-spinning state of nausea. I am not sure why they even do. There are no conscious thoughts that happen, like, ‘Oh this is taking me back to Wyatt. I feel like we lost him all over again”. It really does all seem different and logically I know that everyone is safe. So why when I am kangaroo-rocking him does the room spin and I feel like I need to run to the bathroom so I can pass out on the floor?


My litte son




That moment actually brings me back to another time I have felt that way. I was a freshman in high school. Some of my friends were in a car accident. One of my friends died and the other was critically wounded. I rode to the funeral and then afterwards we went to the hospital to visit. I remember talking to my friend, Erin. Her jaw was wired shut and she had scars and stitches all over her face. I don’t remember much else except that when we got up to leave I got that feeling. The same feeling that I experience rocking “Melvin” in the NICU. I ran to a restroom and fainted on the floor. I woke up, clammy, pale and out of breath. I went home and slept for three days. I remember thinking that I must have come down with something. Now I am wondering if that wasn’t a germ at all. The two sensations are so similar…



I have to believe that it’s good to make these connections. I start to get emotional as the baby beside “Melvin” (Jadyn, the one who gave me closure with Wyatt) starts to set his alarms off. It must happen every five minutes that we are there, every single day. He continually stops breathing, isn’t getting enough oxygen or causing any number of his other alarms to go off. He is even hooked up to an extra machine where even more alarms can ring. Fear gripped my stomach today as I thought to myself, ‘We’re going to watch him die’. I’m not sure I could handle that.



I’m not sure why I can’t handle any of this and I’m extremely frustrated at it all. For me to now be in a “constant anxiety attack”, as it was so professionally put, seems silly after everything we’ve been through. Even more frustrating is not knowing what to do about it and knowing that little “Melvin” will be coming home soon. I’ve moved households ninety-thousand times, home schooled, lost a child, worked three jobs, and done Master’s degree work while doing all of that, and NOW I have an anxiety attack? I sit in the NICU trying to do some cognitive work on myself, like slowly breathing and saying, “This is not Wyatt. I am fine. “Melvin” is fine. These alarms are good” but it doesn’t seem to help. For me, that’s the most disturbing part. If I can’t talk myself down out of this, I don’t know how to access it. I don’t know how to make it better. I am terrified it will never go away.   



Somewhere inside I know that it will eventually work out. I’ll end up writing about it and hopefully it can be used to help someone, somewhere, even if it’s just one person. For everyone following this, I could sure use your prayers, for healing and help with the spiritual battle that I face.                


Sunday, June 24, 2012

Day at the NICU


Sunday morning Tyler and I woke up in a panic. We had fallen in love with Prae. We had been out of baby mode for several months, sold every baby thing we owned. We’d even marveled at how neat it would be since we are such an active family. Even with her disabilities Prae could have come with us to swim lessons and hiking. A baby? I learned over the last few days that I have baby phobia. There are many factors forming this emotion: our previous NICU experience, Wyatt who is no longer with us and my Lexi who was a baby nightmare. I’ve started seeing a therapist who does EMDR, a form of therapy to help process trauma. I’ve learned that there are many layers built around trauma in the past few years that I need to process through. I was never scared of babies before but I certainly am now. Does this mean I run from it? Or does this mean I heal from it? After making some phone calls we learn that the home study agency is fine with us adopting both children but the international agency is not. Thailand won’t accept four children being in the home. We would have to say goodbye to Prae. My mind races up and down from good to bad and left and right. This is ironically everything we’ve wanted for two years. We had planned on more babies up until just a few months ago. We had researched raising a biracial family during our Ethiopia phase of adoption. Little Melvin is African American and Hispanic. We’ve researched every childhood disability on the planet in our search for waiting children and Prae. I have learned enormous amounts on childhood attachment and that seems applicable with a premie. I can see the path, where everything we’ve done over the past six months has led us here. I just wish my head and heart could catch up! I examine myself and realize that it takes a long time for me to adjust. Adoption took months to take hold in my soul. The idea of an older child took weeks to grow on me. Handicap children took weeks of research for me to understand and get used to. I’m just built that way. Everything takes me just a little bit of time to get used to certain ideas. Then I’m fine. Somehow I know in a week an infant won’t scare me so much, but right now it’s only been 48 hours.

I also come to realize that I will never be to type of person to experience love at first sight. I’m addicted to research which means that there’s always another path or another option. If I don’t like one answer I find another. I do this with our children we sponsor through Compassion International.  There are little symbols in the pictures of the children needing sponsoring. Some represent living in an area that’s high with HIV/AIDS. Other’s mean ‘orphan’, ‘living in an area with human trafficking’, and ‘has waited over six months for a sponsor”. We just added a new child to our sponsorship list and I wasn’t satisfied until I found one who met all of those criteria. With our adoption process, part of the reason I like the waiting children was because I had control over it. I could see their face first, read their profile for several days, and get the feel of it. I confessed to Tyler I was scared of my reaction if we got a random referral in an email of our child, randomly selected to be ours. I don’t have enough control over that kind of a situation. I was terrified to realize that I have no control over this situation. All morning I try to tell myself to trust God but I find that I don’t like it and that it’s much harder to do than it is to just sing it during worship. My prayers this morning were loaded with, “Do your Will, just help me to like it.”

Our church is next door to the hospital so I convince Tyler to take me there. He kindly waited with the kids while I went into the NICU. The nurses were thrilled again to see us. One came over to verify that we were going to change his name, right? Because Melvin, well, you know. I look at Melvin and pray over him. I try and speak to a doctor who was making rounds but I soon realize that the nurses are with these babies all day and night. They are the most informative. I make friends with his assigned nurse and she tells me how well he is doing. I think about the research I’ve done on the increased risk of problems with premature babies. Then I think about all of my willingness to adopt a special needs child and my advocacy for them. Where is that passion now? It’s disappeared into the fear of the unknown. I don’t have a medical record to read and evaluate. I don’t know what will happen. Again, I have no control, just pure faith and trust. I get to kangaroo hold him again and I talk to him and ask him what his name is. All I can think of is Milo. Such a ridiculous name and yet it’s the only one I can think of. I sing and tell him that Jesus loves him, just in case no one else ever does. I spend most of that time crying out to God for peace with His will. As I'm praying I think about how mighty God is, how sovereign He is, and how I'm so thankful that He will allow me to approach Him with requests. I think about what a sinful person I am and I realize that I don't deserve to be rocking this baby boy. A wounded child in a third world country, sure. I owe it to God for all that I've done. But for God to give me a beautiful baby boy? I am Humbled in His prescence as I think about this.  

As I’m rocking I notice the baby in the space next to Melvin. Each NICU nurse is assigned two babies and her little station is between the two of them. I had assumed the other day that this baby was on his way home. I couldn’t see oxygen being given through his nose and he was larger. He was also in a crib and not in an incubator. It was very decorated and when I had mentioned it earlier the nurses had said, “Yeah, he’s been here a long time.” But as I rocked I read his tag for the first time. It said: Jayden. Born January 19, 2012. 1lb. 5oz. That was six months ago and he’s still here. He was one ounce bigger than Wyatt.



“How old was that baby when he was born?” I ask.



“28 weeks, but he was tinier than normal.”



“Will he live?”



“We don’t know.”



Jayden has been here three months past his full term gestational age. This whole situation hits me like a ton of bricks. That was Wyatt. That would have been Wyatt. When I ask the nurse what she thinks about the babies’ personalities (because Melvin is so cuddly and calm), she says that sometimes how much trauma they go through can make them angry and unloving, then she nods to Jayden, “Like that one”. I don’t know what’s going on with that baby but I know it’s not good. Moments later more nurses and a doctor come in and surround Jayden. They are talking about some sort of procedure. I hear the doctor explain, “You need to have forceps with you since he’s got a trach. His trachea is actually sewn to his skin…” The voice becomes inaudible but my mind does a cartwheel. That’s why there’s no oxygen mask on him. He’s got tubes underneath his blankets that I simply couldn’t see. Then I hear a nurse mention that it’s time for his morphine. Morphine? What has this baby gone through? As the staff walks away and the quiet of my corner returns I come to an instant realization. That could have been Wyatt. For two years I have wondered why no one tried to do a tracheotomy when they were not able to intubate him. I even mentioned it to Tyler a few days ago. They should’ve is what I said. Now I thank God that they didn’t. I never ever thought I would be thinking this or saying this. Thank you, God, for taking Wyatt. Thank you Jesus that I did not spend six or more months visiting my son in a NICU. Thank you Yahweh for not letting us live every moment not knowing if he was going to die. Thank you El-Shaddai for not letting us learn what it is like to watch your baby suffer. Or worse, having him live through all that but being severely disabled. I am reminded of my prayer to God during the time we were trying to save Wyatt. “Please save my baby. But…you know the things I can’t handle…” I’ve been so ashamed of that prayer since that I only ever told Tyler. How bad is it to only want your son if he’s healthy? Many people had told us these things; that it might have been bad for him being born that early. But the pain is so overwhelming you don’t really care. Now I had a picture, right in front of me, of what it would have been like. And I am glad my son is heaven. I have closure.

As I rock baby Melvin, try to think of a better name than Milo, and wonder why I’m here since we don’t have any money, I know that this, too, is perfectly timed. God is hear right now, speaking to me. He is giving me peace. I realize that all of this, the phone call and baby Melvin, might have all been simply to serve that purpose. We may not get the money we need this week but I am happy that my son is with God.   

"The" Call


            Our answers about Prae came back and Tyler and I both had a good feeling about her. Nothing really gave us clarity and we still have lots of unknowns about her. We said we’d send the answers off to our ABA therapist and then get back to them with an answer. Unfortunately our therapist was on vacation in Denver so we spent almost two weeks missing each other’s phone calls. We just wanted to be responsible and make sure that we did all the research possible to make an educated decision. I have to admit, I think I wanted to postpone saying ‘yes’ just a little longer.

            Three days ago we came out of a store and I had a missed phone call from the home study agency on my cell phone. That was weird. We weren’t really due for any phone calls. I listen to the message which is very broken and hard to hear. “This is Isabelle….a local baby boy….you interested?” What? I call them right back, thankful they are still open. Isabel gets on the phone.

           

“Yes, there’s a local boy here who was born prematurely. His mom signed over the rights at birth and he needs a family. He’s in the NICU and needs to be held.”

           

I’m in shock. We aren’t on the domestic track. I’ve never spoken to this Isabel in my life. How did she even get my info?

           

She continues, “I know you were doing international but your case worker referred you to us as a potential family.”

           

Why? Is all I can think. Then I think of Wyatt. “How premature was he?”

           

“28 weeks.”



Thank God Tyler is driving the car because I keel over my knees and start to cry. Then I think about how far out of the city we are and that surely we’re too far to go to a NICU everyday and hold him. So I ask where he is.



“He was born at Centennial Hills Hospital.”



Oh convenient. The one that’s two blocks away, where nobody in this city lives except for us. I can’t even say that I’m happy at this point. It’s more like shock and surprise and awe. Even after the phone call ends I’m not sure what happened. I tell Tyler and his face tells me he feels the same way. What in the world is going on? The whole thing is too precise, too close to home. Our home study wasn’t even complete. We agree to at least go talk to the NICU staff and see him. We are too in shock to be elated or to feel like we just got the ‘call’. A call like that should never have happened and yet it did.

The following day a kind friend agreed to watch the kiddos for us while we went to the hospital. It was very intimidating. We sat at a conference table with two social workers and nurse practitioner in charge of the baby’s care. She goes over all of the possible complications of premature babies- things that are eerily familiar. Tyler later relates how it was difficult to hear her describe how he was intubated. Ventilators. Surfactant. Tyler watched it all with Wyatt and it’s where it all went horribly wrong. Amazingly, even though this baby was born at the same gestational age as Wyatt, he was twice the size. He hadn’t had any major complications. He was off the ventilator and on regular room oxygen. His feedings were increasing. He had a grade one brain bleed at birth, but I soon learned this is normal and what the doctors considered to be ‘fine’. It was definitely better than the other levels that could happen. In the conference room I don’t now how to feel. We had spent so many weeks researching abuse, trauma, pediatric traumatic brain injury, and adoption of older children. This was all brand new. I feel like I didn’t have enough time to get used to it and let it sink in. After the talking was done we scrubbed in and went into the NICU to visit him. The nurses were giddy to see us. “Are you here for baby Melvin? We named him Melvin because we couldn’t just call him baby. Actually the day shift named him Tyler and the nightshift named him Melvin.” They all gushed at what a good baby he was and how they all loved him. We approached his incubator and they cheered, “Mom and dad are here!”. I think this should have made us feel good but we were still in shock. I just kept thinking, we are on the international plan. Our home study isn’t done. I haven’t even signed a paper.

 I walk over and see this tiny baby laying among blankets, covered in cords. He is a beautiful tan, with long silky black hair. Even with my surprise at his tiny size I quietly tell myself that he is double the size that Wyatt was. We talk casually to the nurses about certain premie issues and his medical progress. By all respects he has every chance of being healthier than Prae ever would be and yet I’m terrified. For so long we had been planning on older kids. We just sold our crib three weeks ago. All of our baby stuff is gone. I had mourned never having another baby and we gradually comforted ourselves with the fact that, well, babies are kind of a pain anyway. The whole experience was so overwhelming I couldn’t put words to my feelings. Our last NICU tour was a week before we lost Wyatt. I wasn’t in the mental mindset for a baby. Still in shock. I asked to hold him and the nurses were excited. I discovered very quickly what a kangaroo hold was when they closed the curtains and lifted up my shirt! Then this little baby got tucked between my skin and the cotton fabric and it was nice. I have to say, I’ve read tons of adoption stories and many of them seem to be love at first sight. I start beating myself up when I don’t feel this right away with Melvin. The thought briefly runs through my head that this is not my baby. But in all reality he isn’t. He smells beautiful but I’m not used to it, although I’m sure I could be. His features don’t resemble us, and I haven’t felt him move for 9 months in my womb. So it is new and I try to cut myself some slack. Twelve hours earlier we were adopting a 6-year old Thai girl. This was instant newborn. I’m still adjusting to this. I think about all the stories that involved people who did not feel love at first sight, even with their biological children. I hadn’t experience it but I had read about people having the feeling of, “where did you come from?” And that’s how I feel now.

On my chest his breathing gets much less labored. Nurses visit us frequently and say things like, “He’s got mom’s eyes”. Really? God is written all over this, I just don’t know in what way. One of the social workers from the adoption agency stays with us. She talks gently.



            “If you guys decide that you want him we can sign the papers as soon as next week. All the money is due at that time.”



We already know that’s a stretch. With international adoption all the money is due in chunks and we’d been paying as we went. We also planned a large fundraising campaign that we were going to start after we had been matched with a child. There wasn’t time for any of that with Melvin. We asked how much.



“The agency fee is $15,500, the matching fee is $2,000, and the birth mother fees are $1,640”.



Oh is that all? I bet my jaw dropped, I don’t think I could have hidden that. I didn’t say it but I wondered why in the world we need to pay a birth mother who literally gave birth and walked away. What are we paying her for? And I’m reminded that this is one reason we shied away from domestic adoption. Besides the fact that we wanted to rescue a child from poverty, the prices were outrageous. I look down at his sweet face again and think, “I can’t afford you”. Why would this happen? The social worker leaves and Tyler asks me just that. Why are we here? Why would this happen? We don’t have that money? We live paycheck to paycheck and yet God called us to adopt. We knew it would be a challenge, but this? This is impossible. Literally.

On the drive home we try to talk out all of our emotions. Somehow I realize that I don’t feel heroic adopting a local baby, which may mean part of our international adoption was for my benefit. It should not be. An orphan is an orphan no matter where they are. That baby is just as parentless. We feel like we should be jumping at Melvin but we are still transitioning our minds from older, international child. And with the money issue…why would this happen? Was it random chance? Luckily it was Friday and we had the weekend.

On Saturday we felt like we needed clarity. We called our former pastor who got on the phone with his wife. They listened to our journey and our predicament. It was an encouraging phone call. They pointed out for us what our prayer has been this whole time. For His will to be done. For our child to be shown to us. For our child to come home, which I posted only a blog ago. We had continually asked God to be obvious, that I was pretty thick-headed so it would need to be clear. And then we get this phone call which by all means we never should have gotten? “Put the word out there. Let God do His work. God loves to show off,” they advised. So I sat down and wrote a quick letter. I posted it on facebook and sent out it out to the email addresses that I had. I asked for donations in our name to the adoption agency and that we had three days to get a little over $19 thousand dollars. It seems impossible, but wouldn’t this be just like God? The response has been great so far, in responses from friends who are praying and willing to help. We have no idea what the amount donated will be. It might be $500 when it’s all said and done. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m willing to accept whatever His will is. This is too complicated for me to navigate so I’ll blindly follow. Fully trusting God has never been more applicable or more difficult than it is at this very moment.  


The Waiting Child


During our paperwork process I found that I couldn’t stay away from the Waiting Children. No matter what the agency, what the country, here were these kids staring me in the face. Kids who had been overlooked at birth, too cripple for the average adoptive family. They were too much work. Too imperfect. And yet they were still orphans and still sleeping in rooms with dozens of other kids. There’s a lot of awareness being raised of the waiting children with fixable needs. Many times it’s minor: just a cleft lip or heart defect that requires surgery. I soon discovered that these children are often adopted quickly, almost as soon as they are posted on the waiting lists. It’s all the others no one wants to touch. Cerebral palsy, down’s syndrome, cognitive delays of an unknown origin, even autism. Where would my own son, who has Aspergers syndrome, be had he been born in a different nation? Would someone like him have been abandoned? I can’t help but thinking of how lucky I am just to have been born “normal”. It’s nothing that I did or deserve credit for. It’s just sheer chance and luck. I think back to people I’ve known in the past who were arrogant about their positions in life, including myself! The ignorance of our luck at being genetically normal becomes apparent to me when I think how we are all so superior, as if any of it was something we deserved. I could’ve had a brain bleed as an infant. I could have had an extra chromosome, just by chance, and had down’s syndrome. I could have been abused, hit by a car, born blind or had a limb difference. It’s not uncommon. We don’t see it often in our own neighborhoods but as I scroll through hundreds of faces I can see it is not uncommon at all. Who am I to feel better than people like this? Now my train of thought expands to the question, “Who am I to choose a ‘normal’ child for adoption?” I am feeling more superficial by the moment when I think we started this journey wanting a healthy baby boy for our family. Don’t we all want healthy babies? Of course, but that’s not the only reality. The rest of reality is that there are children out there who aren’t perfect and they need food in their stomachs and hugs before bedtime. They didn’t commit some bad deed to deserve to stay in an orphanage on a waitlist for years. They were simply born.

At the beginning of this journey five months ago we thought Ethiopia was our answer. They have infants, boys, and pretty healthy. The process goes relatively quickly. It just seemed to fit our original plan. We have learned, however, that there are many layers to adoption and many of them are not pretty. There is a documentary out there called The Dying Rooms. It was filmed in 1995 in China. It shows how some orphanages treated their little girls. Some were literally just left to die in rooms. The reporters show footage of an infant girl too weak to even cry. She died four hours later. Other toddlers were strapped in rows to chairs, their legs tied open incase they used the bathroom (which consisted of a bucket underneath them). Can you imagine a two-year old tied down all day? Neither can I. Many of them developed rocking motions for stimulation and several had gashes on their heads from banging their head against objects repeatedly. This documentary embarrassed the Chinese government who has made a point to have beautiful orphanages since then. I could not believe all those babies needing families and here Tyler and I sat, being told it would be three years to wait for a child from China. I want to fly over to China, look the powers that be in the face and just say “stop it.” Just stop it. Can’t you see these are humans? I contacted a world organization that works in that region. We were told that the orphanages that are allowed by the government to adopt internationally have gotten much better since The Dying Rooms was filmed, but in all likelihood those places still exist. Our hands are tied. The three year wait remains. Now when I watch adoption videos on you tube (as I’ve accidentally made a habit of doing) and I see a family in a cheery orphanage in China hugging their little girl, I can’t help but feeling like the ones who need us the most are not being reached.

Another documentary I found quite by accident was based on the forgotten children of Bulgaria. Forgotten basically equated to their special needs children, abandoned at the door of this building. I can’t even call it an orphanage, I’m not sure it was more than a desolate building with a few begrudging workers. It was atrocious. I cried through it all. Children ranging from birth to teenagers, with varying disabilities, and all of them starving to death. No therapy, no eye contact, no interaction. Most were left in their beds. Footage showed one girl changed, unfeelingly, in her bed by a worker who grabbed her dirty clothes, dropped her back over the railing and walked away. And there she lay, staring at the ceiling in an empty room. These children didn’t have to be strapped to a potty. Their legs were skin and bones, they were not physically able to get off the potty seats they were sat on. Some looked like teenagers and were easily lifted off in their crouching positions. They had to be less than 60 pounds. The reporter came back at night and discovered all the doors locked with kids wailing inside. They were all locked in their rooms. The workers had left. No matter how many times I try, I cannot wrap my mind around this. I could not tell you two things about Bulgaria, including it’s exact location on the globe, but I add it to my list of people to reach before I am done with this world.

Orphanages and care facilities don’t get much better in other countries. Even footage from Ethiopia show three toddlers to a crib, 19 cribs per room, all being ignored. I start wondering what makes us different. Why don’t you find these things in America? The easy answer is, of course, infrastructure. We throw money at job training and life skills for people with disabilities. Therapy, while difficult to find in some areas, is an option for most families and helps tremendously. Our average family, while many living below our poverty level, are still richer than 75% of the entire world. We do not have the same reasons to abandon children as you do in other places. In order for money to be put in these areas it means that government officials at all levels in this nation essentially have to care. The communities, and those hired to represent these communities, care about humans at the most basic level. Why is this? I am sure someone can come up with a different answer but to me it’s clear. We are Christian. We were built on Christ, our laws dictated by freedom in Christ. Humans are made in God’s image and Jesus says to love each other. We cherish human life. Both China and Ethiopia have histories spanning thousands of years before America was ever on the map. Literally. And yet there they are, stuck, starving, and lost. Christ always has been and always will be the answer. At these discoveries I am feeling more blessed to be born healthy in the United States of America. And I have even more reason to help a child. I am in the right country to do it.

As you can tell by now, our eyes have been opened numerous times throughout our journey. At this stage in life I am getting used to my original plan not working or changing. I also feel so hesitant just buckling down in one country program, waiting for that perfect baby. So I decided to give this God, and silently prayed everyday, “just show me our child.” I could not say at this point what we desire in a child. We don’t know about age or country. We just want our child to come home.  

Navigating God's wil


I had this great blog planned weeks ago. I was feeling great about the adoption. I could almost picture our little boy coming home. I wanted to write about how great it felt to be following God’s will for our life, since I thought I finally understood it. As it turns out our journey was too new to predict where it was going and how it would end.

 I grew up a type A, perfectionist, control freak. I had life planned out from birth to death. Unfortunately from the moment I was a senior in high school there has been a combined total of one ‘plan’ I made that actually came to fruition. It’s been painful watching others plan things and have it work out; wedding dates, pregnancies to the exact moment of conception, and careers. I’ve asked God for predictability many times but I do not think it’s meant to be a part of my life. So far the answer has always been ‘no’.  No, I cannot stay in one place long enough to call it home. No, I cannot raise my children where I want to raise them. No, I cannot send them to public school and have time to myself. No, I cannot have a normal courtship, wedding, or marriage. No, I cannot keep all of the babies that are given to me. With every surprise I become more flexible and think maybe now I have gone through enough to be found worthy of an easier future. Surely now, after everything we’ve gone through in our short lives, we deserve something smooth and easy.

After Fei Wei we felt drawn to many of these so-called ‘waiting children’. They are children who are released for adoption to the agencies but then no one adopts them or they are turned down by a family. Many of them have special needs, such as cleft lips, club feet, downs syndrome or cerebral palsy. Some needs are minor and some are severe. Sometimes they are on the list simply because they are older than three-years old. Most couples adopting want a young child so they are the most in demand. Over three-years old is considered undesirable. In our desire to search through these children I found myself wanting a child who was able to be ‘fixed’.  Perhaps they needed a surgery or prosthetic, just something they didn’t have access to that would improve their quality of life while finding a good home. At the time I tried to keep myself in check, questioning my own motives. I did not want to adopt a child in ‘need’ simply so I could feel like a hero and save them from their current state of being. That is a selfish desire. Psychology on adopted children states that the parents need to treat all children as equals; that the adoptee should not be required to show more gratitude than the other children because they were ‘rescued’. I cannot adopt a child to fulfill my own desire to be a hero.

One day many weeks ago I called our agency to ask about a certain child on the ‘waiting child’ list. The lady on the phone, Erin, directed my attention to a different child. “Look at Phoebe,” she said gently. Of course her name was not Phoebe, their names are simply protected. Here, on the computer, was a picture of a girl who Tyler and I had actually looked at. Her file had said she a history of seizures so I had not looked further into her. I am learning, however, that the one paragraph posted next to a waiting child is hardly ever the full story. I asked for her full record and mentioned it to Tyler. For some reason we felt open to whatever her story was. Since she is five-years old we had to make a phone appointment with a social worker to see if we were even a suitable family. Looking back I can see where I was not worried or stressed about this little girl. I felt very confident that it would be clear right away if she belonged in our family. We were cleared to view her true file and waited the long weekend until it was finally emailed to us on Monday morning. I was anxious to open it and was forwarding it all to Tyler at work. Her name was Prae. I thought it was beautiful. My inbox was filled with 150 pictures of Prae since the age of two, when she first came into care. We were warned her file was hard to read but nothing could have prepared me for this. Through broken English I read her reports.

Mother was trying to get boyfriend to stop cheating. Got pregnant. Didn’t work. Child was left with many subsequent boyfriends. One pretended to take good care of the child. Brought in by a neighbor, unconscious, covered in scars.

Pictures are taken of almost all of her scars, just the ones that were decent to take. The pictures portray the same beautiful girl, battered, bruised, and burned one month before her second birthday. And here I was thinking my life was unfair. This was a completely different ball game. Prae suffered a brain injury. The papers say a bilateral subdural hematoma, but considering the lack of medical testing and the extent of her wounds we may never know what her brain injury really was. Somewhere in the mess of small text that alternates between English and Thai is says she also had a retinal bleed. The reports are cold and unfeeling. After the injury the mother no longer wanted her and she was placed in a foster home. This was actually a small blessing. Orphanages can be more harmful to young children since they receive less individual attention and needs are unmet. I shuffle through her medical reports, looking for hope and good news. All I want to do is wrap my arms around this girl and tell her I love her and that she’s a beautiful creation of God. But I don’t know what I’m dealing with yet.

There are two videos in the packet and I’m anxious to open them. One video is four months old and the other is six months old. There is Prae, being instructed in Thai to walk up and down stairs and ramps. I watch intently, tears in my eyes, as she kicks a soccer ball, buttons a shirt, zips up a gym bag, and feeds herself. I am pleasantly surprised by her. It was more than I expected based on the medical reports. Her left side is weak and it’s obvious as she runs. Her little left arms hangs closer to her body and she can’t control fingers on the left hand as well. It takes her a good few minutes to fit a button through a hole with her left fingers but she works so hard at it and screams, “yea!” when she finishes the task. She completes a four piece puzzle on the ipad and I have to remind myself that here is a girl who is five-years old and it’s only a four piece puzzle. But I don’t want to think about that. I want to know what can be done.

I shuffle longer through her reports. I reach one visit when she is four years old that says her IQ tests results in a test score of 44. Mental retardation. Oh no. I back away, my bubble burst. No, I cannot do that. Tyler comes home from work very excited about Prae and I remind him of the IQ test. We’ve been through enough and I simply cannot handle that. We watch the video together. She doesn’t look retarded. She’s having fun, obeying instructions, and working harder at tasks than my own children work at things. Prae is motivated by other’s responses to her which is more than I can say for my son, who has Aspergers. Suddenly I don’t believe the reports and I want more information. Call it a gut instinct but it’s all too odd. Each report is by a different doctor who writes a different diagnosis and different prognosis. No one is really paying attention to this girl. What is her exposure to therapy after her brain trauma? I need to know more.

Luckily for me this is not an unusual thing. Back on the phone with the agency my thoughts are confirmed. “Usually IQ tests overseas are inaccurate. It depends on if she was even paying attention, if it was administered by a professional, or if she has even been exposed to the activities that they are testing her on. In the hospital she may not have even been seen by a doctor. Usually it’s an intern of some sort writing up reports…” It’s definitely important information but it is safe to assume at this point that the more I find out, the less I know. We send Prae’s medical records (however invalid they may be) to an adoption doctor at the University of Washington. Since that’s not enough for me we also sent it to a neurologist in Dallas and my son’s own Applied Behavioral Analysis therapist. The doctors gave us a range. She could be live independently with enough help and therapy or she could be mentally retarded and never live on her own. Thank you so much for clearing that up, docs. The therapist on the other hand was the most help. Prae is motivated, processes directions quickly and is completely problem solving on her own. The brain is placid and can heal, change, and regrow pathways forever. It becomes more difficult later so the sooner she gets help the better. This is all encouraging but I need more. Our agency sent me the email of a mentor family to contact. One day I found myself dialing a lady in North Carolina to ask about her experience with brain trauma. I thought for sure this phone call would talk me out of it. I expected her to say something about being exhausted and depressed. But as I should’ve expected, nothing is ever the way I think it is. The woman, Traci, told me about adopting her son 16 years ago from India. They thought he had cerebral palsy but once in the states they learned the left hemisphere of his brain was malformed. He’ll never live independently but he does work at the local YMCA. Through all of this she explained how her life was better because of him. She got to learn a piece of God’s heart by raising him. That her kid’s lives were changed by it but it was all for the better. I was speechless. How can that be? That’s nothing you ever hear about, the blessings of a mentally handicap child. I was starting to loath this roller coaster we were on. This wasn’t clear anymore. What happened to our clear plan? I just want a son, God, why are you showing us this girl? Why do we actually want her? Through this whole process of getting information on her we began talking about where Prae would sleep, things she might like and what toys could be hers. I didn’t try to do this. I actually tried for the opposite. I tried to not be interested in her or like her or even watch the videos. We sent a list of more thorough questions off to Thailand, to try and better gauge her cognitive functioning. Until then we sit and wait and pray for how our family will be built.

My bedroom wall- constant reminders


In these days I have tried to forget about Prae. To stop picturing her in our family. Then at night I stare at our adoption quotes and verses that line our walls. The one right in the middle, in big print says, “…once our eyes are opened, we can’t pretend we don’t know what to do. God, who weights our hearts and keeps our soul, knows that we know, and holds us responsible to act.” (Proverbs 24:12). For the first time in a long time I am upset when Scripture stares me in the face. I keep looking for an out. I pray for my feelings towards this girl to change. Can’t I just pretend that I never knew she existed? I prayed for wisdom and direction. My daily Bible reading plan began reading James Chapter one to me that week. If you are trying to look for comfort to not adopt, James 1 is not a chapter to hear! I began reading the Bible for direction. 1 Peter 2:18-21 states, “…for God called you to do good, even if it means suffering, just as Christ suffered for you. He is your example, and you must follow His lead.” That wasn’t what I was looking for. I want the Bible verse that talks about drinking from a coconut on a beach. Church that week was fairly boring (come on, we’ve all been there) so I spent the whole sermon with my eyes shut praying about Prae. Towards the very of the service there was an amazing display of grace. Chris Tomlin’s “Our God is Greater” was played while people walked out on stage with cardboard signs. One read “Living in sin”. Then it was flipped over and read, “Now living for God”. The sign holder stood still, beaming at his renewed life. The next one I felt speak to me as it read, “Living in fear”, and she flipped it over to reveal “Learning to trust God”. The next one brought a squeak out of my throat and tears down my face as I read, “Sexually abused”, which became, “Loved and guilt free”. And for the second time in my life I bawled my eyes out during this song. The same song I bitterly choked out weeks after Wyatt passed away. Our God is greater. Our God is stronger. God you higher than any other. Our God is healer. Awesome in power. Our God. After service they always offer to pray with you and usually I don’t think twice about this but this day I marched right over and told three members of the prayer team our story. It was amazing to be prayed over. They asked for direction and provision in our decision and to be released from guilt if we didn’t adopt her. They asked for His will.

During that week we receive a call from the home study agency here in Nevada, West Sands. They inform me that they’ve run into some unexpected complications during their licensing and they’ll have to transfer us to their sister agency, Premier. This means redoing all the paperwork and all of the reference letters. Anyone who has ever done a home study before knows that this is a serious pain in the rear end. So I put up a small stink, like “didn’t you guys see this coming?” But ultimately I have to fill out all of Premier’s paperwork and do this all again. That same day, the international adoption agency calls about our interest in Prae. They inform us, “I’m sorry but you can’t adopt her. We only work with one adoption agency in Nevada and it’s not the one you are doing your home study through. It’s called Premier.” Well I’ll be! I respond that this just so happens to be our agency, much to our earlier dismay. Problem solved. Is this a sign? I try hard not to look hard for “signs”. I remember a talk from Andy Stanley about how caught up we can get, looking for codes in the letters on billboards and such. I don’t want to make a mountain out of a mole hill.

I spend time thinking about all the things that I don’t know. I don’t know how much improvement she can make. I don’t know if she remembers her traumas. I don’t know if the IQ tests were accurate. I don’t know how she’ll react coming to America when she can hardly speak Thai, let alone English. What I do know is this: this girl was abused in the worse ways possible. She has no parents. She receives no therapy. Her nutrition is minimal. She attends a Buddhist temple, which means she has no Jesus. She has no hope. With Jesus there is everything. Without Him there is nothing. When I began home schooling I was very nervous and voiced this to a home schooling friend. She chuckled and said, “Well, I figured I could do at least as bad as the 46th state.” Now I ask myself, “Can I do at least as bad as the Thai government?” You betcha.

So I started this blog thinking of our boy and how great God was. Now I’m wondering if doing God’s will isn’t necessarily about what I want or at least thought I wanted. Maybe it means loving a mentally retarded girl. Maybe it’s not drinking from a coconut on a beach.

How it Happened...


The other night we decided to take the kids to the local YMCA, just down the road. The pool was open until 8:30pm and we’d thought it’d be fun. It was fun. For the kids. On the way home my husband and I got into a conversation that made me laugh and cry at the same time, which is something I had never done before. I’m not sure how it all started but it was something along the lines of comparing our lives with the lives of our friends from when we were dating. I know this is something you’re never supposed to do but I suppose sometimes it just can’t be helped. Thanks to Facebook I watch them all go on extravagant vacations, buy new cars, visit family and honestly, complain about the stupidest things known to man. I’m not saying this in a derogatory way. I’m actually quite jealous. I wish my complaints were their complaints. Driving home that night, all of us reeking of chlorine, we began making fun of our life.



We’re broke and we’re making decent money. We’re packed full of autoimmune reactions to food. My kids wear thrift store clothes. We own a condo in a state that no one lives in anymore and no matter how many times there are wild fires, it just can’t seem to burn down. Our idiot dog, who we love dearly, has cost us more money in broken bones than we paid for him. About 8 times more to be precise. Tyler’s car has been running on three cylinders for two years. We were told to buy a new engine or it wouldn’t last 6 weeks. The tint in the windows is so old it’s become bubbly and you can hardly see outside. Every time he gets gas he pours another bottle of oil in it. In the rear, by the exhaust, the car is completely black from all the smoke.



            “Now I’m gonna go home to my $4,000 dog and wash the chlorine and urine off my body. Why go to beach when you can go to the ‘Y’ and swim in everyone else’s body fluids? Tomorrow I’m gonna hope like always that my car doesn’t explode…” Tyler was ranting on as we drove home. He was laughing hysterically. I was laughing and crying.



This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It isn’t how it started. When we were dating we took lots of vacations. I had lots of energy and I genuinely had fun with the kids. We swore we’d take vacations alone every few years. We’re beach people. That’s who we are. Were. Are? I don’t even know anymore. Who are we?



Most days I don’t even think about it. But the pain and the effects are still very real. Before we lost our first baby. Before we lost Wyatt. Things just went terribly wrong. Those closest to me knew it and saw it, and I think they might see it still. It might be worth telling, especially if telling it can give me closure.



We were a young couple who moved at 34 weeks pregnant with no support system in place at the next destination. The rain didn’t stop for four months (and I have seasonal depression). My daughter who excelled in school was falling into a deep depression when faced with a less than adequate school system. My son who had almost tested completely out of the Autism Spectrum regressed so badly he was unable to shower himself anymore. As if all of that hadn’t been a shock enough to my system, then you add the birth of Lexi. Lexi; the straw that broke the camel’s back. When I tell people that she screamed they like to jump in with their two cents. It usually sounds something like this: “Oh my son was the same way. If you put him down he would just cry…” Or it goes like this: “Yes, my daughter had colic. For three hours every night she screamed.” Three hours a night would have been a blessing. This girl screamed from her second week of life until her second birthday. She screamed on the floor. She screamed in the swing. She screamed in the bouncer. She screamed in the carrier. She screamed in your arms. She screamed in the crib. She screamed on the changer. She screamed in the bumpo. She screamed in your lap. She screamed from morning until night when she finally passed out. She also vomited constantly. She slept in her swing because I was so afraid she would choke and die in her sleep. Tyler was gone all day and all night without a trace. The kids would just look at me and I would try not to cry. I tried to bake like I always did. I tried to take walks with them like I used to. They didn’t have any friends. We didn’t know anyone. There weren’t any parks like there are out west. It was such a despairing time. I really tried. And then it happened. I just snapped. I know that’s a cliché term but that’s what it felt like. Tyler was gone, as always and I was changing Lexi. She was screaming and screaming as usual. And something let go. Something in my mind, whatever it was that was holding me together, it let go. I fell to floor, crying and shaking. I can’t fully explain the feeling. Utter despair? I emailed one lady that I had met in the squadron. I told her something along the lines of, “I don’t know why I’m emailing you but I think that somebody should know…” Thankfully within ten minutes she and her husband were at my door. They fed the kids, cleaned I think, I really don’t know. He talked to me a little bit; something about one person holding onto a weight and you can’t hold it alone. She told me about a wife committing suicide in their last squadron. “Found out she had to move again and used the rifle in the garage…” It was supposed to make me feel better I think. They put the kids to bed and she stayed with me all night. I’ve never been more scared of myself, and that night was just the beginning. Sometime the next day Tyler came home. She slipped out and I cried. I just remember crying until I hyperventilated. I started having panic attacks. I started becoming terrified of Tyler leaving the house. I’m not sure why because he was furious. Something about his duties as a pilot. I also stopped trying to bond with Lexi. I loved my children so much. I actually enjoyed those quiet moments at night while nursing them. Those moments are some of my best memories. But when you try and try to comfort and soothe and love a baby that just screams at you for months on end…something breaks there, too. A connection is lost when relief only comes by shutting the door and turning the monitor off.



Just weeks after that we miscarried. We didn’t even know we were pregnant. I had gone in to get an antidepressant and they did a blood test. Tyler was extremely angry we were pregnant. Right on par with the husband he had been thus far. I remember saying something close to, “Well don’t worry! We might miscarry!” Of course it was traumatic, with our house full of movers packing boxes. I was crying in the bathroom and they were shouting at me about what things I wanted in certain boxes. I went the hospital alone. There’s nothing quite like being alone when the doctor looks at an ultrasound screen and says, “Yup! Your womb is empty!”



It was a 12 day drive to Idaho. We left North Carolina the week before Christmas. We needed to stop at rest areas so I could continue to take care of the remnants of the miscarriage. There’s nothing more comforting than the bathrooms at a Flying J truck stop. I remember looking out the window on the drive and wondering how fast we needed to go for me to die if I jumped out of the car. I certainly didn’t want to just get severely injured. Since we happened to be homeless over Christmas Tyler thought it would be a great idea to stop in Colorado to stay with relatives. I was a wreck. I wasn’t eating. I was planning out a quick death. I begged him not to. I still remember standing in his father’s driveway while he threw the keys and screamed some things at me. Later his family would complain to him that I “wasn’t very warm and friendly.”  Later down the road they would lecture that at Wyatt’s funeral I wasn’t very welcoming. Enough said.



Idaho was a nightmare. I thought when I saw the big open skies again that we were back in the west. But this was a frigid west. It was -12 degrees when we got there and the TLF’s on base wouldn’t turn the heat up past 67. Even with the oven on and door open we couldn’t get warm. After just two days we were kicked out to make room for people from Singapore (usually families stay until they can find a house), so we moved into the Hampton Inn. Not only is that expensive but there’ isn’t much to do with three kids in one hotel room. Then we all got rotavirus. All of us. In one hotel room, taking turns in the bathroom. Lexi was hospitalized for several days. We tried for two months to buy a house and couldn’t. After speaking with the principle of the only school in Mt. Home (and learning he had no idea what an IEP was) we moved to a hotel in Boise. After three months in a hotel room we found one rental. Just one. So we took it. Lexi was almost ready to turn one but from living in a hotel room she couldn’t walk or pull herself up on anything. She hardly crawled. The emotional effects on all of us were devastating.



Somewhere deep under the depression I still had dreams of getting back to this family that I had loved. The vision of lots of kids and happiness that had been a reality only a year before. I still wasn’t aware of how much my “snapping” had affected me. I continued to think it was just something that I’d recover from with enough sleep and time. When I found out we were pregnant again I waited and waited for the one night that Tyler was actually going to be home when I was awake. I wrote out a poem on the bathroom mirror and lit a candle next to the pregnancy test. This is before I knew that fighter pilots shouldn’t tell their wives what time they’ll be home. I stayed up as long as I could, blew out the candle, and went to bed. At some point early that morning he came home, got the message, and was seemingly happy. But I was so done being a single mom. A few weeks later I would hemorrhage and call 911. Lexi was put beside me in the ambulance and alone we went to the emergency room. It was such a nice way to learn where the local hospital is. For some reason I’ll never understand, we didn’t miscarry.



For the next six months we screamed at each other every night that we got a chance. I found out what the sex of the baby was…alone. I could hardly handle Lexi, who was still a monster. I would just shake when I had to deal with her. We didn’t do anything like I did with the other kids. There was no coloring or building blocks. I got her a trampoline and that seemed to work for a few moments. Anything to shut her up. Then one day at another ultrasound the doctor starts telling me about placental lakes and IUGR and blood flow. “Babies like this don’t usually make it,” she said. I had the three kids with me. Tyler was in Florida. I could hardly breathe. I dialed his number and had the doctor talk to him. I was admitted. Some lady from the squadron I didn’t know came and got the kids. I laid there, alone in a hospital room, listening to my son’s heart rate drop and recover, over and over. A NICU doctor showed me a cute little chart of the chances of survival if born right now and then the chances of physical complications if he survived. I kicked him out. 11 hours later Tyler walked in and we cried and cried. Everyone knows how this ends. We waited three more weeks, had a cesarean, he died. And I have never been the same.



Even throughout my ordeal with a rough recovery I would try and get back to the kids. Or get back to the way it was. Or even just do the normal things I used to do. But something was wrong that had been wrong from that day in North Carolina when something snapped. I truly thought that I had to suck it up. Or it would just get better. But at this point in life I could barely clean the house. I couldn’t get groceries alone with the kids. One day I tried to take Lexi out to lunch with a friend and I was shaking so bad I couldn’t hold the fork. Then someone mentioned adrenal fatigue. Is that it? I don’t know and I certainly don’t know what to do about it. I’m exhausted all day and I can’t sleep all night. I shake and tremble. The littlest things are just too hard. All of this is coming from a woman who was a single mom and worked three jobs. I took the kids on trips alone all over the country. I baked everyone meals, gave everyone rides, and was getting my private pilot’s license. I was not the kind of person who couldn’t handle things. I loved being busy and juggling things around. I loved being involved in the kids. Now it’s all different and I’m not sure all the rest in the world can heal it. I shake just completing simple tasks. I am filled with panic when Tyler leaves for work, still to this day. It’s illogical but the feelings are real. I don’t bake anymore. I don’t have the energy to let the kids bake or do fun projects. And then there’s Lexi. Lexi never should have been an only child. Lexi who I am still in the habit of dodging because she’s simply too difficult. No one wants to play with her because even her personality will wear you thin in moments.



And now we are looking into adoption. Brought on by our old desire to have a large, happy family. Our desire long before anything went wrong. I have been on board with that up until tonight. Tonight I was able to go for my second run this year. Tyler is at work and the house is quiet and I’m on my treadmill. And then I flashback to Texas. I would take my ipod and go running at night. Back when I was happy. Back when I was somebody. Back before I was broken. As I remember this I find myself wanting that back. I want those feelings back. I’m tired of always being in fight or flight mode. I’m mad at the fates and the cards we’ve been dealt. I know that our relationship with God is better now than it ever would have been but I’m upset that that was our journey. There are plenty of godly people who didn’t have to suffer half as much. To feel the way that I used to would be utter euphoria. Nothing that has happened to us was in our plans for life.



So we sit in the car and joke about how I haven’t gotten my hair cut in a year because we don’t have the money and we laugh. Maybe I’m fighting the flesh here but I want to be ok again. I had almost forgotten that I started my pilot’s license. I had forgotten there were things that I enjoyed doing. Then I’m mad because if I were myself again, if I were ‘normal’ again, I would be able to adopt and manage my interests. I know this certainly can’t last the rest of my life but for tonight I am upset at the unfairness of it all.