Writing

I haven't written much lately, because I've been taking an English class and that's all I've been doing for the last 12 weeks! However, one of the papers I recently wrote, I want to share, so here it is:

Oh, Baby!

            It was Thanksgiving Day, 2010. My husband Jared and I sat at the dinner table with our two rambunctious little boys Preston and Derik. Our sweet newborn, Abby, was asleep in her car seat on the floor next to us. As I looked at her, I reflected back to how our family came to be and how lucky I was to be a mom. The difficulty I had in bringing this little girl into our family was foremost in my mind. I would never again take for granted the precious gift of life and how much Heavenly Father had blessed us since I first learned I was pregnant for the third time.

            Unfortunately, my third pregnancy was cut much shorter than I expected. In the summer of 2009, at eleven weeks pregnant, I began bleeding and having severe cramps. We were living in Dongducheon, Korea and had to drive two hours to get to the hospital in Seoul. It was an emotionally and physically agonizing drive. I was finally seen by a doctor and was told I had miscarried. My heart dropped and I began to sob. Jared and I were both devastated. I spent the following months crying myself to sleep every night. I felt like my heart was in a vice, being squeezed so tightly it would stop beating. That September, I finally got some medication that helped my depression and I started feeling better. Although I knew I couldn’t get pregnant again right away, I was looking forward to the time that I could.

            In April of 2010, my parents came to visit us in Korea. I was thrilled when they got there that I was able to tell them I was pregnant again. I was nervous about having another miscarriage, but was doing well and feeling better than I had in years. A couple of months later we moved from Korea to Colorado. In July, we found out we were having a girl. After having two boys, I was so excited to have a girl. We decorated her bedroom, bought some cute new clothes, and were waiting with great anticipation for our little girl to come. She was due just after Thanksgiving.  She, however, didn’t want to wait that long.

            In early October, my feet and hands were so swollen that I could barely use them. I had to wear braces on my wrists, or I would wake up in the middle of the night with my fingers clenched shut and my hands bent forward awkwardly, making straightening them agonizing. I also started having throbbing headaches. One started on a Saturday night and continually got worse, until by Sunday night it was excruciating and I couldn’t sleep. I went to the emergency room at Evans Hospital on Fort Carson Monday morning. They took my vitals and immediately admitted me. My blood pressure was so high that I was at extreme risk for seizures. They gave me morphine for my headache, and although the pain was not completely gone, it was the most wonderful thing that had happened to me in weeks.

            After a few hours of the doctors trying to stabilize my blood pressure, I was taken by ambulance to Memorial Hospital. I was put on a medication to get my blood pressure under control, given steroid shots to develop the baby’s lungs, and told that I would deliver her no later than when I was thirty-four weeks along. That was just over a week away. Within hours, my whole world had changed. Although I was pretty out of it, I remember looking at Jared and seeing that he was terrified, but trying to be strong for me. I had never seen him, my tough husband, so scared and vulnerable. He didn’t know if I was going to survive. I knew my baby wasn’t ready to be born, and wondered what was going to be wrong with her, or even if she would survive. The medication I was on made me feel as if I was another person: a person who liked to chomp on popsicles, was hot all the time, and hated the smell of her husband’s cologne. More than my body feeling different, I had a new respect for life and how precious it is.

            By Thursday, October 14, the steroids had time to work and the doctors said it was time for Abby to be born. I was in labor for six hours, but nothing was happening and the baby was in distress, so I was abruptly taken to the operating room. As Jared nervously waited in the hall as I was prepped, I silently prayed that everything would be okay. I immediately had a peaceful feeling come over me, comforting me. What seemed like hours later, but was actually only about twenty or thirty minutes, my princess was delivered via cesarean section. My body was fighting so hard and I was so exhausted. I struggled to keep my eyes open so I could see my daughter before they took her to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). I saw her briefly, then the next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. I remember very little of that day and the next, but they were spent trying to gain enough strength to visit my darling baby, who I knew I had seen, but it seemed more like a dream than a memory. As I sat on my bed trying to eat yogurt, but falling asleep between each bite, I was angry at my physical weaknesses. I needed to eat. I needed to sleep. All I wanted to do was hold my baby. I finally got to see her and hold her Friday night. All I could say was “She is so tiny” over and over. My baby girl, although only four pounds, two ounces, was one of the biggest blessings I’ve ever received. Nothing was wrong with her, except that she was a little bit too small.

            I spent the next four days before I was discharged sleeping and visiting Abby as often as I had the energy to walk down the stark hallway to the hand washing room, where the sterile scent of the soap slowly became loathsome to me. From there we could go into the tiny room where our baby was connected to several beeping machines, letting us know her heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood pressure, and feeding her through a tube in her nose. I was sent home, but Abby had to stay, which was emotionally crushing. She struggled over then next few weeks growing and learning to breathe and eat on her own, but she was strong and fought hard. Jared and our boys loved that little girl, but none were as touched by her as I. She would always be my precious angel. I spent every minute I could with her, and was thrilled when they told us we could take her home.

            As my husband and I drove home from the hospital on November 17, 2010 for the billionth time, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder to try to get a glimpse of my tiny Abby in her pink car seat. We were finally taking her home! After thirty-three days of waiting, we finally had our precious angel in our cherry red Durango, which had aged hundreds of miles over the last few weeks of driving back and forth. I couldn’t hold back the joyful tears as I realized how lucky I was to have my husband and my three amazing kids, and that we would all be together for Thanksgiving. After all we had been through, our family was closer than ever before, and I made a vow to never take that for granted again.

Will You Be My Friend?

I remember in elementary school writing notes to people that looked something like this: "do you like me? Circle Yes or No"
Why isn't it this easy now? Sometimes I would like to send a note like that. But, it's just not that easy. In kindergarten if you want to play with someone, you just do. Or maybe it started with borrowing a crayon or having to sit at the same table. Whatever the reason you became friends with your kindergarten friends, it likely was a lot less complicated than it is to make a friend now you're an adult. Right?
I am pretty shy. I don't talk to people I don't know very often. There are people I would love to claim as my friends, but I only see them at church and hardly say more than a few sentences in passing. So, how do I know that they would consider me a friend? Am I truly friends with all of my Facebook friends? Probably not.
I have a friends who I used to be closer to, but I don't feel as comfortable with them as I once was. I have other friends who I am not close to, but I long to be. I feel lonely at times, and wish I had a good friend that I could call. I wish I had a friend who would just drop by and see how I was doing. Someone who would feel at home in my home. I want a friend who I could count on.
The point is, I'm looking at it backwards. If I want a good friend, I need to be one! I need to figure out what I can do to help someone out. I need to love someone just for being who she is, not what I want her to be. I need to call her and see how she is doing, or stop by her house just to talk.
I think I'm so afraid of rejection, that I don't bother trying. Sure, I'm kind to those around me, and I help out when I'm asked. But, how many true friends have you made by being asked to help them by the Relief Society? How many true friends do you have where they are the only ones doing the calling, stopping by, checking in, etc.?
I challenge you and myself that if you are lonely, call someone else who might be lonely too. Take some cookies or a loaf of bread, or a note, or anything you can think of over to someone you think might need it. Keep a smile on your face. Tell people by the way you act that you are a good friend. Don't complain on facebook about everything and forget to tell about the good things. Honestly, who wants a friend who only complains? Be the friend that you have always wanted. You don't have to have everything in common. Celebrate your differences. If you don't have a lot to talk about at first, it is okay!
I am doing a program for my English class that has me Skype with a girl from Mexico who is learning English. The first time was really awkward. We had very little to say. She didn't understand a lot of what I would say. It was a little frustrating. The next week, things went better, and we took up the half hour much more easily. Now I'm excited for our next meeting. I'm starting to get to know her, and I enjoy learning about her.
So, this week, I'm going to invite someone over, and I'm going to take something over to someone else. What are you going to do to be a better friend?

The "D" Word

I have been avoiding this post, because there is just so much to write. It's not just that; this is a very difficult subject for me to post about, considering all that I've been through, and that I still deal with it daily. The subject is depression. The reason I titled it "The "D" Word" is because it's a subject that is, well, difficult to discuss, for lack of better words. Although it's much better than it used to be, I think that depression is still viewed by many to be a weakness. Wow, it's taken me about a half hour just to write this paragraph. . . .the reason I've been struggling to write this. 

Let's start at the beginning. When I was about 12, I noticed that I didn't enjoy things that I used to, like playing football with my friends in their front yard. I figured it was just the fact that I was growing up, and that was childish.  I also became a lot more secluded and anti-social. Once again, I was growing up, and things were a little bit confusing. 

Down the road a couple of years, I wasn't eating as well, and I had headaches all the time. I also had trouble sleeping. The headaches got so bad that I ended up getting an MRI, thinking that maybe I had some kind of brain tumor or something. When I got the results that nothing was wrong, I decided to just pretend I didn't have headaches anymore. I realized that they were mostly from not eating lunch every day, so they got better. But, things weren't great. I got obsessed with things and was never happy enough with what I had. 

Fast forward to high school. I had a best friend who told me that she didn't like to hang out with me anymore, because I wasn't ever happy. It was at that point that I knew she was right, but was so mad at her for telling me that I wasn't happy enough for her. 

So, if I'm not happy enough, how do I change that? Unfortunately, I never really figured that out. However, I did get pretty darn good at faking it. I started smiling more, even though I didn't feel like it. I went out with friends even when I didn't feel like it. I wish I could say that it solved my problem. I wish I could say that it was mind over matter and that I "smiled" my way out of my depression. There were so many times that I heard "pray" or "do what's right" and that it would all be okay. Well, it wasn't okay, and I didn't know how to tell anyone else why or how it wasn't okay. I didn't know how to tell anyone, especially my parents, that I didn't know how to be happy. 

One night I had a break down, and I told one of my friends. It was the first time I had really admitted to myself or anyone else that I thought I had depression. But, I still didn't know what to do about it. So, I went on with my life. I just kept on living my life as before. Don't get me wrong, I was happy sometimes, and I had fun times, but my happiness often was contingent on how things were going with friends, or whether I had a boyfriend, or how difficult/easy my school work was. I found a lot of people and things to blame my unhappiness on. I also wasn't getting enough sleep, which didn't help things at all.

I learned to live with my depression. I thought that it was just who I was and there was nothing to be done about it. When I met my husband and marriage was coming up, I was happy. I thought that this is what I had been waiting for. Now I could be happy. Then I started having panic attacks. I was stressed about getting married, after all, to me, marriage is a one-time thing. And it doesn't just last "'till death do you part." For me, marriage is eternal, and this is not something I wanted to mess up. So, even though I found a wonderful man, and I was sure he was the man that I should marry, I had a few panic attacks along the way. I was only 18, and my parents didn't seem thrilled about my choice, so it would have made it relatively easy to back out. But, I didn't. And 10 years later, I am so happy that I made the right choice. 

After we were married, I quickly got pregnant with our first child. We were thrilled. Although my pregnancy wasn't easy, I couldn't complain. I knew too many women who had it far worse than I did. It was after the baby was born that it really got bad. 

I had major postpartum depression. I didn't ever admit it to anyone else, because I was supposed to be so excited about my new baby and how precious he was. I wasn't supposed to feel like I wished I had never had him. I didn't want to be a mom. I could barely get up and get dressed every day. Now I was in charge of this little person, who I loved so much, but sometimes my brain didn't correspond with my heart. Of course, after a few months it got better, and I just learned to deal with the times when it wasn't better.

Then I had a second child. Once again, I had postpartum depression, but I was much more prepared for the demands of a new baby, and things seemed to go better. However, when he was just a few months old, my two-year-old was driving me crazy, hubby and I were both going to school, and I found myself yelling at the kids a lot. 

A few months later, and hubby wasn't doing too well with his job, so he started looking for something new. He told me he was going to go to the military recruiting office. I thought he was crazy. What happened when he came back was even more crazy. He actually wanted to join the Army. At first it was just the reserves or maybe the national guard, but after a day or so, he wanted to join as an active duty soldier. Two weeks later he was off to Basic Training. It was a whirlwind few weeks, but we felt like it was the right decision, so there we were. 

This is when things really started to change. We hadn't been away from each other for more than a couple of days for the four years we had known each other. Suddenly he was gone and we couldn't even talk to him except for a few minutes once a week. 

We made it through basic training and went to graduation and saw each other for a day or two. After that, it just made it harder to go the next 7 or 8 weeks of AIT and jump school. I didn't leave the house much during that time. We got ready to move and we were all packed up. We headed to Georgia to pick daddy up and move to Fort Bragg, our first duty station. But, hubby got hurt at jump school, and while we were there, he got new orders. He was headed to Korea. . . .unaccompanied.

After a few weeks at my parents home (since we were now homeless), hubby left for Korea. We stayed and I got deeper into my depression than ever before. Finally, I decided that I needed to do something about it. I went to the doctor and got started on medication. It helped, but I still spent a lot of nights up late crying, and lots of days in bed. I eventually got to go to Korea to be with hubby. But, once I got there, instead of getting better, things got worse. At this point, we had been living apart for nearly a year and a half. We had a lot of things to get used to, and at that point, I decided to go off of my medication, because I didn't feel like it was working and it had some strange side effects. 

That is about the time the hardest thing I've ever been through happened. I got pregnant with our third child, but I didn't feel like I was ready to have another baby. I had just gotten used to the idea when I had a miscarriage. For the next few weeks, I spent most of my nights crying myself to sleep. I had a four-year-old and a two-year-old who often took care of themselves while I stayed in bed. There were times when I didn't want to live anymore. I thought of killing myself. I just couldn't. I knew I had family who loved me, and I couldn't do that to them. I honestly don't know how long this went on before I got help, but it seemed like an eternity. I went to a psychiatrist for the first time, and started on a new medication. After less than a week, I felt better than I had in years. I didn't even realize how bad it was until it started getting better. I suddenly had more energy than I had since I was twelve. I wanted to do things. I was excited about life. 

Fast forward a little while. I got pregnant again, and I didn't want to be on medication when she was born, so I went off of it in my third trimester. Let me tell you, being pregnant and not having my depression medication was not an easy thing to do, but I managed.

After the baby was born, I went back on the medication. I ran out of meds at one point and decided to try going without and see how I would do.

To make a long story short. . . well, shorter . . . I went back and forth being on and off meds for the next few years. I was told by my doctor that I would probably always have to be on medication, considering my history. I tried different things to help, like exercise, essential oils, etc., and I would do really well for a few months, then I would fall back into old patterns of being tired all the time and not wanting to do things with my family and friends. 

The hardest part about writing this post is that somewhat recently, I realized (actually, it was more of a revelation from the Spirit) that I would deal with depression for the rest of my life. Naturally, that was depressing itself. I still haven't fully accepted it. I always hoped that there was some way to beat it; that someday, it just wouldn't be there anymore. However, I have come to realize that I can help others. This was the main reason I started this blog. I didn't want the blog to be entirely about depression or mental illness, but it was always in the plan to write about it. If I can help someone else feel better, or discover something about themselves, or even just make them think, that is why I write.

In conclusion, I want to say that depression is not something to be ashamed of. It doesn't just happen to those who make bad decisions or who are unrighteous. If you have depression, it doesn't mean that you've done something wrong. It also can't be cured by reading your scriptures and praying more, however those things do make it easier to cope with. If you or your loved one had diabetes, cancer, or some other disease, would you tell them that they aren't being righteous enough? No, you would tell them to go to the doctor. You would tell them to take their medications.  Of course, in any of these situations prayer can help, but you can't pray away every difficult situation.

My point wasn't to write a sob story to make you feel bad for me. Although, I admit that part of it was selfish. I haven't ever said or written all of this. It's kind of liberating to get it all out. Writing it all out reminded me that I have had good times before, and it's possible to have them again, and it's also possible to get through the tough times. I also have started to notice the signs of the depression getting bad before it gets so bad that I can't do anything about it.

In conclusion, I just wanted you to know that  I've done it before, and can do it again.

So can you! So can you!!!!