Grateful for Brighter Days

I was looking at Selah's cute feet today and marveling at how much I love her. I said aloud, "I love being a mom."

Miriam heard me and commented, "I thought you hated being a mom." It just about broke my heart.

But here's the thing: two months ago, I was saying things (sadly aloud) like "I hate being a mom." I was overwhelmed and sad. I was tired all the time. I was frequently angry and didn't do a very good job about hiding that from the kids.

Then I got help.

In the past few days, I've thought a lot about how drastically I've changed since seeing a doctor and being prescribed a new-to-me antidepressant and large doses of iron. I truly feel like a different person.

For one thing, I have much more energy than before. For another, I don't feel sad and angry everyday. I had heard many people recommend antidepressants for years, and in fact, I had tried one type multiple times before. But I had never noticed a change. And I was so steeped in my depression that when family advised me again just a few months ago to give meds another try, I honestly couldn't even picture how life could be better. I couldn't imagine reaching a happy place. Now I understand. The things that used to drive me crazy, don't anymore. And when I'm irritated, I am much more likely to react with a calm response instead of shouting or crying.

Additionally, it's very clear to me that my feeling better is having a positive effect on the girls as well. There are likely multiple factors at play (the girls' inevitable maturing being an important one) but even during my despair, I had noted that I was in a "downward spiral" with them. They would misbehave. I would get upset and likely "lose it;" they would get more upset. I would not want to be around them at bedtime because I was so tired of the struggle and fighting, and I felt like a horrible parent. So they would start their next day already feeling bad because they'd missed me the night before. Often I didn't want to be with them in the morning either. On and on.

Now it's the reverse. I stay calm when they act up, and even have hugs and encouragement to offer. They behave better. They give ME hugs and encouragement. That feeds the whole cycle, making me even more likely to be cuddly when I've received love myself. I spend time with them at night and in the morning without feeling like I'm going to lose my mind because now I have more energy and I haven't heard as much fighting during the day. So they feel cared for. On and on. It's truly remarkable.

I know I'm not getting everything right. I still have issues, still have some anger and anxiety. But to look back and remember how low I had gotten, makes this turn-around all the more precious. Grateful for medicine, grateful for family who doesn't give up, grateful for brighter days.

Stuff

 My life has been a strange one of continuous transience. I grew up moving a lot as my dad went from graduate degree to graduate degree. When I relocated to Nigeria as a 14-year-old, I was told I had a box I could fill with my stuff and that was it. And we owned no house in the U.S. in which to store stuff. Stuff. I held it loosely as a child, and I've held it loosely as an adult.

I've continued to move a lot as my husband has gone from graduate degree to graduate degree. I've moved overseas five times (self-funded) when I've had to pack our belongings into a few boxes or suitcases. The difference has been that my in-laws DO own a house, and it's big enough for them to have let us keep things there while we're abroad. 

Through this long process of Steve trying to earn his PhD, I always envisioned that he'd eventually be teaching at an American university and that we would have a home of our own at that point. I envisioned a place to put down roots, a driveway in which to shoot hoops, a basement in which to let teens play foozball and board games together, a spare room in which to do crafts with the girls, a yard in which to grow plants and play Kubb, a kitchen in which to use my good mixer and blender, and a dining room in which to have lots of company over and use my nice dishes. Anticipating all that, I admit: I did begin to accumulate STUFF.

I didn't guess that we'd be making another overseas move. 

So now my stuff stares me in the face, almost taunting me. 

"Ha ha! You thought you'd get to use these gathered art supplies to make projects with the girls?! Nope!" 

"Ha ha! You thought you'd actually have people over and get to use all your matching dishes and make a cake with your fancy mixer? Nope!"

"Ha ha! You thought you'd get to ride bikes and shoot hoops and jump on a trampoline in your yard? Nope!" 

Now begins the process of getting RID of most STUFF. I don't know how long we'll be abroad, or what will happen when we return. To be honest, I would like to hang on to a few valuable things -- yes, the expensive mixer, blender and sewing machine, maybe my prettiest jug -- but this is my chance to loosen my grip, to change my direction, to embrace a new way. A way of less stuff.

On the Edge of a Precipice

Twenty-one years ago, Steve and I started our marriage full of hope and expectation. We had no idea what would come, but we had dreams, some only whispered, others acted upon. The thing is, I never envisioned it would take this long for Steve to finally finish his education. I never thought we'd go for so many years without income or live in so many foreign countries as Steve pursued two Master's degrees and a doctorate.

But here we are. 

Despite Steve finishing his PhD in August 2020 and beginning a new job in November, he is out of work now and we are back in a holding pattern, unsure of our direction or next steps. He has his education, his knowledge, and his idea of what he wants to do for a career, namely teach college courses. Those jobs aren't knocking at our door, though. And I? I've had my hands more than full, trying to graduate my two oldest homeschoolers, teach my 8th grader, and teach/parent/corral my two preschoolers. But I feel like there is something more. Something missing that's a deep part of who I am.

We stand on the edge of a precipice. 

Will we spend another decade of our marriage waiting for "our real life" to begin? Will we have to do more stop-gap work? Will we struggle to find any work at all? Or are we on the cusp of something new and beautiful? Are the puzzle pieces about to start fitting together? Every week, Steve applies to more jobs, more post-doc programs. Many of them are in the U.S.; some are overseas. Only a couple have seemed like really good fits for him. Only one has felt like a good fit for me. 

I want to look over the edge of this cliff, to see what comes next.

But I'm afraid I'll fall.

Unexpected Separation

Visiting a school for the deaf outside Jos

My son is now the age I was, almost to the day, when I found out my dad had malignant melanoma and would be leaving Nigeria to seek help in California. I was 16, just weeks away from turning 17, and like Josiah, in my senior year. It was probably the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to me, and decades later, I continue to ponder the ramifications. 

My dad had first been diagnosed with melanoma when I was just a few years old. I have no memory of that experience. Now, as I parent children the same age as I was then, I can only begin to imagine how frightening and troubling that would have been to both my parents. My dad was a student and my mom cared for me and my baby brother full-time. Dad underwent surgery and, as far as we all knew, recovered fine. 

I didn't realize he was living on borrowed time.

We moved to Nigeria in 1991 when I was 14 and the first few years were uneventful. I made some dear friends at school and the other expat medical families who lived on the hospital compound with us came to feel like family. But in the fall of 1993 we received dreaded news. A spot on my dad's skin had been analyzed and showed evidence of melanoma, the most dangerous kind of skin cancer.

Everything happened in a whirlwind.

Within days, he and my mom were booked on flights back to the US, and my siblings and I each had a home (or more than one) in which to live while we were in Nigeria without parents. I don't remember those days very well. I do remember that I had a huge mix of feelings: fear for my dad, sorrow that I wasn't with them during such a scary time, joy in getting to live with my best friends, sadness as I missed my brother and sister who I now only saw briefly at school, passion for the boy I was in love with at the time. 

My first Easter without my parents and sister

It wasn't long until Christmas break came, and the three of us kids flew back to the US to spend the holidays with my parents. My brother was almost 15 and my sister was 11. I don't remember when decisions were made but I do know that after Christmas, my sister ended up living with my folks in CA while my brother and I returned to Nigeria to finish out the school year. I desperately wanted to graduate with my class and not miss my last few months in a country I'd grown to love.

                               

Back in Jos, my brother and I were hosted by a neighbor family who had a 2-year-old and newborn twins. In my mind and my memories, this was the beginning of my adulthood. I was prematurely severed from my family and my childhood, and I had just turned 17. Yes, that actually seems like old enough, in the grand scope of things. Girls around the world get married or have babies at that age. But for me, it wasn't expected, and it wasn't chosen.

The worst thing about the separation was that these were pre-internet days (especially in Nigeria) and thus I did not have good communication with my parents. Also I was caught in a barely survivable maelstrom of feelings and responsibilities. I was desperately in love and aware that I only had a few months left before my boyfriend and I parted for two different colleges. I frankly wanted to spend every minute with him! But I was living in a home that really could use my babysitting help and in fact, expected it. As parameters regarding babysitting hadn't been established at the beginning, I often felt "put upon." I also was struggling a bit in my dating relationship but had no dad to stay up talking to about it, no mom to check in with me and see how I was really doing.

With my best friend Jeanette at our Baccalaureate service

It was a hard time. I even became borderline anorexic. Thankfully a dear friend, who was my piano teacher and choir director at school but also my Bible study leader, recognized that I was falling apart. I still remember one Friday at school when she must have caught sight of me or heard me talk and became worried for me. She talked to the school principal about giving me permission to leave campus and drove me to her house where she gave me a bite to eat and then put me to bed. I spent the night there and ate more than I had in a while. We talked, she listened, my soul felt cared for, and I was better prepared to go back to my life at my neighbors' house.

In June, my dad came back to Nigeria to deal with some of our stuff and to see me graduate. My mom and sister, however, were unable to come. Dad was only in Jos a few days, leaving my brother and me to fly back ourselves a few days after he did. My boyfriend handed me a heartbreaking letter the morning I left, naming all the ways I had wronged him and was wrong for him -- just in time for me to be able to do nothing about any of it. I felt betrayed. It definitely was not the way I'd wanted to leave Nigeria.

With my best friend Amy just before graduation

My dad did a full twelve months of immunotherapy treatment and then was in remission. Mom, Saralynn, Jonathan and he returned to Jos in January 1995. After that painful semester of premature separation from my parents in the Spring of 1994, I did have a few summer breaks with them (though not the one after my freshman year of college) and did eventually have improved communication. But their home was Nigeria and I stayed in the US (and also lived in England briefly). We were never again a family unit in the way we had been my first 16 years.

Now Josiah is just the same age. I already dread the day that he and Naomi go off to college and our home is fundamentally changed without their presence. But for that to happen tomorrow, suddenly, with no choice and no warning ... my heart would be broken. I will try to treasure the time I have left.

Fifth Birth, part 3 -- Loneliness and Joy

There were probably many reasons why my final birthing experience was not nearly as positive as my fourth had been. I had hardly prepared, mentally or physically, and I was not as in shape or as well rested either. I had the stress of a recent overseas move and the newness of my location, as well as the stress of a recent change in delivery location and not having ever spent time with the midwives. There were language barriers and cultural uncertainties. And I also must have known that adding a baby to a family that already included both homeschooled high schoolers and a two-year-old was going to be challenging in ways I could only guess at. 

Thankfully there were also significant positive aspects to my fifth labor and delivery. One amazing unexpected blessing was that in Jerusalem, I was allowed (and encouraged!) to EAT while laboring. I was brought dinner on a tray the night of October 17, given packets of halva by my midwife to eat while in active labor, and brought breakfast on a tray the morning of October 18. 

In addition, my daughter Naomi (16 at the time) had already attended my fourth birth (at age 14) so was more prepared to help this time around. She held a fan to cool me off, encouraged me verbally, and was ready to do anything the midwife needed. The midwife helped me by recommending a position to take during the worst contractions and by offering me gas to breathe. She also, unbeknownst to me, defended me when a doctor came in and apparently complained that I was laboring standing up. She said I was doing fine and that I knew what I was doing. 

By 8 AM on October 18, I'd given birth to my fifth baby (standing up!) and learned that we had a sweet baby girl: Selah Marie. With my labor pains and excruciating delivery finished, I thought the hard part was over. 

Instead it was just beginning.

My family, including Steve, had to return home. I was recovering in a double room and the hospital had strict visiting hours. Because Steve's back was so bad, he didn't return that day, Thursday October 18. My roommate's side of the room was filled to bursting with family and friends during visiting hours. There was talking and laughing and eating food. I couldn't understand any of their words because everyone spoke in Arabic. But I could understand that she had visitors and I didn't. She had people happy about her new baby and I didn't. She had support and I didn't. 

Miriam still hadn't met little Selah so I was extra thankful that my nextdoor neighbor at Tantur was willing to briefly bring Naomi and Miriam by in her car that afternoon. It was too short a visit but I loved seeing little 2-year-old Miriam beam with joy at the sight of her new baby sister. The photo I have of her holding Selah for the first time is an image I'll always treasure. And after that most fleeting of "hello"s, I was back to being by myself in a foreign place.

I thought I had come prepared for this. I knew I would be by myself at the hospital for a few days. I had brought a laptop, assuming I could use internet, and I had a cellphone that I thought had plenty of money. But I never could get online, and my phone's minutes were gone after only a brief conversation with Steve. We simply weren't prepared enough. 

So during some of what should have been the happiest hours of my life, I was cut off from the world. And thus, I was also cut off during what ended up some of my loneliest hours. I couldn't chat with my family in America, sharing all the details of my fifth birth. I couldn't chat with my kids, just across town, to find out how things were going at home. In desperation, I eventually made my way to the nurses' desk to ask for a piece of paper and pen or pencil. They seemed very confused; I just wanted to be able to at least *write* what I was feeling since I couldn't talk with anyone. 

I loved snuggling with my precious newborn. I was acutely aware that everything was my "last." (As far as I'm concerned, anyway.) My last time to gaze into the brand new face of a completely unknown person. My last time to caress soft cheeks and slightly wrinkled newborn hands, knowing that I was the first person on the planet to ever do so. She was a miracle. My Selah Marie... [To be continued...]

Fifth Pregnancy, Part 2 -- Finding the Hospital

"If I don't deliver at Holy Family Hospital, where will I have this baby?" 

Eric, a Catholic priest friend of ours, also living at the institute, had mentioned a hospital in East Jerusalem (Palestinian, not Israeli). He'd said it was good quality for lower prices than Israeli hospitals. But how to even find it? We lived on the very southern edge of metro Jerusalem, and I had no smartphone, no car. I didn't know the geography of Jerusalem yet. I'd been utterly baffled by my first attempt at taking an Israeli bus, and though I felt more comfortable on the Palestinian buses, I still needed to know what bus to take and where to get off. That information was not available on Google Maps. 

I'm not sure people who have moved overseas with the military or a mission agency have any idea how completely different and overwhelming it is to move to another country without any of that framework and support. Every one of my adult moves abroad has been very stressful (though in different ways) because of the independence of them, and in none of them have I had access to a car. 

While our move to Israel in some ways was one of the easiest, given that housing and food were provided (what a gift!!), it did have huge stressors. The biggest obstacles were language and cost. When I lived in Jordan and Nigeria, places where English was hardly spoken, taxis were a great way to get around. They were extremely affordable and I could say one word and be taken right to my final destination. In Israel, though, taxis were expensive. So I not only had to use public transportation that involved more awareness of my surroundings and more self-sufficiency, but I had to do it with multiple language barriers (Hebrew and Arabic) and without a smartphone. 

Back to the pregnancy... 

I can't remember if we asked, or if Eric offered out of the kindness of his heart, but one morning, he took time out of his own research and writing to escort Steve and me to St. Joseph Hospital. We rode one Palestinian bus together to the bus terminus at Damascus Gate, and then he showed us how to walk across the street and around the corner to another bus terminus where we got on a second bus. This one took us on windy streets I'd never seen before, through neighborhoods I didn't know, and when we disembarked at the hospital, I had no mental image of where we'd just driven and moderate doubt that I would find it again! Instead of just dropping us off, Eric went inside with us and made sure we knew how to get to the maternity ward. He introduced us to the ladies at the front desk and found a midwife to take us around the facility. 

I'm forever grateful to Eric for his kindness to us at that moment. He was the only one in Jerusalem to offer that kind of help to me. I did have neighbors who offered to watch Miriam for me if things got going at night, and I'm grateful to them too. But regarding transportation, I knew no one who offered to drive me to appointments in a car, no one who volunteered to take me to the hospital if labor started at home, no one who offered to bring us home after the birth. To be honest, while taking the buses was an added stress, I did fine with them, and practically speaking, I didn't need access to a car. It was more of the feeling it gave me, to not at least have been offered help with a car in the event I'd need it. (Much later in the year, I finally had better understanding of where the hospital was located and discovered that I could have walked there from Damascus Gate without too much difficulty. I would have gained exercise and lost some stress!)

Prenatal appointments in Jerusalem were funny things. I'd been told that births were attended by midwives, which reassured me greatly (having given birth to 3 of 4 previous babies with midwives). I'd been told that natural birth was encouraged and especially at St. Joseph, interventions were not rushed into as I knew they were in many US hospitals. But my prenatal examinations were all done by doctors. And these doctors weren't very happy to hear that I'd previously given birth to a 12 lb. 10 oz. baby -- with shoulder dystocia. When I went in for my 39-week appointment (with Josiah as a companion), I was monitored for quite a while. They didn't like my baby's heart-rate. Things improved and they let me go home, but at the next check-up they did not. 

On October 17 (my due date), I again took two buses across town, this time with Naomi and a toothbrush. They again didn't like the heart-rate and asked me to stay so they could see if they could get labor going. I called Steve and he began making arrangements. Miriam would go to the neighbor's for the night (she was already asleep when he got my call), and another neighbor would drive him and the boys to the hospital. (Steve's recurring bad back had just flared up days earlier, making him dread the thought of walking and taking buses.) We gathered together in a labor and delivery room, the five of us feeling festive at first. We finished our read-aloud ("A Country Between") and the kids played card games into the wee hours of the night. Sometime after midnight, a midwife realized the kids would appreciate sleeping a bit and brought them some pads to put on the floor. Steve tried to snooze in the only armchair. I had no hope of sleeping... [To be continued.]

Fifth Pregnancy

Five years ago next month, I became pregnant with my fourth child, Miriam Joy. Despite it having been 10 years since my previous pregnancy (or maybe, because?), and despite my being almost 40 years old, being pregnant with and giving birth to her were amazing experiences. Really, it was incredible. 

I had spent the 12 months prior to getting pregnant losing 50 pounds and setting healthier habits. Even though I was 39, I was in better shape than I'd been for decades and it was by far my best pregnancy of the four. And then I had the most amazing delivery. It was spontaneous, fast, uncomplicated and with a quick recovery. 

At the time, in July 2016, I was part of a few homeschool groups and had just done a year's course with the C.S. Lewis Institute. Old friends and new friends and women I didn't even know flooded us with help and meals so that I didn't have to cook for the first 6 weeks of Miriam's life. Miriam was a happy baby who slept when held or walked outside in the stroller. She woke through the night for nursing but slept in our bed so I still got decent sleep. 

In addition to wanting a sibling for Miriam, loving being a mom and loving kids, I had such a positive experience with my fourth pregnancy and birth, that I was more than happy to do it a fifth time. February 2018 brought me the news that indeed, God had blessed us with a fifth baby -- I was ecstatic!

And then a month later, on the very day I had been to a massive children's resale and bought a few newborn items, Steve told me that he'd been granted a fellowship to go spend a school year in Israel working on his doctoral dissertation, beginning in September, and that housing and food would be provided for all of us. 

Whoa.

That meant I would be giving birth in a foreign country. Mere weeks after arriving there. Knowing nobody. Half a world away from my mom and my mother-in-law.

But this was my fifth! I knew how to have babies, knew how to nurse, knew how to parent. Most critical of all was my expectation that I would be living in community. Our accommodations in Jerusalem were to be at an "ecumenical institute" where other Christian families and singles lived, some for short times, others for longer term. We would be living next door to each other, sharing meals in the dining hall together. We would be foreigners together in a walled compound, and I thought we'd be sharing life. I thought we'd feel like family. I thought I would have support.

We moved to Israel/Palestine in September 2018, leaving Dulles on September 9 and arriving in Tel Aviv on September 10. I was due October 17.

While still in the States, I had Skyped with an American living at the institute, who had given birth to multiple babies there in Palestine. She had told me where she delivered (Holy Family Hospital in Bethlehem), what the care and cost were like (good and low respectively), and generally reassured me that all would be fine. I liked her responses and assumed that I too would give birth at Holy Family. Within days of arriving, I set off on foot for the hospital and had my first check-up. All the signs and literature were in Arabic and French, but the doctors and nurses spoke English and the facility seemed adequate. The care response I received, though, scared me. On the two visits I made in my first month there, I was told both times that I should expect to have a caesarean. I'd had a C-section with my 3rd and had no desire to repeat the experience. I'd also had a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean) with my 4th, so knew I could do another. My distrust of the doctors to let me try my very hardest for a natural delivery made me change my mind. Just a couple weeks from my due date, I switched gears and decided to birth at St. Joseph Hospital in East Jerusalem. [To be continued...]