The Mid-Term - That's the Day I'd Quit!

"You have to write about everyone, what you do and don't like. And then there's that last question that you have to say who you have the hardest time with in class and why!" Those were the words of a recent graduate of the program, "consoling" me about what was ahead. When I passed that along to my husband, his response was, "That's the day I'd quit!" And he meant it.

In our class, we have a term called "care-frontation," never to be confused with confrontation. :-) And for our mid-term and final exam each quarter, we have a list of questions regarding the program, content, our supervisors, our own feelings as we've trudged along, and then the part that we're to make a statement about and give a suggestion to each class member. A few other questions are tossed in for good measure, and then that last one shows up, the one about singling out the person you feel most uncomfortable with. (But there's a method to that madness.)

I don't like confrontation and I'm not so sure I'm all in love with carefrontation either. But I suppose I'll get used to it. Or that's the day I quit. Ha!

We arrived to a fairly tight circle of chairs, none of the usual lesson materials waiting on a table nearby. No case studies to dissect after dividing up into two groups. This would be four hours of chaplains taking turns passing out their copies and then reading their entire mid-term aloud to the group. And there are fourteen of us!

And what do we learn and gain from this (besides hearing how our eating habits during class bug someone or that it's disrespectful to show up late, etc.) and WHY WOULD WE STAY? Those, my friends, are excellent questions.

We humans are complex bundles of "stuff" that we literally do STUFF into little hiding places that help us to feel safe and function fairly normally. It can be intimidating and painful to go on an emotional dig and find what's hiding. Interestingly enough, it is those very things that keep us from being the clear vessels we need to be in order to help others to heal. Our own "hidden treasures" get in the way. It's been said that "healing is in the feeling" and it applies to chaplains and not just patients.

Since I'm still enrolled, it's fairly obvious that that wasn't the day I quit. Not even close. I certainly had some apprehension, as is normal for anyone going into a situation for the first time and not knowing exactly what to expect. But my fellow chaplains rocked it. They are generous, lovely people, with hearts the size of Texas.

As for me, I simply burst into tears when I got to the very first chaplain on my list and had to read aloud what I'd written. My mother would never bear her testimony in church, and when we would innocently inquire as to why not, she'd matter-of-factly say, "Because my tear ducts are connected to my bladder." Well thanks, Mom, for passing that little gene abnormality along.

My emotions caught me off guard, and were probably a little surprise to everyone else in the circle, but hey! they're now seeing a side of me that is real and raw. I'm a weeper. I feel my feelings and they spill over any dams I attempt to create.

I stated that I didn't feel uncomfortable with anyone in the room (and I don't!), only that I wished one of the chaplains would share more about herself because I have a feeling there's a lot more there that I don't know a thing about. But here's the clincher. The rest of the question says, "And what does this reveal about you?" Okay, fine. It's obvious that I need to be more open about myself and allow others to peek inside to what is really there. And when they look, they get to tell me what they see, and then I get to do something healthy with that. 

My bladder/tear duct connection isn't going to stop me now.
Please send Kleenex.

Survival by Prayer - My Own 9/11, Part II

Read Part I here.

Summer was arriving, and my children would be home full time. I didn't know how I'd have enough strength to take care of them, but I was still hopeful that things would improve. I was hardly eating anything at this point, and I was beginning to get a little frightened. I spent the next few months in decline. My digestive system seemed to be in major rebellion. I'd take a bite or two of food and feel so awful that I wanted to beat my head against the wall. How do you keep eating when you feel that way? I was losing weight right and left, struggling just to keep myself hydrated over the summer. And, I could not sleep. I'd lie awake the entire night without a wink of sleep. That would go on for many nights in a row. It could only be called a nightmare. I found a naturopath that did some testing on me and had me take a gazillion supplements, but it didn't help. I started going to an environmental medicine clinic where they'd give me vitamin and mineral IV's, which would initially give me an energy boost, but then nothing improved.

My youngest had just finished Kindergarten, and I wanted her to have happy memories. We set up a pool and she and her friends would be entertained for hours. I'd settle in on the chaise lounge with a Vitamin Water and a goal of drinking at least half of it in a couple of hours' time. That was hard. My body was completely disinterested in doing anything digestively.

As we got closer to the end of summer, I was sliding faster and faster down the hill. I felt horrible all of the time, not just when I ate, and absolutely nothing any mainstream or alternative clinic suggested was working. I had repeated priesthood blessings, many prayers offered, and we were truly doing everything we knew to do for me to improve. Sometime in the middle of August, my husband came down with a nasty virus. His throat was so incredibly sore that he couldn't bear to even swallow his own saliva. Now he was dehydrated, too, and the doctor sent him to the hospital for a couple of days. That really got to me. He had never been hospitalized in our entire married life and there I was too sick to even pay him a visit. My mother sat at his bedside and fed him little bites of soft foods, encouraging him to get more nutrition. I felt tormented.

Fall arrived and it was by the grace of God that we were able to have things ready for our youngest to start First Grade. It was good that she had something to focus on, but it was difficult for her to leave under the circumstances. She drew pictures for me nearly every day and I'd hang them on the walls near my bed. By now I was in bed nearly all day, as I had no energy and felt incredibly ill. On September 11, 2001, I went in to have a mainline tube inserted so that I could start to receive TPN. It was a horrible day for me personally and a most horrible day for our country. All day I laid on my bed, staring at the horrors happening on the TV and feeling the horrors of my own life appearing to slowly slip away. I have my own version of PTSD from that period of time, different than most people, but still a major issue.

It was during this time that prayer became my only salvation. I felt rotten, I hated the fact that my family was suffering and everything was completely out of sorts. I hadn't attended church for more than a month (and had been released as the Stake Young Women President in mid summer because, well, I couldn't function!) and all that was left for me to do was to pray my guts out. And so I did. Day and night.

I would tell Heavenly Father that I was miserable, that I had tried so hard to do the right things, that I really wanted to take care of my family. My children, my husband, and my parents were all suffering. Could You please help me? Why does this have to be so awful? Why aren't there any answers? Why, if everyone I know personally is praying for me, why isn't anything changing? Why? Why? Why? I was perplexed. I was confused. I was baffled to the max. But I kept pleading with God to hear me. And at times I felt calmer.

One beautiful Fall day, I told my husband that even though I felt like I had no energy, I really wanted to make the trek to the bottom of our rocky lane to await the arrival of the bus carrying our little one from school. I was worried that I was soon going to disappear from her life, and I wanted her to remember that I was there, that I loved her, and that I was doing everything I could to show her that. And I wanted something "normal" to happen! I recall saying to him as we walked in the sunshine, in a truly perplexed way, "Why, after I've tried so hard to live a good life, I've served with all of my heart in my callings, I've tried hard to be a good wife and mother, I've kept my temple covenants, I've paid my tithing, etc., etc., why when God is all powerful and knows exactly what's wrong and how to fix it, why won't He do it?"

My husband's gentle response has stuck with me for all of these years. He quietly said, "Because Heavenly Father made covenants with you before you came here, and He isn't willing to break them." That was hard to hear, but I knew it was true. And I didn't know exactly what those covenants were, but I knew I had to learn this the hard way, and maybe it wasn't all going to end the way I desired. But I believed it was true and it helped me have faith that God was watching, that He was aware of my struggle and that I was in His hands.

 The Willamette River in the Fall

After numerous more trips to doctors, and tests galore that would make anyone feel sick whether they were sick to begin with or not, we finally decided that a trip to the Mayo Clinic in Michigan was in order. This was suggested by my sister in law, a physician, who had planned to fly out from Washington D.C. and see what she might do to help me in my miserable state. But with 9/11 having occurred, she decided she was too nervous to leave her own young family and make that flight across the country. We didn't blame her one bit. But she encouraged us to go see what the Mayo doctors might discover.

By now my oldest daughter had returned from college to help us out. She was cooking and cleaning and playing Mom to our youngest. Our middle daughter was a junior in high school and had an extremely busy schedule. She would greet me before leaving in the morning and spend a little time with me in the evenings, but mostly she was a busy teenager with seminary, school and a job. With our oldest there, we could leave to make the trip out to Minnesota. So we did.

I felt so incredibly out of sorts as we entered the airport (and I now realize that I was suffering horribly from depression, but I didn't understand it at the time.) There were all of these strict security measures in place. And at this point, I felt complete surrender. I had no energy to worry about a darned thing. I have never felt as relaxed on a plane as I did on that flight. I felt so close to death that it simply made no difference to me if the plane went down (although I DID care very much that our children would be left without either parent!)

There was a native American man on our flight, and at one point he inquired about our situation. My husband told him why we were headed to the Mayo Clinic. His response was, "She's going to be alright. She has _______ (we haven't really known what he said) in her aura. She's going to be alright." We didn't know much about that at all during that time, but we felt some comfort in his words. He seemed to see and know things that we didn't. And, thank the Lord in heaven, it turned out that he was right! But there was still an uphill journey to make.

To be continued . . .  Part III: The Mayo visit, no more TPN, funeral plans and a Christmas Day miracle