Soul Space

Moraine Beach, Highland Park - May 2016

I am obsessed with Lake Michigan.  When I say obsessed, I mean that I absolutely love it, it is my happy place, it is where I find joy and peace and God all at the same time.  It is probably the first place I ever swam, as my mom and I enjoyed many afternoons on Montrose beach while I was still an only child.  When my brother and sister came along, we spent entire days at Rosewood beach in Highland Park.  We built sand castles, jumped in waves, searched tirelessly for beach glass, and ate sandy peanut butter and jelly while the sun burnt our shoulders.  My husband and I bought our fixer-upper in Wilmette for many reasons, but in all honesty I can say that a top priority was our proximity to the lake.  I had to be close to my soul space.

I am not a fair-weather Lake Michigan fan.  I run with my dog through the snow and slush of January to stand on the icy shores and contemplate the contrast between its foreboding presence of winter to its warm and welcome beckoning of July.  I see God's majesty in that juxtaposition.  I swim just as happily in the icy, still waters of June as I do in the warm wavy ones of August.  I have stripped and jumped in after a hot run in May when the water temperature feels like it will make your heart stop, and walked along the shores on a cold Thanksgiving morning with my husband; what better place to contemplate gratitude than in a place of absolute beauty in nature?

On the shores of Lake Michigan, I've sat in beach chairs for hours with my mom and sister or girlfriends and discussed life, and love, and laughed.  I've read books and magazines, viewed countless fireworks displays, drank glasses of wine and vodka cocktails from water bottles, and maybe even danced a little.

I've stood and gazed at the waters and prayed.  I've prayed for the loves in my life, for myself, for hope, peace, healing, understanding, for babies and for miraculous healing from drug addiction for my beautiful brother who broke my heart by succumbing to its power and leaving me.

Another summer is here and for the first time this week, I went alone with my chair, my lunch, my books, and my SPF 30 and 50 as I am getting very serious about protecting my 35-year-old skin, a little too little and a little too late.

A very dear girlfriend lent a book to me that I can only describe as a collection of a woman's musings of her heart and soul.  Each chapter is a new thought based on an experience she has had.  As she and I have so much in common, even though she is a stranger, I am connected to her and the words that she artfully shares.  As I started a chapter titled "What Could Have Been" I knew I was going to be moved.  The chapter spoke about the due date of a miscarried baby, and a woman who cried a little bit at every wedding she attended as her sister had died and the dancing reminded her that she would never celebrate with her best friend again.

This author and I, we connect.  

Tears literally poured out from under my sunglasses.  As an avid reader, I can say with absolute certainty that no book has made me cry since I was 11 years old and read Where the Red Fern Grows (about the little boy and his hunting dogs who die saving his life).  Today, I cried again because of the words an author so eloquently compiled.  I was touched, validated, connected, and so very thankful to my girlfriend for sharing this book with me all at one time.

I pulled myself together, stood from my beach chair, and walked down to the water to compose myself and feel the cool waters soothe my hot feet and emotional soul.  A sweet little toddler crossed my path.  He was wearing a Superman t-shirt, had bright blond hair, blue eyes, and was irresistibly chubby.  It cut to my heart as he looked so much like my beautiful and Heaven-sent little brother did as a baby, and also because I so want to be a mom to a son.  Part of me is so drawn to having a son as I desperately wish for my family to have the presence of a young child who reminds us of my brother, and also because I know the bond between a mother and son is indescribable. The desire is multi-faceted.

I could have looked at today's time at the lake with sadness.  I could have wished for the past when Matt was still with us, or longed for a future when I am there with my own children, particularly a little boy who looked like my path-crossing toddler.  I didn't feel that way today.  I felt peaceful in knowing that today, this is where God wants me to be.  Every day that goes by is another day of learning to live with the loss of one of the most important people in my life, and every day that passes is another day closer to a time when I will become a mother.

I've learned a lot in these last few months about myself, about time, about God's plan, and about the heartbreak that comes for wishing for something that isn't meant to be.

If God agrees with the desires of my heart, it will happen.  If it is not in His plan, I cannot force it. 

I could not force Matt to get better, because God knew that he was safer in Heaven than he was with me.  I'm pretty damn sure God wants me to be a mom as I'm confident I would be really good at it, if not slightly overbearing due to my years of wishing and praying for as child so fervently.  I do however, have to be patient and cannot force the process.  I have to see how He wants that desire to take shape.

I read a quote the other day on (my favorite) Pinterest.  It said:

You have to find that place that brings out the human in you. The soul in you.  The love in you........

I am in that place now.  Physically and superficially, my lake brings out the soul, human, and love in me.  Emotionally and with depth, life's experiences brought me to that place...

The truth about grief, a broken heart, about pain is that you never "get over" the experience.  It changes you fundamentally and you live with it as a part of who you are, as a part of your soul, what makes you human, and what inspires you to continue to love.

Once again, my time at the lake was well spent.  Lake Michigan, a lovingly shared book, and a toddler stranger affirmed that right where I am is where I am meant to be, my human place, my soul space, my place of love.

A Little Bit of Miracle

Miracle: (noun) a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.

In "googling" the word miracle, this is the definition I found.  I agree with the given descriptor, but it is missing a disclaimer: 

*Miracles do not always end the way we had hoped for... 

Throughout my journey to become pregnant, I have prayed fervently and tirelessly for a miracle.  On March 2,  I was granted that miracle.  On April 1, I lost it.  

A positive pregnancy test was a miracle in itself for me.  What happened between the dates of February 22 and April 1 were what I believe to be a true miracle.  Unfortunately, my miracle wasn't permanent.

February 22: First HCG blood test after embryo transfer, positive result

February 24 (my birthday): Second HCG blood test, levels dropped, nurses informed us it was not a viable pregnancy, stopped all medication, began grieving process

March 2: follow up HCG blood test, HCG numbers inexplicably rose, nurses told me this was not a good phenomenon and to not get my hopes up, worried there was something seriously wrong with my body

March 4: follow up HCG blood test resulted in numbers appropriately doubled, gestational sac detected on the ultrasound, nurses and doctors shocked and in disbelief 

*felt we were witnessing our miracle, Jer brought home flowers and a balloon, I tried to breathe through shock  

March 5-March 14: numbers rise and gestational sac continues to grow, concerns over not enough growth regularly voiced by doctor and nurses, fear sets in, multiple appointments, countless hours of worry and prayer

On March 15th, Jeremiah and I walked into the doctor's office for another HCG blood test and ultrasound.  We knew this was a pivotal day, that if the sac had not produced a yolk or fetal pole, the pregnancy was not going to continue.  In the ultrasound room, Jeremiah had to hold me up as I was so nervous I fell while getting undressed for my exam.  He held my hand while the doctor and nurse peered intently at the ultrasound machine.  I watched their faces for any sign of hope.  I knew by their furrowed brows and murmuring that they were not seeing what they were looking for.  

My doctor walked away from the machine.

"It's empty.  Shit," I heard him say.

You know your doctor is on your team when he swears at your undesirable results.  

My heart sunk, my blood froze, I went numb.  I was in shock yet again.  The weeks behind me had been filled with highs and lows, shock and disbelief, joy, hope, and fear.  It was over.  The D&C had to be scheduled.  

In an effort to not ruin our upcoming vacation, we scheduled the procedure for the week after we came home.  Because of this decision, I had to stay on my shots and medication so that I did not miscarry while away from my doctor's care.  As I look back on it now, there was a part of me that still held onto hope that growth would occur while we were on our vacation and the miracle would continue.  It was unrealistic, but my understanding is that is the magic of miracles.  

On the day of my pre-operative blood work and ultrasound, I went by myself.  I sat on the exam table and waited for what felt like hours to see the doctor.  When he came in, he was done in two minutes.  He saw my collapsed gestational sac right away.  It was a flat blob.  My beautiful little miracle, my hope, my baby, was a flat black blob inside of my belly.  It hadn't grown.  It wasn't safe inside of me, it wasn't the miracle I had wanted it to be.  

Three days later, on April 1, I had my D&C.  I cried from the minute we got to the hospital, until eight hours later when they brought me ginger ale and cookies.  At one point, a nurse asked me if she should get a chaplain to pray with me, as I was in such a state.  Nothing could have stopped the tears that day.  

It is now several days past the D&C.  I was able to stop taking the medication that was keeping me pregnant, making me feel pregnant.  My butt is healing from where I was putting injections for 9 weeks.  My breasts stopped aching, I'm no longer nauseous, I can keep my eyes open long enough to finish a TV show in the evening, and I don't feel short tempered and annoyed at everything I encounter, not excluding my sweet golden retriever.  

When I think of a way to weave a thread of hope, an iota of strength, a lesson of faith through this experience, I can only come up with these words:

I still believe that miracles happen every day.  I also still believe in happy endings.  I know that even the smallest of miracles, in whatever shape or form they are given to us, are God's reminder that He is leading us to our happy ending. 

Sometimes I think my heart can't take any more loss.  In these last three years, I have lost more than I ever imagined I could endure.  I've had my heart broken more than I thought possible.  Sometimes, it is so broken that it physically aches in my chest.  In spite of these losses and heartbreak, I refuse to lose myself.

The core of my being has always held onto faith, hope, and love.  Having that make up in my soul means that I believe in miracles, I believe in happy endings.  I believe in the power of prayer.

Maybe God is allowing for another element to be added to my core: bad ass.  

Bad ass girls don't give up on miracles and happy endings.  We keep praying.  
    
*When I was praying for my pregnancy, I promised God that I would tell others about the miracle He gave us.  I promised that I would use this experience to share hope.  Lord...it is shared.

**Please pray for me, because the pain is excruciating, because I believe that God will hear your prayer, because I want to become a mom more than anything, because it is time for me to call in the troops...

Words to an Addict

In the dark and early hours of this morning, I awoke suddenly and with a gasp of breath.  I knew I had experienced something special, and in the dreamlike and foggy state of the first seconds of consciousness I could not remember what it was.

It quickly came to me and my mind raced to recall each and every detail.  It was so powerful and intense that I wanted to experience it again.  If only I could fall asleep and continue the moment, I would have.

Two years and two months since my brother's death, he will occasionally appear to me in a dream.  It is so rare, and so powerful, that it often sets me back in my grief.  Seeing his blue eyes and hearing his voice so vividly remind me of what is missing from my life; my little brother, my friend.

In the dream, Matt had never died.  He had faked his death and was still with us.  I lost my temper, pounded on his chest, and called him a bad person repeatedly.  He wasn't fazed by my anger and laughed and teased me until I calmed down.  This was a technique that he had always been so skilled at...one that probably made his girlfriends even crazier than it made his sisters.  He charmed his way out of catastrophe, countless times.

Matt could not charm his way out of the catastrophe of heroin, because he was an addict.  It was the one dangerous, crazy, mind-altering act that he could not twinkle his blue eyes at, joke into friendship, wrap in his arms and love, or grip in his hands and fix.

He didn't fake his death, and he isn't still with us.  The dream was just a dream.

In other dreams that I have had of Matt, there has been symbolism, metaphors, and sometimes even a little inspiration from my baby brother.  I desperately searched for some meaning in this particular dream, something that he or God wanted to tell me.  I simply could not come up with anything.  Instead, my mind began to focus on the meaning, severity, and pull of addiction.

I know what it feels like to come home from a long night of parent-teacher conferences and pour a glass of red wine.  I understand the way the alcohol almost instantly calms shaken nerves and slows a racing mind.  I know how it feels to do a kickboxing class, punch a little too hard, and wake up the next morning knowing that the pain of the pulled muscle will take my breath away.  I am thankful for the way a Vicodin will ease that intensity and allow me to breathe through the initial trauma.  I've been put under anesthesia several times for my fertility procedures.  I know how one little needle being inserted into my hand can put me to sleep instantly so that I do not feel the physical pain of the procedure, despite the emotional pain it causes me.

I understand the desire to be numb, or high, or happy, or to simply be put to sleep.  It is depressingly honest to say that losing rational thought sometimes sounds beautiful.  That is also my limited understanding of the power of addiction.

I understand the peace that comes from a mind numbed by a substance when one is in the midst of pain.  However, I also have seen the fear that comes from a loss of control, the surrender to something that will take a 27-year-old man from his family and friends.  There is no peace in that.

There is no peace in a mind so altered that it has lost control.  I understand, but I am angry.

And then I walked away from this post for several days...

...and went to the Daley Center in Chicago for jury duty.  There, a homeless woman sat with her coffee cups, shopping cart, lottery tickets, and her sun worn face looked around expectantly for a friend as she quietly mumbled to herself.  She was so clearly intoxicated on that cold Wednesday morning...

...and had tea with my friend Nancy who confided in me about her stepson and his struggle with addiction to alcohol, his homelessness, and the destruction that he is bringing on his family...

...and finally, I sat at my favorite bar on a Thursday night with Jeremiah and we split a burger and quesadillas.  I had my glass of red wine by the fire with the last sets of white twinkle lights still out and shining happily from a corner Christmas tree.  The red wine instantly calmed my shaken nerves and slowed my racing mind...

...and I told Jeremiah about the blog post that I had started about addiction on the previous Sunday that I could not finish.  We talked about the homeless woman at the Daley Center, and my friend's stepson.  We talked about how seeing the young lawyers at jury duty had been difficult for me as I felt the devastation that Matt was not with them, practicing law, loving his chosen profession that he had wanted so badly and worked so hard to earn.  We talked about how addiction had ruined all of his hopes and dreams.

Jeremiah reminded me of the story of the Pharisees.  Over my glass of red wine and his beer, he retold the story of the men who wanted to condemn.  Jesus wrote in the dirt and then told the men standing there whoever was without sin to cast the first stone.  The oldest men walked away first as they knew that they had committed the most sins.  The middle aged men stepped away next, and the youngest last.

Nobody knows what Jesus wrote in the sand when he told the men to throw stones.  What we do know is that no one was so flawless that they were able to cast the first stone.

John 8:7 says:

When they kept questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw the stone at her."  

We all have sin.  Whether we shot heroin, lied, cheated, intentionally hurt, or doubted it is all dark to God.  The greatest gift of all that He gave us is His forgiveness, but also the ability to forgive others.

The sin in our lives, it can break the hearts of those around us.  Matt's addiction broke my heart, over and over.  He didn't do it on purpose, but it hurt me every day that he was sick.  Addiction will do that to the people who surround the addict; it will break their hearts.  

I let go of the anger and replace it with understanding.  Understanding brings peace.  

We are a a work in progress, constantly needing to redeem ourselves, smooth our flaws, and ask for forgiveness.  We have to hold love at a higher esteem than anger, as withholding forgiveness can be as toxic as an addiction to heroin.

Heroin was toxic and powerful, but LOVE is stronger.  My love for Matt remains and the power of the drug died when Matt met Jesus in Heaven.

I will meet him there as well.  We will have forgiveness, a warm hug, and I will see long lost twinkling blue eyes.  In Heaven, there will be no need for a glass of red wine to calm my shaken nerves or slow my racing mind.