A Different Kind Of Post

Where do I even begin? One month ago, I was the mom on the phone with another mom at two in the morning telling her to take a deep breath. Reassuring other moms that this phase, this hard moment will pass. I was being called on for support, prayers, and a shoulder to cry on. Today, the roles are reversed. About a month ago, I woke up and my world went black. Pitch black. I was completely numb. No matter what I did, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't get my thoughts together. Sleeping became a thing of the past. I'm doing good to eat once a day. Have you ever heard of Postpartum Depression? I have, and I'm living it. I have a beautiful life with an incredible husband, three amazing children, and a loving family. I am living my dream, raising my children, homeschooling, doing a little Target shopping, and drinking all the coffee I can get my hands on. All of my dreams have come true. Why am I so unhappy? I am surrounded by children, a husband, kids, nurses, and therapists twenty-four hours a day, but I feel so alone. Why can't I stop crying? Why am I being such an idiot? Let me tell you why. PPD is real. It's scary. It'll make you question everything you have ever known. Some days, I have it all together. Other days, just getting out of bed sends me into a panic attack. Not the panic attack where you just need to shake it off, but the kind where I am shaking, struggling to breathe, and covered in hives. I'm so ashamed. I'm so weak. On a daily basis, I'm told that I'm strong. How dare I break down! A few nights ago, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I broke down and told my husband I couldn't do it anymore. I needed help. I can't keep going through the motions, forcing a smile, watching my life from the outside. I'm so grateful for a supportive husband. He has done his research and is so incredibly strong. Now that I've admitted that I need help, I need to take the next step and get help. I'm on the right track, or so I thought. I thought I would make a phone call, schedule an appointment, and begin my journey to healing. I was so very wrong. After calling a few offices and being told an appointment wasn't available for weeks or no new patients were being accepted, I began to crumble all over again. PPD and rejections don't go well together. I already feel like a failure, but then to be told no, why should I bother? I kept calling. I was continually rejected. At one point, I told the assistant through uncontrollable sobbing that I couldn't wait two weeks, that I needed help right now, and she turned me away anyway. Why won't anyone help me? I shaking, sobbing, begging for help and no one will help me. Let me tell you, it hurts. Honestly, I still haven't found help, but my husband is taking over the calling. As I sit here, ashamed and embarrassed typing this post with salty tears dried to my face, I have realized something. Maybe there isn't help for me. Maybe I am alone on this dark path. Maybe I can't be helped. Maybe I'm too far gone. You see there, those are my true thoughts. That's what's really going on in my mind behind this smile I keep forcing. I know it's the PPD talking, but it's so real. I went and saw my midwife today. She assured me that it's alright to be weak because our God is so strong. I believe that with all of my heart, but I still can't shake it. I've let my kids down. I've let my husband down. I've let myself down. I'm unstoppable, untouchable, and yet here I sit, begging for someone, anyone to fix me. Some of my real thoughts are down right scary. They even scare me. No, I have no urge to hurt my children, but there's so much more to PPD than that. Every day I wonder if they would be better off with someone else. Every day I wonder if I'll be broken forever. Every day I wonder if this is it. Maybe there's nothing to take away from this post, maybe there is. I don't know yet, but I'm willing to put it out there. Even if one other mom reads my post and relates to my words, then takes a step towards healing, it'll be worth it. I don't want pity. I don't want sympathy. I want help. That's my only request. Please, please, please know that PPD is real. Check on your friends. When she says she's fine, read between the lines. Be the support system she needs. If she wants to talk, listen. If she doesn't want to talk, don't force her, but make sure she knows you're there, really there for her. Know the symptoms of PPD and watch for them. Until I find the help I need, I will keep telling myself that I'm not a failure, I'm not a lost cause, and that one day, everything will be alright. Maybe not today, and probably not tomorrow, but one day. I will repeat those words until I believe them. I hope to look back on this post in the future and say, "I did it. I survived." Until then, I'll remind myself that it's okay to not be okay all the time.

Postpartum depression symptoms may include:

• Depressed mood or severe mood swings
• Excessive crying
• Difficulty bonding with your baby
• Withdrawing from family and friends
• Loss of appetite or eating much more than usual
• Inability to sleep (insomnia) or sleeping too much
• Overwhelming fatigue or loss of energy
• Reduced interest and pleasure in activities you used to enjoy
• Intense irritability and anger
• Fear that you're not a good mother
• Feelings of worthlessness, shame, guilt or inadequacy
• Diminished ability to think clearly, concentrate or make decisions
• Severe anxiety and panic attacks
• Thoughts of harming yourself or your baby
• Recurrent thoughts of death or suicide. 

Right Where She Belongs

My mom, Tex, and I were sitting in the surgery waiting room anxiously watching the screen that lets families know the status of the procedure. Anesthesia started, procedure started, anesthesia stopped. Watching that screen will drive you mad but you can't help but look. As most can assume, babies don't like change or to be sitting in the same place for an extended period of time, so we decided to go out into the hall and change up the scenery. Eric, the most amazing human being at the hospital, came by and told us surgery went incredibly well and that the surgeon was finishing up. The surgeon then met up with me at the gift shop. He had said the same as Eric. Surgery went better than expected. After a few minutes, I noticed I had a missed call from the hospital. I had just spoken with Eric and the surgeon so I wasn't too alarmed, but I headed back to the waiting room to check on things anyway. The nurse stated that there was a problem. Bunny's stats went crazy and they were working on her. It felt like forever had passed before I got another update. A gentleman calmly walked into the waiting area and called for the family of the Walden patient. I excitedly jumped up and proceeded to follow him out the door. This, as I knew from previous experience, was the moment I would be led back to my girl. She would be awake and smiling, calling out my name. That's not what happened. As soon as the door shut behind us, the gentleman said, "We need to move quickly," and took off running. At this point, my heart sunk. He continued to ask if Bunny had a DNR. She does. The hospital knew that. The surgeons knew that. The nurses knew that. Everyone knew she had a DNR. The bright, bold, red letters were stamped all over her chart, DNR. In that moment, all I could say was, "No." We blasted through two doors as if the our lives depended on it. Then, I saw her. I saw them. I saw the tubes, her pale gray, blue skin. I saw the machines pumping life into her. Echoing around me was, "Mom says no DNR. Keep going." She was slipping. How could this be happening? She was perfectly fine 15 minutes prior. Surgery was a success. Eric said so. Twice. I text my mom angrily. I told her they brought me back for the above reasons. She said to hold her and pray. That's exactly what I did. They got the tube back in and blood sprayed everywhere. Panic set in around me. "Get the surgeon back in here now," the anesthesiologist yelled. "She's a full code." I watched as the nurse pumped the bag of life into my precious child. Every pump kept her here. Kept her holding on. She doesn't deserve this. Her dad and I swore we would never put her through this. I took her hand and prayed, "Take her, Lord. If it's Your will, take her now. Don't let her suffer. Don't drag this out. She's Yours. I have had six miraculous years with her knowing she belongs to You. Make it stop, God. Don't let her go like this. Let her be at peace." The room was silent. Alarms were sounding, people were shuffling, but all we could hear in that one moment was the slightest, sweetest little whimper. She's in there! She's fighting! She wasn't done yet. Her journey wasn't over. At that moment, I knew she could do it. Her surgeon ordered that she be taken to a room. Not the ICU, but a room. I met back up with my mom and Tex and we whisked off to a room on the all familiar 10th floor. Bunny is known there. It's her home away from home. We reached the room and shortly after, the princess rolled in. She was awake. She looked phenomenal being that she almost just lost her life. We settled in and that was that. The morning after surgery, Bunny had a series of scans completed to check on the status of her newly placed accessory, the shunt. The day went on uneventfully. Nothing major occurred. There was talk among the staff that Bunny would be released today. Say what?? I'll take it! My mom headed out and the babies and I hung out. Nothing too exciting. The adrenaline had finally worn off and I was feeling it. Tex and I decided to grab some food. Bunny was resting, so we headed downstairs. When we got back to the room, the Buns was MIA. The nurse informed me that she was taken for an MRI. Red flag! This wasn't discussed previously. No one had mentioned an MRI. It couldn't have been thirty minutes after Bunny returned to the room that the surgeon walked in with his entourage. Bunny's surgeon is by far the most serious, straight-to-business man I've ever met. He never sits down. He never asks questions. He tells you what's going to happen and walks away. Today though, he had a look on his face. One I had never seen him express before. Disappointment. He began speaking in the most genuine tone. "I failed her." He proceeded to tell me that while the surgery went flawlessly, the aftermath caused damage. She'll never advance beyond where she's at now. Her MRI showed more damage than what appeared before surgery. Sure, the shunt was in place and working properly, the pressure on her brain would decrease slowly, but the damage was irreversible. His recommendation? Take her home and love her. Love her like we've never loved her before, and let her know we know she's tired. Let her know we will understand when she can't fight any longer. So here we are, at home loving her. While our faith in God will never stop, we also know His plan is going to trump ours. When He's ready for Bunny to go back Home, there's nothing we'll be able to do to stop it. For now, we're going to continue doing what we've been doing for six years. We're going to believe in her, love her, and let her lead the way. We pray for many more years with our girl, but more than anything, we want her to know love. To know that we are so incredibly proud of her. To know that no matter what, we will follow her lead. To know that when she can't fight any longer, when she feels ready, we will hold her, love her, and let her go peacefully. Tonight, Bunny is right where she belongs. In her home, in her bed, sleeping peacefully, surrounded by love.

In His Hands

I am sitting on the edge of a blue pleather sofa couch. The room is white, lacking personality, and the air has a chill. I can hear the sirens of an ambulance in the distance and a helicopter landing on a rooftop nearby. There are alarms beeping and voices echoing throughout the halls. I have spent all afternoon on the phone calling every family member I can reach. My voice is raspy and my throat aches. She was wheeled away hours ago, but I can't pull myself together enough to leave the room. I have one final thing I need to take care of before I can pick myself up and leave. I grab my phone, tap the Facebook icon, and begin to type, "Aralyn Faith is whole and healed now. She's walking, talking, and dancing alongside Jesus." This is where I wake up from my worst nightmare of my life, pouring sweat with tears flooding my eyes. This is what I see every time I close my eyes. I can't make it go away. I can't make it stop. It's pure torture. Every night the same nightmare replays in my head on repeat. No matter how many times I wake up, it comes back to haunt me. I have never been so scared for Aralyn's life before. Why won't it stop? 

The devil. He sees my weakness and he's trying to tear me down. I have to admit, he's close. I shouldn't have this fear. It shouldn't be a possible reality, but it is. I don't know when God will intervene and heal Aralyn, but I pray, and pray, and pray that it's while she's on earth. I'm scared. I'm shaken. I'm human. There's nothing else I can do at this point other than leave it in His hands. I'm so thankful God created Aralyn to be a fighter because there are times when I feel so weak. My fears are in His hands, my worries are in His hands, and my baby girl is in His hands. I'm giving it all to you, Lord.