When Your Bucket List Overflows

It’s cancer.  Malignant. Stage 4.  Angry and aggressive.  Rare.  Incurable.

The oncologist is speaking, and she is saying words that surely I must have heard before.  But never have I realized what ugly, vile words they are.  These words?  Describing me?  Unbelievable!

The oncologist goes on, almost apologetically, explaining that medical science doesn’t know what could have caused this terrible disease, especially since I do not have any of the usual risk factors. I am young-ish, not overweight, non-smoker, no family history.  Not even any genetic mutations or elevated tumor markers.  Well, medical science may not have clinical evidence to prove it, but secretly, I suspect the real cause.  In fact, I have suspected it for years.

I mean, the human body can only endure so much anxiety and trauma and grief and heartache, before something has got to give. Honestly, during our 20+ years of caring for some of our community’s most broken and most fragile and most needy children in our home, I have given my finite body an Olympic-worthy workout. I have demanded of my little adrenal glands, day after day, year after year that they keep producing an almost constant stream of adrenaline and cortisol, those hormones that the body needs during times of extreme stress.  How can that not eventually have an adverse effect?

Those thousands of nights when I should have been sleeping, that vital time when the body’s cells restore and rejuvenate, but instead I was keeping vigil at a child’s bedside, wondering if he or she would survive until morning.  The thousands of nights when I cried into my pillow, wondered if I  would survive until morning.  Managing countless moments of destructive behaviors, calming violent outbursts and tantrums, trying desperately to understand the hidden fears and hurts behind the rage.  Grabbing a quick granola bar or skipping meals altogether on my way out the door to yet another appointment or meeting or visit or court hearing.  The frequent worry and desperate prayers for a child’s uncertain and precarious future.  The dozens and dozens of times that I was overcome by grief, weeping for days when a flawed court system suddenly decided that a precious child who had been a part of my heart and a beloved member of our family for months or years, would not be able to stay, and I knew that life would never again be the same.

How could many years of, quite literally, laying down my life (John 15:13) for the least of these (Matthew 25:45) not eventually have an impact?  How could a lifetime of “being poured out as a drink offering” (2 Timothy 4:6) not eventually take its toll?  

The Silent Ones

We are a community of mothers who love our children powerfully and passionately. Who want and dream and envision only the best for them and their future.  And together, when we see first-hand how difficult this job of parenting can sometimes be, we stick together.  We are a tribe of warrior mamas who defend each other in the fiercest battles.  Sisters who support one another with practical resources during the most difficult seasons.  Kindred spirits who refuse to let another one fall.  We encourage one another, as often as necessary, to keep pressing on. 

Some of us have children with chronic or life-threatening health issues. The ones whose children are facing such a terrifying medical diagnosis, that we know, intuitively, that there is no way we can do this by ourselves.  And when we openly ask our community of mothers for help, the response is almost always immediate and powerful.  Neighbors bring meals.  Church leaders and family members gather to pray.  Friends wear the special t-shirt that symbolizes their esprit de corps . . . their camaraderie.  Mothers who are further along in the journey, those of us who have traveled this way before, share our experiences and hard-earned wisdom, extending a hand up to those of us who are just starting out.  We are reminded in so many ways that we are not alone.

Some of us call ourselves the lucky ones, the mamas of children with genetic disorders or developmental delays or heart defects. The ones who have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. (1)

Some of us have intentionally chosen the hard and rocky path.  We have stepped into the brokenness of foster care and adoption, opening our arms and our homes to welcome children who have been traumatized, neglected, abused, forgotten. Children with immense emotional and behavioral challenges that wreak havoc in our families.  

At the beginning, we were excited about where this journey would take us, knowing that we, too, were the lucky ones.  We just knew that we would have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. But now, years later, our blog posts have become fewer and fewer.  Our posts and pictures on social media are pretty much non-existent.  Once upon a time we were the most vocal, the most passionate, the biggest advocates for orphaned and vulnerable children!  But now?  Now we have become the silent ones.

Bleed

It’s an ordinary evening in every way.  I am standing in front of the stove cooking dinner for my family when my phone chimes, alerting me of an incoming message.  I glance at the screen, assuming for a second that it is most likely my husband, letting me know that he is on his way home from work.  But when I read the words on my screen, even before my mind fully processes them, my heart, always leading out in front, stops for a beat or two.   I have been expecting this news for a few days now, but here it is in black and white, a simple text that will forever alter the course of my foster son’s life.   It is confirmation that he will be leaving.

I turn off the stove – because even in my shock, I am perpetually responsible – lower myself to the floor in a near-fetal position, and bawl my eyes out.  This year-long season of pouring out and loving and serving and becoming exhausted and sacrificing everything for this child’s well-being.  This season is over.  

This is not how I wanted it to end.  I wanted to be the rescuer.  To remove him from his brokenness and be a part of his healing process.  I had hoped that there would be a happily ever after.  I had prayed, countless times, begging God over and over again to please, please do a miracle.  A miracle that never came.

Poster Child

One day you sit back and take a good look at your life, and you are overcome with gratitude.  You suddenly realize that everything is almost picture-perfect.   Your home is orderly and organized, the clutter under control.  Your children are well-behaved and happy, not perfect of course, but generally manageable.  You are happy.  You have a predictable routine, wonderful friends, enjoyable hobbies, big dreams.  You are the poster child for a comfortable, cozy life.

And so you ask yourself, innocently enough, why not?  Why not share this beautiful life with a child in need?  There are so many forgotten children who do not have a family to call their own, why not share yours?  After all, you reason, you have a lot of love in your heart.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to be able to make a difference in someone else’s life?  To give someone else an opportunity to thrive?  To give someone else hope for the future?

It is not an easy decision.  You know, in the corners of your heart, that it will be difficult.  Life-changing, even.  Of course there will be an adjustment period.  Some getting used to.  But, you tell yourself, you are a fairly intelligent, competent, confident person.  How hard could it really be? 

And secretly you think, maybe you can become the poster child for this brave new thing.  If you can do it, maybe other people - your friends, others in your church, your contacts on social media – maybe they will follow your example and be inspired to do it too!

Small Stones

It is just sitting here, this plain glass jar in my bathroom.  The jar is clear and simple, and inside the jar are smooth colored stones, all shiny and perfect.  The centuries that these stones spent tossed in the relentless waves and sand of the Atlantic Ocean have perfectly smoothed away all the rough edges, leaving them sleek and glossy, almost as if an unseen hand has deliberately polished them.  Oh, how I love these serene and beautiful stones that have been sitting here on my porcelain counter for so many years.

Sitting here for so many years, that is, until my two-year old daughter stands beside me.  It takes one curious little hand just one moment to reach for the jar, and in one horrifying crash, the floor is covered with small stones and shattered glass.  Utterly wrecked.  Beyond repair.

In an instant, before I even know what is happening, I am screaming at my daughter, What did you do?  Look what you did?  Look at this mess?  Why do you have to touch my stuff?  Why do you have to break everything?  Do you understand how furious I am right now?  The blistering words spew out of my mouth like an active volcano, sizzling and scorching the innocent little one in front of me, melting her into a puddle of tears.

Whoa!  What just happened?  I am shocked and alarmed at my sudden outburst.  Where did this outrage come from?  What made me lose control like this?  Why would such a minor incident cause me to respond with such a vicious tirade?

Hero

“You always know the right thing to do.

The hard part is doing it.”

- General Norman Schwarzkopf

You regularly wear a black t-shirt that boldly proclaims, “I’ve done things that make me lose sleep at night, so that you can sleep at night.”  It’s true:  While you were deployed, you saw and experienced horrors that most civilians cannot imagine, and now you proudly wear the t-shirt – and the tattoos - to prove it.  You were a soldier, willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously for what you believe in.  For the citizens who live in freedom, who are able to sleep at night, you are a hero!

But then, when you returned home after your tour of duty, scarred and forever changed, you faced the worst possible scenario imaginable.  A horror far worse than war.  Harsher, even, than combat.  In one tragic, unthinkable moment, tragedy struck, and your child was left fighting for his life.  It was almost more than you could possibly bear!  After hours of uncertainty, he survived his near-fatal injuries, and his life was miraculously spared.  Your nightmares, unfortunately, continue to haunt.

And now, finally, your child is coming home! It is the day you’ve been waiting for and praying about for six long months.  In your excitement, however, be aware that this will be your most critical battle yet.  That the lives and the future of your children are at stake.   You are the one they will need.  The one who will be responsible for their safety and protection and security.  The one who will lead them and set an example for them.  Now, more than ever before, it is vital that you be all you can be. 

You now have an assignment that is classified priority.  You must be willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously, not for your country this time, but for those you love most.  You have new mission going forward, one of utmost importance:  Operation Enduring Family.

The Gift

He had been anticipating this special day for weeks, counting down the hours that had crept painfully slow. There were more presents under the tree than he could even count, and, oh, the thrill . . . many of them had his name on the tags!  And now Christmas Day was here at last!  He could barely contain his excitement!

He opened the first one, ripping into the paper, the bow flying off.  It was a . . . a book?  Well, that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but Ok, he thought.  A book is good.  I like to read.  And still, there were many more gifts to open.  One by one, he opened the packages.  A skateboard.  A basketball.  A chess set.  And with each present that he opened, his shoulders stooped just a little bit more, and each “thank you” became less and less enthusiastic.  When the last gift had been opened, he looked around in utter disbelief, threw himself onto the floor in a heap, and wailed, “But I wanted an X-Box!”

Poor kid.  He didn’t get the one gift he had hoped for.  The one he had been envisioning.  And all of the other gifts, by comparison, were inferior.  It wasn’t that he was ungrateful.  He just couldn’t help but feel disappointed and heart-broken.  Let down.  His dreams for the perfect gift had been dashed.

I get it.  I’m just like my foster son on that Christmas morning long ago.  My dreams were so big and my expectations were so high.  I had prayed and hoped and anticipated the gift that the Lord was going to give me.  I just knew that what He gave me would exceed my wildest expectations.¹

He gave me a gift, alright.  But it wasn’t the one I was expecting.

The Storm

The violent storm crashed through our home, causing it to be barely recognizable.  Overturned chairs, black dirt from an upended plant, a shattered lamp, and ugly dents in the wall were left in its aftermath.  I simply stood in the middle of the room staring at the chaos, powerless to move, unable to process what had just happened. 

This was not the first time such a wild tempest had destroyed our otherwise peaceful home, but oh, dear God, please let it be the last!  I love this little girl with all of my heart, but I truly don’t know how much more I can take! 

With increasing frequency over the past year or so, her usual sweet, sunny disposition would unexpectedly turn dark and sinister with very little warning.  I rarely saw it coming.  We would be in the parking lot after a pleasant shopping trip, and suddenly she would be shrieking and flailing, refusing to get into the car.  Or we would be the front yard of a friend’s house, when her enthusiasm for a play date would abruptly morph into wailing and thrashing, refusing to get out of the car.

Even our family vacation to a magical kingdom, which should have been a dream come true, ended in disaster. About 10 minutes after entering the gate, the storm hit.  A fierce, raging storm that unleashed its fury indiscriminately onto everyone and everything in its path.  As I dragged a screaming, kicking, biting, flailing, hyperventilating child through the crowds of “perfect” families, I could feel their scornful accusing stares and could imagine their question:  What kind of mother would let her child act like that?  I could almost hear their exhales of relief as they must have been thinking, I’m glad that’s not MY child!  Never in my life had I felt such shame.

And never in my life had I felt so helpless.  How is it possible for a smart, competent, college-educated adult to be completely incapable of controlling a child’s tantrums?  How could her erratic, hysterical behavior continue to be such a mystery to me?

Learning to Trust

She hears the front door squeak open, and she tenses, involuntarily bracing herself for . . . she is not quite sure what.  Whenever he comes home, everything changes.

When she is alone, she can almost relax, almost imagine a life full of peace and serenity and calm.  In the quiet moments, she can remember a time when there was silly laughter and deep joy and infinite hope for the future.  But those days are behind them now, and her home is, instead, filled with frequent strife and familiar bickering.  There is a tension that lives here now, a tension that she can almost feel.

She never knows which one will walk through the front door at the end of the day:  Happy Him or Angry Him.  The him who smiles and asks about her day, or the him who snarls and immediately starts belittling and criticizing her flaws.  The him who wants to chat and engage, or the him who is sullen, angry and withdrawn.

The minute he walks in, the part of her brain that senses danger is activated, and every muscle, every sense is instantly on high-alert.  Are those light-hearted footsteps she hears striding down the hall, meaning that he is ready to interact with her?   Or can she hear a hostile purpose in those shoes, meaning that someone somewhere in his day may have upset him somehow, and now he is ready to take out his frustration on her?  Or perhaps, could it be that she hears a slight shuffle, the defeated trudge that will send him and his dark mood straight to his room, barely even noticing her?

He rounds the corner to where she is standing, and one look at the expression on his face tells her everything she needs to know.  It’s Happy Him.  At least for the moment.  She exhales the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and allows herself a smile in his direction.  He grins and greets her with, “Hey, Mom! I’m starving!  What can I eat?”  Her son is home.

Fighting the Fear

“No, Mommy!  Please!  No!”  His desperate screams fill my ears and I have to turn my head away so that he won’t see the tears that threaten to leak out of the corners of my eyes.  So that he won’t know how much his helplessness and vulnerability break my heart.   Oh, how I long to rescue him from this pain!  To protect him from this terrifying situation that causes him this out-of-control panic.  Instead, I hold him even tighter, pinning his arms so that he can’t move.  He may believe at this moment that I am the worst parent in the world by subjecting him to this agony, but I know that this is what he needs in order to be healthy.

“Sh, it’s okay,” I keep whispering into his ear.  “I’m here, Sweetheart.  I’m right here.  Just squeeze my hand.  Sh.”  I continue to hold him securely while he continues his frantic cries.  He is unable to hear my words of comfort.  The roar of fear has caused his ears to be deaf to my voice.  He is so blinded by terror that my face, the room we’re in, everything becomes fuzzy and out of focus.

I pray silently, Please, God, let this be over soon!  The phlebotomist patiently attempts a third and then a fourth time to locate a good vein, to draw enough blood to fill 10 – yes 10! – vials to be sent to the lab for testing.  With each passing minute, with each painful stab of the needle, with each piercing scream, it gets increasingly difficult to watch.

I knew when our little foster baby had his organ transplant four years ago that it would mean life-long concerns about his health.¹  I knew when we adopted him two years ago that it would mean a life-long commitment to his care.  That it would mean sacrificing countless hours, summoning boundless energy, and experiencing immense inconvenience. 

What I didn’t know, what I never could have planned, was the indescribable love in my heart for this resilient child.  The unimaginable heartbreak of watching him endure repeated medical tests.  The fierce protectiveness that I feel for him every time we step foot into this place.

And I didn’t know how significantly the medical trauma of his early years would affect him.²   That it would cause him to have such ongoing fear.   That every time he has a medical procedure, even a minor one, he is re-traumatized, and the healing has to start all over again.

Normally, getting your blood drawn should not be such a traumatic event.  It shouldn’t be such a major ordeal every single time!  One would think that after being subjected to various medical procedures hundreds of times over the past six years, that he would get used to it.  What is he so afraid of? Why doesn’t he just remain calm and hold still?  He knows it’s going to be over in a few minutes.  Why isn’t he brave enough to fight this fear?

Finally, mercifully, the needle comes out, the band-aid goes on, and I reassure him once again that I am here, and that he is safe.  And he is safe . . . until next time.

The Long Road of Healing

Don’t cry little one.  Take my hand.  Let us walk against the wind together.  Let me be the hand that guides you back to hope.  Back to love. – source unknown

Sometimes I forget.  I forget the years of his life that he spent alone.  Trapped in a crib that was less like a bed and more like a cage.  No matter how much he cried, there was no one to comfort him or hold him or rock him to sleep.  And sleep was rare for him, not only because of the constant pain caused by his medical condition, but because of the strangers who came in his room, coming in at all hours of the day and night.  Strangers who would do painful, excruciating things to his frail body.  He would scream and wail, begging them to stop, but they only restrained him more firmly, pinning down his arms and legs so that he could not escape their torment.  Sometimes I forget the horrible trauma that this child has experienced.

He may have no specific memories of those early years.  He would never be able to articulate now what happened to him, or describe why, even though it’s been several years, he continues to have frequent nightmares and unexplained anxiety.  Why he doesn’t want his Mama out of his sight for even a second.  Why hasn’t he gotten over it yet?  He has been rescued from that former life, and theoretically he should be living happily every in the safety and security of his loving family. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.  His body remembers.  His cells have not forgotten.  His soul bears the invisible scars of being abandoned.  The excruciating physical pain.  The utter helplessness.

Is it any wonder that he is plagued by fear?  That unfamiliar situations cause him stress? That he is hyper-alert to his surroundings at all times and doesn’t tolerate surprises or unexpected changes to his routine?   Even being hugged too tightly or being pinned during a tickle fight causes terrified shrieking.  The uncertainty and insecurity, the hidden wounds that are still healing, have taken a terrible toll on his behavior.  The behavior that everyone can see.