Not in a Million Years! But....

This past week, in the course of a conversation with a friend, I mentioned my belief that all our experiences, even the unfavorable and adverse ones, are ultimately for our good. Put more simply: What doesn't kill us makes us stronger! This particular season is always tough for me. The period between Easter and the first week of May, I struggle mightily. Some years are more challenging than others, but every year, the season brings the sights, smells, and sounds that take me back to what was, without question, the saddest time in my life. Two of my five children have been born in this season. I rejoiced when they came to me, and I celebrate their birthdays each year with gracious thanksgiving. Still, there is the undeniable melancholy that hangs next to me during this time, the season in which I lost my dad.

I've felt compelled for quite some time to write about the circumstances of his death. I'm not a psychologist or a counselor or a mental health therapist; I don't claim any academic credentials on the subject. I'm just a daughter and a survivor of one of the most tragic diseases to claim the lives of our fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and friends. Untreated clinical depression is a deadly disease. People don't like to talk about suicide.They don't even like to think about it. Mere mention of the word makes folks uncomfortable. Enlightened though we may be in this 21st Century, suicide is still a taboo topic. But if we never think about it and never talk about it, how can we make any progress toward preventing it? My desire today is to share a bit of what I've learned in the past 30 years. If you are uncomfortable with my words, I apologize. But if what I say helps even one person in any way, then it is worth any discomfort.

Perhaps the most significant thing I've discovered is that suicide is not a rational act. When someone we love dies by suicide, our natural reaction is to try to figure out why. We so desperately wish to answer that question that we search, sometimes obsessively but always unsuccessfully, to understand. We want to understand. We want it to make sense. Why then are we unsuccessful? Because suicide is not rational. Rational human instinct is for self-preservation. Other than in extremely rare circumstances (such as sacrificing one's life to save one's child), to take one's own life violates human nature at its very core. Attempting to explain an irrational act in rational terms will always be futile. It's no different than asking ourselves after a loved one dies of some other disease, "Why did he get cancer?" or "Why did she get heart disease?" or "Why did he get Parkinson's?"

Why did my dad die by suicide? Why did your loved one? Or yours? Because they were ill. They suffered from clinical depression, a biological disorder, which left untreated, and sometimes sadly even with treatment, can be deadly. Combine it with alcoholism and you have the "perfect storm." Today, with treatment such as cognitive therapy and effective medication, depression can often be successfully managed. But 30 years ago? We barely dared mention the possibility of mental illness. We were only a generation removed from the days when sufferers were locked up and forgotten.

The second thing I've learned is not to blame. As an extension of our desperation to make some sense out of the tragedy, we often seek out someone to blame. If only he had done this or she hadn't done that, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Sometimes we focus inward, blaming ourselves. If only I had been a better daughter or son or spouse or friend. All of this assumes that the act was rational when, in fact, it was not. No one is to blame. Depression is a disease. Our loved one simply succumbed to the disease. Blaming others or ourselves is not only unproductive, it's ridiculous. Equally ridiculous is blaming the victim, him or herself.

Victims of suicide are just that, victims. There's a stereotype of suicide victims that they are flawed somehow, that they are bad or weak or even selfish. Perhaps they didn't care about their families or value those close to them. Perhaps they weren't strong enough to face the trials of life like the rest of us do, or maybe they were just evil and desired to inflict pain. No. No. No. And no! They were ill. Blaming them is as silly as blaming the person who died of cancer. Some people feel that because the act of suicide is deliberate and often well planned out, obviously victims knew what they were doing and are, therefore, responsible. I disagree. The act, whether planned out or not, is one of an ill individual, suffering from a very real and biological disease. Is it all in their heads? Yep! It has something to do with incorrect serotonin levels in the brain. Ironically, the same situation exists for people like me who suffer from anxiety disorders, and often (though not in my case) people who struggle with anxiety also deal with depression. It's real. I promise.

All that said, there are certain characteristics that most of us survivors share as a result of what we've been through. We often have serious trust issues. We know that in an instant, the whole world can come crumbling down around us. Because it did. It did. As a result we are slow to trust, and once our trust is violated, it's nearly impossible to regain. Moreover, we tend to worry more than most people. I've found this to be true even for those who don't have anxiety disorders. We worry about our families. We worry about our friends. We mothers worry incessantly about our children. It's like fear is ever present in our lives despite our every effort to control it. But we move forward in faith, doing our best, secure in the knowledge that all our experiences, even the sad ones, are for our growth.

Today marks yet another anniversary of my dad's death. As usual, the season has been filled with thoughts of him, memories so joyous and ultimately so sad. I loved him very much. If I got to choose, would I wish to have experienced the suicide of one so close to me? Not in a million years! The pain was like no other. But...since that is the hand I was dealt, I'm grateful for the insight it has given me about an illness so vastly misunderstood.

One Month Down, 23 Left to Go

It will be four years in May that Luke finished his 2-year mission in Portland, Oregon. That's not too long ago, yet I had forgotten exactly what it's like to be a missionary mom. Missionary moms are a distinct and somewhat peculiar group. We have certain characteristics in common that we all understand. No one else truly "gets" us. First, we have an instant affinity for the mail carrier, especially when he or she happens to come early. We meet him or her out on the curb, excitement in our eyes and hope in our hearts that a letter from our missionary might arrive that day. The mail carrier thinks we're certifiable because we can barely contain ourselves as we wait for the mail to be distributed to our boxes.

In addition, we all have a constant and continuous longing for P-day, usually Monday, when we expect our weekly email. All week, we wait for it to be Monday, and then all day, we stay home and wait by our computers. If we absolutely must go out, we make sure our smart phones are functional and that they alert us immediately whenever new email comes in. We wait and we wait and we wait. It feels like forever that we wait until finally, we see it: that glorious message in our inbox from our missionary in the field. Our hearts leap with excitement. We can't open it quickly enough. Then we sit back and savor each word as though never was there such eloquent or meaningful language written. We laugh when we hear the "voice" of our precious children coming through the sentences. And then we cry. And cry. And cry. Not because we are sad, but because we are happy and proud and filled with incredible love when we read about the great work they are doing.

Then there are those P-days when that email doesn't come. What then? Well, let me just say that hardly anything is worse than expecting email from your missionary, waiting for it all day, and not receiving it. It happens, and there's always a perfectly good explanation. It was transfers, and your missionary and his companion couldn't make it to the library to get their hands on a computer. The mission president switched P-day that week because of a particular need in the mission. P-day landed on a holiday, and the library was closed. Ahh, so many good reasons, but they don't make it any easier on us moms at home, waiting and wishing and wondering.

Another characteristic of missionary moms is that we are inextricably bonded. It doesn't matter where we live, what we do, or what are personal circumstances are, we share an experience so personal and so life altering that when we meet each other, we feel magnetically drawn together. Yesterday, I was substitute teaching in an elementary school. I took my 2nd grade class to the library and waited with them as they checked out new books. As they lined up at the door, a little girl asked, "What does that pin mean?" referring to my "Missionary Mom" pin. I quietly replied, "It means my son is serving a mission for our church." That was all it took. The librarian, sitting across the room from me, overheard. Her eyes lit up, and she shouted from across the library,

"Where's he serving?"
"Arkansas!" I responded, thrilled to have made this connection.
"Oh, my son is in Missouri!"
"Oh my goodness, they're so close to each other!"

She stood up and came to me, as I pushed through a line of 2nd graders to get to her. Like a magnet, I tell you!

Eli has been gone one month. He spent three weeks in the MTC and has been in Blytheville, Arkansas just over a week. Already, I've fallen right back into the pattern of the missionary mom, almost as though I never left it. Right now, as I sit here, I keep glancing out the window, hoping to see the mail truck, so I can run out and greet my new best friend, the mail carrier. P-day was Monday, so it's possible I could have a letter today. There are still four days to go until next P-day. When did these weeks get to be so long?

And so it goes. For two years. I've noticed something intriguing about the whole mission experience. Other people's kids' missions seem to go by so fast, but our own kids' missions, not so much. One month down, 23 to go.

Easter, 2012

I love holidays! I love big celebrations, complete with long-standing traditions, yummy food, and lots of people. Right now, though, much of our family is scattered about, making it difficult to get a large group together. Our extended family all live on the west coast. Luke and his family are in Indiana. Eli is in the MTC. And Isaiah, though right here in Salt Lake City, works double shifts every weekend at Macaroni Grill. So as you can see from the photo above, we didn't have a particularly large group for Easter. On the left are Shulamith, Mathew, and Kitty (with Baby Swen making his presence more and more obvious); in the center, Gerald, Seth and I; and on the right, Matt's parents, Dawn and Todd. I am so thankful to the Monsons (Matt's parents) for their willingness to share some of the holidays with us. It was a delightful afternoon.

Before they arrived, we went to church. Our choir did the entire Sacrament Meeting. That was way fun; I don't have a good singing voice, but I can blend with a choir so long as there's a strong alto beside me, and I thoroughly enjoyed participating. Gerald had hidden eggs early in the morning, so after church, we set Seth off to find all 18 of them. Keep in mind, Seth isn't used to sharing. He's been the "baby" for so long; no one else competes for eggs. Until this year. I should have predicted that Matt would want in on the action. The two of them raced to find the most, diving over furniture to beat each other to each highly-coveted egg. Fun times!

When the Monsons arrived, we began to prepare food around the theme "Easter breakfast buffet!" Dawn made a delicious egg, cheese, and potato casserole while Todd prepared Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Matt made his famous french toast, using cinnamon bread from Kneader's and topped with Dawn's homemade maple syrup. Shulamith cooked bacon and scrambled eggs. I tried to stay out of the whole thing, ensuring that the meal would be delicious. And it was!

While we missed those who weren't with us, including Matt's brother Hayden, it was a fabulous Easter. Once again, we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior, whose infinite atonement makes possible that which would otherwise be impossible. "He is not here, for he is Risen!"

...But Sometimes It Hurts Instead

Most people these days are well familiar with recording artist, Adele, and especially her hit song "Someone Like You." It is one of Eli's favorites, so much so that he learned to play it on the piano and accompanied himself singing it last spring in Skyview's pops concert and again this fall for an audition at BYU-Idaho. He sings and plays it so well.

So today is a bit of a weepy day for me. What can I say? I'm not used to so limited contact with him. It's hard. Simple things catch me off guard, and I'm reduced to tears. It is a mother's job to cry at the MTC. Is it also her job to cry here and there afterward? I hope so. It happened this morning when I was putting in my contacts. You may remember that these dumb contacts have not been easy for me. I got them back in July, and I've experienced a love/hate relationship with them ever since. It took seven months and help from three different people (Matt, Gerald, and Eli) before I finally reached the point where I can get the things into my eyes each day. Oh, and in case you're wondering, no, I still don't see very well with them. But they do make it so I don't need stupid reading glasses that make me look way older than I really am, so they're worth the hassle.

As I was putting them in this morning, I had a flashback to when Eli was helping me. He stood in the bathroom with me for at least 20 minutes as I struggled to get them in. He watched carefully to try to determine what I was doing wrong. Ultimately, he suggested a different way of holding my eye open, and it helped a little. That, combined with Matt's and Gerald's suggestions, finally did the trick, but this morning, all I could think about was Eli. Remembering his patience and concern for me brought more tears.

Contacts in, I headed out for a walk, plugged in Pandora, and what do you think was the first song played? Of course! "Someone Like You." Ahhh. I went from tiny tears trickling down my face to full-scale bawling. I couldn't stop. I walked two miles, and once I had myself mostly together, I came home and checked the mailbox and found no letter from the MTC. What?! P-day was Monday, and in Eli's email he said he would be writing a snail mail letter right away. So why isn't it here by now? The MTC is just 30 miles south of us, and it's been three days. I was counting on that letter arriving today. More tears. More and more and more.

Yes, it's been a weepy day for sure. Tomorrow will be better, right?

"Don't forget me, I begged, I remember you said
Sometime it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead."

Puppies Are Not Kitties

One of my best friends in the whole world is named Hanna. She is three years old and very smart. She has great analytical skills, allowing her to sort out confusing things in her mind, and she is obviously much better at this than I am.

An example of this is the first time she met our dog, Kitty. Okay, yes, technically Kitty is Shulamith's dog, but she pretty much live upstairs with me, so I claim her. Anyway, the first time Hanna met Kitty, her little brain started spinning in order to make sense out of this most confusing situation. Finally, after much thought, she announced:

"Puppies are NOT kitties. And kitties are NOT puppies. But this Kitty is a puppy."

Yes, Hanna, you are right. If only I had listened to you. If I had listened and taken heed of Hanna's wisdom, this may not have happened. If you read that post, you know that over three weeks ago, Kitty jumped on me, and somehow caused an injury to my upper thigh that took three full weeks to heal! I'm not kidding. It swelled up so badly, that the insides of both my thighs were chapped from rubbing against each other when I walked. TMI? Too bad. I want you to understand the extent of my injury. It hurt so much that I was sure I was dying of some horrible disease. I sat with ice on it every evening, but it still took three weeks to heal.

And all this could have been avoided if only I had listened to Hanna. Puppies are not kitties. Kitties are lightweight, and when they jump on you, they land softly, causing no pain or suffering. Puppies, on the other hand...(especially this puppy)...are huge and heavy and can cause all kinds of damage to unsuspecting human thighs.

Puppies are NOT kitties. And kitties are NOT puppies. But this Kitty is a puppy. Thank you, Hanna. I will remember this always.

A Kind Man

Tomorrow is Easter. And Eli is in the MTC. Right where he should be. Absolutely. I will miss him, though. I was thinking today, "Who will hide the eggs and create the 'hunt' for Seth?" When you have children as spread out in age as we do, you have the joy of watching the older ones take over many such duties, not because they have to but because they want to. Eli loves hiding eggs for Seth, but this year, that duty will fall to Gerald and me. I know we can do it. We did it for the older four once upon a time. Back then, the trick was to somehow convince Luke and Shulamith to leave the "easy" finds for Isaiah and Eli and concentrate on the more carefully hidden eggs. "But it's right out in plain sight, Mom; why can't I take it?" Then there were the squabbles over who wound up with the most eggs, along with the frustrating scenario that seemed to happen every year: "I know we hid 24 eggs, but they only found 23. Where is that final egg?!?" Ah, back in the day.

Yesterday, one of my students gave me a poem he wrote while he was on his mission. I think he wanted me to have it in honor of the Easter season, but also because he knows Eli so recently left for the MTC. I'm sure most missionaries do feel as though they "walk a thousand miles a day, trying to remember what to say." And I'm sure they often feel "cast aside like a falling star." But like all the rest of us, they are strengthened and upheld by the Savior, whose glorious resurrection we celebrate tomorrow. "...he was bruised for our iniquities...and with his stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:5).

Please enjoy Terrell's poem:

A Kind Man

I walk a thousand miles a day

Trying to remember what to say.
Just looking back at how far,
Cast aside like a falling star.

Then a kind man picks me up,
That man who drank his Father's cup.
He heals me of my broken heart,
So that I can have a new start.

Find this man of whom I speak.
He seeks for all that are weak.
We can be made strong in his hand
To return to our Father's land.

by Terrell Hobby

Missionaries Don't Lie

Just in case any of you didn't believe me when I told you I'm a horrible cook, may I share just a portion of Eli's first letter from the MTC. And I quote...

"The food here is really not that bad at all. It's actually pretty good. Some kids say that their home-cooked meals from their moms are better. Sorry to say this, but I kinda disagree. Haha, you've always said yourself, though, that you're not too big on cooking."

So there you have it. Missionaries don't lie.