It's Just Different with Preemies

Yesterday, I was having a conversation with Matt's mom, who had stopped by to visit Shulamith and Matt and Swen. The two new parents were downstairs catching some desperately-needed sleep, and I had Swen upstairs, so Dawn sat down for a while to visit. It's always nice to talk with her. As we talked, our focus turned from making strawberry freezer jam together (Yum!) to how life is going with Baby Swen. In our conversation, it occurred to me how very different the experience of Swen's birth and homecoming has been from that of my own five children. I never had a premature baby. All my kids took their own sweet time making an appearance; all were a week late, and averaging 9 pounds, they were half grown by the time they were born. They never wore newborn clothes or diapers. They never had to struggle to gain weight. I didn't know how easy I had it.

I never had to worry about many of the things Shulamith does. It's just different with preemies. With premature infants, weight gain is always the first and foremost issue. All newborns needs to gain weight, of course, but with preemies, it's critical. Full term babies have sufficient stores that they can afford to lose a little weight as they wait for their mother's milk to come in; preemies don't have that luxury. And getting them to gain is no easy task. First, their little mouths are often so tiny that they struggle to latch on correctly and suck effectively. Every time she nurses, I hear Shulamith encouraging her little one: "Big mouth, Swen. Come on, open wide. You can do it!"

In addition, there is the issue of calories consumed versus calories burned. With my babes, I didn't have to worry about conserving energy. No, I didn't let my babies cry; I don't believe in leaving babies to cry regardless of the situation. Still, if they happened to cry for half a second while I put down whatever I was doing to go to them, I didn't have to fear they were burning too many calories. It takes lots of energy to cry. Preemies, therefore, need to be kept calm. And warm. Because calm, warm babies grow. On the other hand, if they are too calm and warm, they tend to want to sleep rather than wake up and feed. Gracious, it's complicated! How do you win?

The answer is through commitment, perseverance, and unwavering determination. Shulamith and Swen are winning the feeding game because of her constant attention and concern for his unusual needs as a preemie. Though still recovering from HELLP Syndrome, a dangerous complication of preeclampsia, not to mention the normal recovery that goes with any C-section and the sleep deprivation that comes with any newborn, she continues to make Swen's feeding needs her constant priority, even when it's hard. It has taught her that she can do hard things. It's not easy to wake a sleeping newborn in the middle of the night when you are so very, very tired, yourself. But Swen needs to eat at a minimum every 3 hours, and if he doesn't wake up himself, she needs to wake him. And she does.

She and I took him to the doctor today for a weigh-in, just to reassure ourselves, and I'm thrilled to report that he now weights a whopping 6 lbs. 5 ozs. He has gained 5 ounces in just 4 days, which is positively fabulous. We celebrated with drive-thru McDonald's ice-cream cones and Diet Cokes on our way home. We will both sleep easier tonight. Well, I should probably say I will sleep easier because Shulamith doesn't actually get to sleep much. But she will rest easier knowing all her effort is paying off. Through her incredible commitment, she will be able to give her little baby what she believes is the best start possible, exclusively breast milk for the first year.

I have always been proud of my daughter. So many occasions have made me proud. When she called me from a friend's house and asked me to come get her because the girls at the middle school party were going to watch an R-rated movie, I was proud. When she rose above the endless drama and led her cheer squad to accomplish great things, I was proud. When she walked across the stage and received her bachelor's degree from Westminster College, I was proud. When she entered the temple with her wonderful husband-to-be, I was proud. But I'm pretty sure I have never been as proud of her as I have been these past three weeks as I've witnessed her unyielding and relentless love and care for her little son. It's just different with preemies. And this precious preemie is so very lucky to have the mom he does.

Pictures!

As you may have noticed, my blog is heavy on text and light on photos. There's a reason for that. I love to write, and I hate taking pictures. Why? Because I'm a terrible photographer. Are you surprised? Of course you're not. Just add photography to the list of dozens of other skills I do not have. When I take pictures, usually they are blurry, or someone's head is chopped off. You probably don't want to ask me to photograph any important event in your life or even an unimportant one. Just sayin'. Moreover, I'm also not very adept at uploading photos to this blog. I can do it....sort of. I have no idea how to strategically embed photos around text to create an aesthetically pleasing, artistic page. No idea at all.

Consequently, I mostly stick to what I like to do. I write. And most of the time, that's good enough. This time, though, Shulamith really wants Swen's early photos to be included in this blog. Since one of its purposes is to record our family's history, that definitely makes sense. So I'm going to try. I'm going to try to upload several pictures of Swen. If you see them, it worked.

 First bath!

 Froggy outfit

 Shulamith Webster, Mathew Monson, and Baby Swen Webster Monson

 Swen in nursery, with Isaiah and Seth looking in the window

 Kissy face!

 Rockin' the lion gown!

 With Daddy

 Meeting Mommy for the first time!

 With Mommy

 Finally leaving the hospital after four days. We are tired, but happy!

Mommy snuggle time

 The Webster-Monson Family. Could they be any happier?

The Perfect Name

When a couple learns they are expecting a baby, one of the very first decisions they begin to consider is what the baby's name will be. And though they have several months to decide, most expectant parents begin the discussion immediately. They scour baby name books. They make lists of potential girls' and boys' names. Some wait until after the mid-pregnancy ultrasound, so they can narrow their search by gender, but most at least consider some possibilities earlier than that.

With our oldest two children, ultrasounds weren't routine, so we didn't know the sex of our babies until they were born. Both times, we went to the hospital prepared with two names. In my first pregnancy, those names were "Luke" and "Shulamith." Most people assumed that we chose Luke after St. Luke from the New Testament, but that is not the case. The truth is (don't laugh) there was a hot actor on my favorite soap opera named Luke Spencer, and that's how I first thought of it. As for Shulamith, on the way home from my first prenatal appointment for Luke, we bought a book of 13,000 unusual baby names, and in the car ride home, I flipped through the pages. At a red light, Gerald glanced over at the book and said, "Shulamith! What a beautiful name. It even means 'peace.'" That was the extent of our discussion. We instantly loved the name. It was decided. Our first girl would be Shulamith. We still love the name to this day, except when a few misguided people try to shorten it.

In less than three years, we had two amazing children, Luke and Shulamith. At some point in there, someone enlightened us to the Biblical significance of these names. Okay, yes, we knew Luke was in the Bible, but we had no idea Shulamith was. Sure enough! Right in Song of Solomon, there she is. Some translations refer to her as "the Shulamite woman," but others use her actual name. Who knew? With two Bible names, my CDO (which is OCD alphabetized, as it should be) insisted that all future children also have Bible names. This limited our options considerably, especially for girls. But as you know, we never had another girl, and by this time, routine ultrasonography revealed that mid-pregnancy.

My favorite Bible name has always been Isaiah. I love how it flows off the tongue. I love that it has three syllables but only two consonants. The decision for our third child was easy. The fourth time around, we struggled more. For some reason, I couldn't find another Bible name I liked. Gerald is less picky, so several would have been okay with him, but I just couldn't get my mind around anything. Finally, about the time Eli was due, I knew we were running out of time. We were sitting in Gerald's mother's living room, where we were staying temporarily as we transitioned from California to Washington, and I got out a Bible. I told Gerald this was it. We were going to find a name. We leafed through the pages, saying names aloud, until finally while looking in the Book of Samuel, Gerald said, "How about Eli?" My reply, "Perfect." So I guess you could say I named Luke, Gerald named Shulamith, I named Isaiah, and Gerald named Eli. Sort of.

Seven years later when we were expecting Seth, it was my turn again, and I had many awesome ideas. For some reason, names I passed right over with earlier children suddenly intrigued me. I narrowed it down to two: Thaddeus and Malachi. Obviously, Seth isn't named either of those. Why is that? Because my two older children thought they should have some input this time, and they hated both names. Shulamith was especially vocal about this: "If you name him Thaddeus or Malachi, I will be embarrassed by my own baby brother!" Should I have caved? I don't know. But I did. I settled for Seth, a name I love now because it belongs to him, but one that wasn't a particular favorite back then.

And now Shulamith has her very own baby. She and Matt chose the name Swen Webster Monson for their new little one, a beautiful name, rich in family significance. Lots of people have asked about his first name. Where did it come from? Is it pronounced with a "W" sound or a "V" sound? The name Swen is from Mathew's family. It is Matt's middle name, his father's middle name, and his grandfather's middle name. It might go back even further; I'm not certain. It is pronounced with a "W" sound, not a "V." I like it because, like his mother's name, no one else has it; however, we are already confusing it with Seth. I've called Seth Swen and Swen Seth several times, and a couple times, I've called each of them Sweth! One syllable, four letters, starts with "S." They are just too similar.

Webster, of course, is Shulamith's last name, and Monson is Matt's. So this little boy has a name deep with family roots.

The perfect name!

Ba, Ba, Ba, Means I Love You

How joyous it is when traditions are passed down through families. When I was first born, my grandma made up a song for me. It's called "Ba, ba, ba," and it goes like this:

Ba, ba, ba, means I love you,
Ba, ba, ba, you love me too.
Ba, ba. Ba, ba.

Ba, ba, ba, means I love you,
I love Tannie, yes I do.
Ba, ba. Ba, ba.

I wish she could sing it for you, so you could know the tune, but I guess the words will have to do. She sang it to me first, and then to my brother Tom born two years later. I sang it to all five of my babies, and Tom sang it to his three. My mother also sang it to us and to our children. I even translated it into German, so my babies could be bilingual:

Ba, ba, ba, Ich liebe dich,
Ba, ba, ba, und Du liebst mich.
Ba, Ba. Ba, ba.

This song is precious in our family, mostly because it reminds us of our grandma's love, but the song has also become for us a general symbol of parents rocking their children. All rocking chairs are called "rockie ba ba chairs." When we moved into our house last summer, we bought two rocker/recliners for our TV room. When I sent my mom a picture of the chairs, her text back said, "Two rockie ba ba chairs!" Yep, and that was a whole year before we had a baby living here. When my children were sad or hurt, they would say, "I need to rockie ba ba in the rockie ba ba chair." The song has a life of its own, and it's lovely.

Pictured above is Shulamith sitting in the rockie ba ba chair, singing "Ba, Ba, Ba, Means I Love You" to Baby Swen. How joyous it is when traditions are passed down through families.

A Baby is Way Cooler Than St. George

Plans. We humans love to make them. We love feeling that we're in control of our lives through the making and carrying out of our plans. We plan for the next day, the next week, the next year. We plan our meals, our holidays, our vacations, our retirement. Most of us  carry around electronic planners built right into our cell phones, so at any moment we can check our plans. And more often than not, those plans work out.

But not always.

Last week Shulamith and I began to make some plans around how we would accomplish everything we needed to do before her baby arrived in late June. We function best with lists, so we made three: (1) Things to do before Swen is born, (2) Things to do before Swen's baby shower June 2nd, (3) Things to do before our Memorial Day weekend trip to St. George. I gotta tell you it felt so good to make these lists. Our stress levels declined significantly just knowing we had a plan. And such a good one. With lists even!

Looking to the weekend ahead, we envisioned three days of R & R: Matt climbing the red rock boulders, Gerald hiking the trails in Zion Park, Shulamith and I lounging by the hotel pool watching Seth swim. What a great plan! Friday evening we both looked at our list of things to do before the St. George weekend and checked items off, one by one. I even added a couple of items to the list for the pure joy of crossing them off. Ahh, how good it feels to plan! Feeling positively in control of life, we both went to bed. Around 1:00 a.m., she was back upstairs and at my bedroom door, telling me her upper abdomen was in terrible pain. Matt had called the doctor, who advised her to take some Tums, walk around for an hour, and see if the pain subsided. It could be simple heartburn, he said. But if it didn't go away, she would need to go to the hospital and get checked out.

It didn't go away. At 2:00 a.m. Matt and I told Shulamith we were taking her to the hospital. She was hesitant. "How stupid will I look if I go to the hospital in the middle of the night to find out I have heartburn?" We insisted, though, and the three of us headed out. Upon arrival, the nursing staff did some preliminary tests, all of which pointed to Preeclampsia toxemia, a life-threatening condition that often occurs in pregnancy, but blood work was needed to confirm. "What if it is that?" I asked. "How is it treated?" The nurse explained that sometimes it is necessary to deliver the baby, since delivery is the only real cure. Other times, it's possible to watch the patient closely, especially monitoring blood pressure, allowing baby to grow closer to term. Although I heard these words, it really didn't sink in that we could actually have a baby that night. Little Swen wasn't due for 4-1/2 weeks.

They drew blood, and we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, the nurse returned with the news. "Are we ready to have a baby?" she asked. Shulamith,who had up to this point been a pillar of strength, crumbled into tears. "It's too early," she cried. "What if he isn't okay?" Matt was literally shaking, and all I could think to do was hug my daughter and tell her that her little baby was going to be just fine. At nearly 36 weeks, all his organs are already perfectly formed. "This is gonna be okay," I promised, silently praying that I'd be able to keep that promise. I really didn't know. They began a protocol to lower her blood pressure and induce labor, so she might be able to deliver the baby vaginally; however, that was also not to be as Shulamith's platelets continued to fall and her blood pressure rise. Around 11:00 a.m. Saturday, the on-call obstetrician came in and told us he would need to perform an emergency C-section and that would happen almost immediately.

And it did. Mathew donned a surgical gown, I hugged Shulamith tight, and they were off. I stood in the hospital hallway and sobbed. I'm weeping right now just thinking about it. I had planned to be with her all the way through delivery, never leaving her side. Plans. Yeah, right. The hospital staff was incredibly thoughtful when they saw this distraught mom crying in the hall. Her doctor himself talked to me just before he went into surgery. He gave me a time frame, so I wouldn't be standing there clueless about what to expect. He said she was getting her spinal block as we spoke, that the actual surgery would take about five minutes, and another 20 minutes to get her into the recovery room. It didn't happen quite that quickly (I timed it!), but his prediction was fairly close, though it seemed to take much longer.

About the time we saw Matt through the nursery window bring tiny Swen (5 pounds, 6 ounces) out of surgery, a wonderful older lady approached me and asked if I was Shulamith's mom. "We don't usually let anyone but spouses back in the recovery room, but she's asking for her mom, so come with me." I couldn't have been more grateful! Everything had gone perfectly. Shulamith lost quite a bit of blood as is typical with her condition, but she was otherwise fine and already over the moon in love with her new baby. He had cried immediately at birth and was breathing just fine with no assistance. This was way more than anyone could have hoped for under these circumstances.

The next four days are pretty much a blur. The first day, I spent lots of time sitting with Shulamith in her hospital room and then running down the hall to the nursery to check on Swen for her. It's tough when you have a C-section and can't get out of bed, but your baby is a preemie, so he can't leave the nursery. I've never experienced this, but experiencing it vicariously with Shulamith, I can assure you it is not fun. However, this little guy did so well keeping himself warm and breastfeeding like a pro that he was able to leave the nursery and become a rooming-in baby after only one day. This made Shulamith one happy mommy.

I also spent quite a bit of time making food runs to various restaurants near the hospital. Shulamith is just a tad bit picky about food, and she wasn't interested in anything the hospital had to offer. Who could blame her? Everything they brought looked like it had been freeze dried. When I wasn't running out for food, I was praying between each vitals check that Swen's temperature would stay up, that Shulamith's blood pressure would go down, that Swen's respiration rate would stay down, and that Shulamith's platelet count would go up. So many ups and downs to pray for!

And yesterday, we were able to come home. The nurses all told us that it is "unheard of" for a 35 week preemie to go home with his mom; most need to stay at least a couple weeks to get those all important breathing and feeding skills down. Swen is obviously already an over-achiever.

Congratulations to the Webster-Monsons on the birth of their first child. Welcome to Earth, Swen Webster Monson!

And just so you know, plans are highly overrated. Because a baby is way cooler than St. George.

El lunes es el Día de la Madre

It's funny the tiny things we remember and the major things we forget. Human memory is so faulty and unreliable, yet some things stick to the brain so hard and so long that even a Magic Eraser wouldn't be up to the task. When I was 11 years old and in seventh grade, I took Spanish. I only took it that one year, and I remember very little; however, for some reason the dialogues I memorized back then are forever etched in my brain. One of them included this line: El lunes es el Dia de la Madre. Translated, this says, "Monday is Mother's Day." This line bugged me so much because in my little world, Mother's Day was on Sunday, not Monday! Of course now I realize that could be different in other countries, and that Mother's Day could certainly be on a Monday, yet memories of this frustration still make me smile. I thought about it this past Sunday, as I do every Mother's Day. "El lunes es el Dia de la Madre."

My Mother's Day this year brought forth a plethora of emotions: delight, surprise, anxiety, nostalgia, and much, much love. A missionary mom I know stated that Mother's Day should really encompass the entire weekend, not just one day. Indeed! For me, it began Friday, when I walked outside to get the mail. It was too long since P-day, so I wasn't expecting anything from Eli; I figured there would be the usual junk mail and bills. I was wrong. I was delightfully wrong. In my mailbox was a large envelope with the return address of Elder Eli Webster. Eli had sent me the biggest, most beautiful, pink Mother's Day card with the loveliest sentiment inside:

"You encourage me, and I find my confidence. You quiet my tears, and I'm strong again. You give me love, and I can take on the world."

I might quiet his tears, but you can be sure mine were flowing mightily by this point. Later, I learned that he had found the card earlier in the week, and after reading the words inside, he knew it was perfect. Then he turned it over and looked at the price. Not so perfect: $7.00! For one card. His missionary frugality told him that he could not purchase a $7.00 card, so he pulled out his planner and copied down all the words inside, thinking he'd find a less expensive card and write in all the words. But as he searched for a different card, he couldn't find one that he liked even a little. Ultimately, he decided to splurge and just get the original and perfect card. Thank you, Eli!

That evening, after Shulmaith and Matt had gone downstairs for the night (at least that's what I thought), she came back up with a card from the two of them plus Isaiah. I read it happily, thinking that was all, but then up came Matt with a shoebox containing a new pair of Dansko sandals. W00T! What a surprise! I had given Shulamith Dansko sandals for her birthday recently, and I so wanted a pair myself. They are black and strappy and so adorable. Well, you just look for yourself in the photo above. I know you will be totally jealous.

Saturday flew by, and soon it was Sunday morning and time for church. Now generally, I am disappointed with the gifts they give the women on Mother's Day because they are usually these plants in little plastic cups. What do I want with one of those? We are then forced to carry these things through our next two meetings, spilling dirt all over the church.Then we get home, and what are we supposed to do with them? I really have no idea. I'm sure I sound terribly ungrateful, but seriously, this is not a good gift. To say this year was different is a vast understatement. After Sacrament Meeting, they gave all the women small wrapped boxes containing four pieces of delicious chocolate. I'm not kidding! Whoa baby, they know how to do things here in Utah. Yum!

The best part of the meeting was between the two speakers when the Primary children sang "Mother, I Love You." Now you need to keep in mind that Seth is 11 years old. He will turn 12 next month on the 14th. Let's get real. Eleven-year-old boys are SO OVER PRIMARY. They've sung "Give, said the Little Stream" and "In the Leafy Treetops, the Birds Sing Good Morning," a few too many times. Seriously, they're done. Seth is no exception. He is beyond ready to move on to the Young Men's program. Problem is, I'm less ready for that. My identity is that of a mom of little kids; it's the only station in life that feels at all comfortable. I've had children in primary for so many years; I can hardly imagine how it will feel when I no longer have a kid in there. Seth, however, doesn't care about any of this; he just wants out! Last fall, with much persuading, he stood straight and tall and sang in his ninth and final Primary Program, but by Easter, his willingness had decreased. He went up there, but barely sang at all.

So this past week, I asked him if he would consider giving me a special Mother's Day present. I asked him if he would sing with the Primary one last time, "Mother, I Love You." He agreed. At times his growing maturity catches me off guard, and this was one of those times. I didn't even have to beg. There were only about 10 kids present that day, and most were under 8, yet he stood up handsomely and sang every word. I love you, Seth. And I promise, that was absolutely your LAST time singing with the Primary.

We raced home at noon, anxiously awaiting the highlight of the day, our opportunity to Skype with Eli. Yep, when you have a missionary in the field, Christmas and Mother's Day take on entirely new meaning. The problem was we had absolutely no clue when he would call. None. So I sat glued to my computer from noon on, afraid even to go out for a walk. I tried not to be anxious. I knew we would hear from him. But as the hours crept by, the less able I was to control my anxiety. It's an hour later in Arkansas than here. Where was he?

FINALLY, at around 7:00 pm., my computer indicated that I had a Skype request. I nearly jumped out of my chair with excitement. Sure enough, in a short time we were connected, and there was Eli right on the computer screen. Words are insufficient to express how wonderful that was. He looks so great, so official wearing his missionary name tag. And he is so happy. I fell to tears almost immediately. Such a total wimp mom I am. He said, "Mom, why are you crying? I'm so happy here. I love being a missionary more than anything. It's the most awesome thing I've ever done. I can't imagine how anyone would pass up this opportunity. So why are you crying?" Shulamith reassured him that my tears were happy tears. It was just so emotional to see him after seven weeks, and our next opportunity won't come until Christmas. We were able to talk for nearly an hour, taking turns. Matt had been at his parents' house, but he got back just in time. Isaiah was at work, but he got off right at the end of our visit, so we put him on speaker phone. Everyone had a turn. Thank you, President Petersen, for allowing your missionaries to Skype. Thank you, brilliant scientists, who invented this incredible technology. Thank you, Eli, for setting this great example for all of us.

After waiting all afternoon for Eli, we were all starving. We had a late dinner, and I fell into bed utterly exhausted, happy, but exhausted nonetheless. 

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.