Hurting and Hurt

Not even 24 hours after  I had left my sweetheart in the mental health unit at the hospital. Not even 24 hours after I had walked out of those doors traumatized and broken...

Another deeply wounding experience happened in a place that should have provided solace...

I had asked for prayers for Grant, but the announcement was refused. Prayers for Hawaii, but not my Grant. A text asked again, still refused. My tears flowed and by the end of the meeting I was sobbing, uncontrollably. One saw my pain and apologized, but there was no undoing what had happened. I stood, desperately trying to escape my pew. I saw the one who had refused and lost it. Sobbing loudly "don't you ever talk to my family again.". In that moment I forgot the sanctity of that place... 

From there I ran, as fast as I could out, away ....

A friend drove me home. She sat with me while I sobbed. I sobbed for hours. Wounded. So wounded. 

The hurt burned hot and deep. I would find no rest that day

Once composed I walked through the security doors on the fourth floor and sat looking into the distant eyes of my Superman. The hurt of the last 24 hours was absolutely unbearable. 

Some did try to fix.

Yet others justified and excused only adding to my deep hurt.

Nothing could change the fact that it happened and should not have.

My heart was devastated that day.

The next Sunday, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin and walked through the door and sat in that pew again.

I didn't want to be there. But my heart told me to go. I needed the blessings of the Sacrament. 

Many have provided succor since.

I still struggle with it all. The utter devastation I felt in that pew that Sunday will never be justified. I'm working towards peace and forgiveness, that takes time.

Through many prayers and pleadings a unique answer came. Until your heart is strong enough to find forgiveness you can borrow MY forgiveness for those who have hurt you.

Waiting

 

For every infirm man healed instantly as he waits to enter the Pool of Bethesda, someone else will spend 40 years in the desert waiting to enter the promised land. 

Twenty years ago we first prayed for a miracle, but healing did not come. There have been a few reprieves but illness was always lurking. For a decade now there have been no reprieves. For years daily prayers and pleadings for healing have been sent heavenward, but healing still hasn't come....

We sat in the psychiatrist office. The discussion is brutally honest, reaching the most tender corners of our hearts. It's difficult but necessary to hear: "we cannot fix this, we can try and manage it, but it is unlikely to really improve"

Deeply painful words said with the an unbridled amount of compassion. My heart had actually accepted these words years ago. I don't know the day my prayers changed from asking for miracles, to the asking of courage and that I would not be bitter.

Acceptance isn't giving up on faith, its a surrender to trust that the plan for us includes Grant's battle with severe, complex mental illness and always will. We will be guided through it, but not healed from it.

How's he doing?? I feel heartbroken when people ask this and even more devastated when they don't. He's not well. The depth and berth  of that statement is hard to explain. The intensity of illness can change from inconvenience to life threatening in a moment. Emotions are felt with ferocity that has to be witnessed to be believed. Rock bottom has a basement and functional looks like flying into the stratosphere.

Right now its most like standing on the beach and watching the fog banks roll about, sometimes there is a beautiful ocean vista, other times you can still see blue sky if you look straight up but most of the time the grey mist excludes your surroundings. It breaks my heart to acknowledge the depth of his suffering.

I walk a tightrope between adoring wife, caregiver and protector. His tightrope is much higher and thinner than mine. We both need help, but sometimes the price for that help is something we cannot afford. Unsolicited advice is always judgement. Ignorance can lead to misinformation and the perpetuation of stigma. No Karen, he is not a psychopath or sociopath. Confidentiality is paramount. It is our story to share, not yours to gossip about. If I have trusted you enough to stand on our sacred ground, please don't defile that.  We have been deeply wounded by this more often that I want to admit.

So here we are somewhere in the middle of our "40 years of waiting in the wilderness" just like so many of you. The instant miracle was not to be. So we walk on waiting on Him. Our faith isn't in a mighty miracle, its in the moments when we feel heard understood and included.

Elder Jeffery R Holland, A member of the quorum of the twelve apostles in our church recently said this in our General Conference.

Yes, God can provide miracles instantaneously, but sooner or later we learn that the times and seasons of our mortal journey are His and His alone to direct.” He administers that calendar to every one of us individually. For every infirm man healed instantly as he waits to enter the Pool of Bethesda, someone else will spend 40 years in the desert waiting to enter the promised land. For every Nephi and Lehi divinely protected by an encircling flame of fire for their faith, we have an Abinadi burned at a stake of flaming fire for his. And we remember that the same Elijah who in an instant called down fire from heaven to bear witness against the priests of Baal is the same Elijah who endured a period when there was no rain for years and who, for a time, was fed only by the skimpy sustenance that could be carried in a raven’s claw. By my estimation, that can’t have been anything we would call a “happy meal.”

The point? The point is that faith means trusting God in good times and bad, even if that includes some suffering until we see His arm revealed in our behalf. That can be difficult in our modern world when many have come to believe that the highest good in life is to avoid all suffering, that no one should ever anguish over anything. But that belief will never lead us to “the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ.”

Listening to Elder Holland's words I felt heard and understood. 

Momma Bear Knows

After family dinner the kids shared all their favourite memes and tik tok videos with their slightly confused, often cringing parents. Who even are you? What even is this??  It had been three months and there was no shortage of content. Funny, edging on inappropriate and down right weird. Their infectious  laughter filled my soul with pure joy. Our kids are so funny.

Some how the conversation shifted: Remember when {so and so} sent me a message telling me I was going to hell...

Wait. What?

More of the story comes out...

Seriously??

Yup.

You're joking right??

Now all of their phones were pulling up messages....

Someone passes me their phone. I read and scrolled, read and scrolled. I swallowed hard trying not to cry. The actual words "You. Are. Going. To. Hell." were not there. But they were hidden in calls to repentance, in suggesting someone was abandoning ones family and on and on....

I'm now apologizing profusely...I'm so sorry. They had no right to send that...

Another lists several videos on repentance, they were sent with slightly varying  messages of "Saw this and thought of you..."

Why???

Turns out each one of my five have received messages of this nature over the years, as they have each chosen to no longer attend church, and  sadly more than once. Something they've mostly kept from us....

Before they left for the night, I tried as best I could to acknowledge their wounds and pour as much love into those wounds as possible. They knew I was upset and said they had mostly let the hurt go. But I know those kids and know when they hide pain to make me feel better...

I cried when the last one shut the door. My momma bear's heart brimming with hurt that felt a lot like anger in that moment. Why do people do that?? Their intent wasn't to cause harm...but when you send a message without an actual relationship built over a lifetime, without knowledge of the receivers deepest struggles and trials even the best intent is lost before the message is even comprehended. Even good intent can cause great harm. I know my kids and the mountains they have had to climb.

Grant and I have honoured our kids choices without an ounce of love or respect lost for them. No I have not failed and neither have they. Them not choosing church is not a heartache for us. Some may not believe this but for us its a non issue.

They are good and kind people and that is enough. Our relationship with them is my biggest treasure and I will protect that like a Momma bear protecting their young.

 Let's just love without condition and let God continue his miracles through us instead of us wasting time on misguided judgement....mmmmmkay. I still love all of you.

Simply Sacred

So many private tears as I've helplessly watched my Superman suffer. Suffering that feels unfair and unjust. I've spent days and weeks pleading for guidance .

Finally a simple thought. Send a letter to the doctor....

I searched for an email and couldn't find one. No send a letter, the old fashion way...

I spent a thoughtful few hours composing my concerns in letter form. One page conveying my deepest heartache. Will I be heard?

 I hung onto the letter for a day and then dropped it at the post office. I waited and wondered over the long weekend, praying I'd done the right thing. You can't un-send snail mail...

Our bishop stopped by over the weekend to give us the sacrament, something I hadn't really thought about, but I was grateful for a bishop who saw a need...

The Bishop arrived in shirt and tie and freshly washed hands and a sacrament tray. Grant was sitting on the couch a spot he had barely moved from in weeks, or is it months? He was in an old t shirt and sweat pants, paint stains and holes and all. Our bishop and I chatted for a few minutes and Grant hardly said a word, lost in his own world.

It was time to administer the sacrament. "So do you want to bless the water, if I bless the bread? " our bishop said without hesitation. The invitation floored me for a split moment. as did Grant's "Well okay." We took the bread in the otherwise empty sacrament tray. And our bishop handed Grant his phone with the sacrament prayers cued, reference, if needed...

Grant's voice was clear but humble as he began the prayer....The spirit flooded our living room and I struggled to keep back my tears as I was reminded that no matter how sick my sweet Superman is he still is a worthy priesthood holder and that his spirit is NOT mentally.

Gratitude also flooded my heart for a bishop who saw past what I was unable to in the moment and extended a sacred invitation.

From that moment the constant prayer in my heart for the next several days was that Grant's doctor would hear me through that letter, I had dropped in the mailbox....

I was so concerned for my Superman as the severity of what I was witnessing was impossible to deny.

They got the letter the same day some pandemic restrictions allowing in person visits. The receptionist called me the minute the letter arrived...

I was told I didn’t have to put on a brave face anymore and I was totally allowed to ugly cry if I needed to. She offered Grant an in person appointment a day and spent the next several minutes talking about caregiver burn out and how hard it is, making she I was ok. Kindness I so needed.

Grant's doctor showed the same kindness. We spent an entire hour talking about some of life's darkest moments in the safety and dignity of understanding and compassion. Tough decisions, but a path forward was chosen.

I left that office with no doubt that his psychiatrist was inspired and truly cared. The road ahead is uncertain but we have help.

Our church family reached out with several acts of service in the week that followed and I felt a renewed courage and care.


A few dear friends listened for hours when I just needed to get it out....

A treasured gift came Sunday morning when a dear, talented, yet humble friend sent my three favourite hymns she had so beautifully sung.....

I've listed to these on repeat this week and each one have solace and a reminder that ....

He lives to guide me with his eye.

He lives to comfort me when faint.

He lives to hear my soul's complaint.

He lives to silence all my fears.

He lives to wipe away my tears.

He lives to calm my troubled heart.

He lives all blessings to impart.

Grant will deal with mental illness for the rest of his life, but our struggle is known to our heavenly father and it is through others that he makes sure we are cared for and loved, I am forever grateful for these angels on earth.

Mask Maker

It started six weeks ago. I made 4 masks, following a tutorial online. It was something to do to kill a Sunday evening. The tutorial was hard to follow and finicky and I wasn't all that impressed with the finished product. So I just threw them in our van for us.

A day or so later a couple of friends asked me to make masks for their families so I dug through my scrap buckets and made a batch of 25 and gave them away to friends, neighbors and people driving by.... They were all gone in hours.

CONFESSION TIME:

I hoard fabric (is it hoarding if its sorta organized?) But I've never spent more than a few dollars on each piece from the second hand stores. And in 10 years I've amassed quite the collection.

I am NOT a trained sower, unless you count the 6 weeks of sewing I was FORCED to take in JR High. I got a sewing machine after a  fight discussion in 2010.with my husband were I said I wanted a sewing machine. And he said, and I quote, like you'll EVER use it...GAME ON. I proved him wrong.

So its a pandemic  I had me my trusty sewing machine and tons of fabric and realized that the need/ want for masks was there. The only thing I didn't have was elastic, so a prayerful trip to the dollar store in the chaotic days of social distancing I saw hair elastics and thought if I make the masks a bit wider they will work. Problem solved.

So I went to work. And have spent some time each day making masks. My muscles are SUPER tight, at the moment because I can not have my botox treatments until some more pandemic restrictions. So I can only sew for about an hour before I need to take a break. 

But as of yesterday I've finished 204 masks. All given away and I'll just keep going until.

 Its been an awesome way for me to connect with people (from a distance). Most have picked them up from my mail box. I've had some wonderful conversations in my yard too.

 Grant's been so unwell and its given me something to do. A way to serve that has only cost me a few dollars in hair elastics. When the pandemic has left me home bound.

I'm doing it because it just feels good. A simple need I can fill. I am not making any kind of statement about whether or not you should wear them or the critical climate we live in. (why do people have to criticize each other??)   You do you, mmmmkay.  

If you need a mask I am happy to make you one just message me and if you want to sew one I broke it down for you below....

Man I look tired. I am. Pandemic hair and care giving will do that.

 1. You need a piece of 100% cotton fabric measuring 10" x 14" (10" is the measurement across the face, you can adjust this an inch bigger or smaller to fit accordingly)

2. Fold in half, right side to right side, folded measurements are now 10" x 7"

3. Straight stitch the long seam closed, no need to back stitch.

 4. Turn right side out.

 5. Press with an IRON( sorry millenials and hippies you need an iron here)

 6. Pleat, this is a little tricky. An inch from the top pinch an inch of fabric an each side and fold down and press.

7. Pin pleat down. Place pins towards the centre, so you don't sew over them. Unless you love bending needles, thanks Marilyn for the tip and the new needles.

8. Repeat two more times, press and pin. (for a total of 3 pleats)

9. Elastics, elastic has been in short supply around here, so I resorted to using thin hair elastics from the dollar store. (50 for $2) You need two for each mask. Cut each elastic where it is glued together.

 10. Straight stitch the elastic to just below the  upper corner and just above the lower corner.

 11. Make sure to back stitch over each elastic end.

 12. Also hold down each pleat corner as the presser foot passes over it.

 13. Remove the pins.

 14. Trim all threads and fabric ends 1/4" from the right of the straight seem.

 15. You now need 2 small rectangles of fabric approx. 2" x 5".  I measure the 5" off each mask side because they do vary. It needs to at least an inch longer than the side of the mask,

 16. Centre the small strip on the back of the mask (side without the elastics)

 17. Fold down in the top and the bottom of the strip so the line up with the top and bottom edges of the mask. Straight stitch together.

 18. Flip mask over, lay flat and pull the sewn strip out

 19. Fold strip in, and fold in again.

 20. Straight stitch strip down. Repeat 16-19 on the other side of mask. 

 21. Trim treads.

22. Finished. The side of the mask with the elastics is the FRONT and faces out. The side of the mask without the elastics is the BACK of the mask and goes against the nose and mouth.

Sustaining Superman

Things haven't been particularly fantastic, but suddenly they were desperately awful.

 His facial expressions or really the lack of them. The way he walks, shoulders rolled forward, feet dragging. Distracted, distant, sinking. Unable to carry a conversation. Days go by with few words. The words that do come are hopeless, despondent.  Everything brings frustration and anger. Sitting on the couch blankly watching six movies at once.

He's in trouble and I know it.

A conversation with his Psychiatrist. An urgent med change needed, now. Practicing psychiatry over the phone, in the middle of a pandemic frustrating for all off us. Nothing changes. Watchful waiting.

We are in mental illness HELL.

Superman's middle of the night, tear filled and frustration filled pleas, brutal. The intensity of his hopelessness, desperation is frightening for both of us. Will he withstand the torments of the storm, this time?? I honestly wasn't sure.

I laid there beside him for nights, pleading silently for respite from the storm, begging for heavenly guidance in what to say, One night the words eventually came, a question, not my words, but from my heavenly father. From that question Superman expressed the true depth of his suffering. His reality sobering. For a moment I had a glimpse of the tremendous strength it takes for my sweetheart to battle this cruel illness every single day of is life. It was a sorrow filled and sacred moment for me.

For nights the storm raged on. For nights I prayed just for tomorrow.

I don't know if we've just found the eye of this storm or if its abating. Its been a day or so of "relative" stillness.

I'm guessing the psychiatrist's decision on the med change was the next right thing. For know we can only hope.

I never imagined we'd be here and most likely here for the rest of our lives. Severe, debilitating mental illness robbing my sweetheart of so much. Accepting that healing is not ours to decide. Some days dealing with the stigma of our illness harder (at least for me) than dealing with the illness its self.

Tears have flowed often these last few days. The reality of what we go through hit like a ton of bricks....

How much sicker does my Superman have to become, before I get to stop explaining why he deserves the same compassion, prayers and understanding and reaching out for his suffering as others get without explanation?? Even now I type this through tears. It is something I will never understand, but face often. Mental illness stigma breaks my heart.


I feel this immense need to continually sustain and protect my Superman. It will always be a challenge to be that gatekeeper. Who will help and who will harm?? it seems to always surprise me.

Now to try and catch up on some much needed sleep.   Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

Who Pandemic-ed Better?? Please Stop.

This Pandemic gets me to thinking a lot....



To start, I need to go back to a time long before I was born. My Dad had an older sister he never knew. She died just days before her 14th birthday, and 14 months before my dad was born.. Ollie Jean died of a suspected case of Rocky Mountain Spotted fever. It was a time before antibiotics and other medical advancements were available that would likely have saved her life.

The grief and trauma of Ollie Jean's death has reverberated through the Merrill family for decades. My Grandma Beena would weep when telling us anything about her only daughter. I came across Ollie Jean's death certificate not long ago, Seeing her time of death, the funeral home she was taken to and my Grandfather's signature. I wept too. Their grief so tangible even 85 years later.

As if by some cruel twist of fate the summer my dad was 14, he contracted Polio, during the Polio epidemic. My Uncle Bob shared the experience of watching  my dad leave in the family's Studebaker, headed to St. Benedict's hospital in Ogden, Utah.  Uncle Bob was sure he would never see my Dad alive again. It was so traumatic for all of them. Dad spent the entire summer there and almost didn't survive a choking incident while there.  He would struggle with polio's aftermath the rest of his life, I remember countless occasions watching my dad choke because polio had affected his ability to swallow.

It was the summer of 1996. Holly, Bailey and Madison were exactly 31 months, 18 months and 5 months old, respectively. We had just returned from a family vacation in Alberta. Holly and I woke up the next morning with Chicken Pox. We had attend a family reunion in Alberta where someone thought it was no big deal to bring all their kids who had Chicken Pox to the event. Ten days after Holly and I came down with it Bailey and Madison now had it as well.

I called the doctor very concerned about how young Madison was. We were told to watch her closely but not worry too much. A few days later on a Sunday I changed Madison's diaper and noticed an extra angry sore on her thigh. She was miserable and nothing settled her. An hour later I changed her diaper again and the angry redness covered her entire thigh.

I called Grant at work and he immediately rushed Madison to the hospital. I wasn't able to go with them because I was still contagious. Grant called an hour later saying they were admitting Madison and her fever had spiked to 105 F. She was critical. I was terrified we were going to lose her and I couldn't even hold her. My heart broke. Grant held her as she screamed through that night. After a few days on IV antibiotics she turned the corner and was eventually able to come home. She was not left unscathed. Her optic nerve in her left eye was damaged, leaving no functional vision in that eye.


So much grief, trauma and heartache for conditions that are now treatable and even preventable.
Antibiotics saved Madison's life. Alex and Dallyn were given a vaccine that was newly  available for them to avoid repeated misery.


So why tell you my family's story??

We now sit in the middle of a world wide pandemic. Something I never imagined happening. There is no vaccine, only supportive treatment and people are dying.

What I have been surprised by the most is the public pandemic shaming that seems to be escalating....

That if I express worry or concern and choose to wear a mask, gloves or make masks for my friends I'm overreacting and being too cautious by those who feel differently.

All I can say is you do you and I'll do me. You pandemic your way and I will pandemic my way.

My life experiences simply lead me to take the precautions I feel necessary. I know the feeling when statistics that seem to be in everyone's favour, suddenly are not in yours. I know the lasting trauma that can destroy families following the death of a child. I know the fear of waiting, hoping and praying hoping your child survives..

And now I will do what ever makes me feel safe during a pandemic and so will you. Let's just stop shaming each other. There is no reward  at the end of all of this for who Pandemic-ed better.

  

Soup Sandwich Sunday

Dad and Uncle Bob

Easter weekend always brings a soup sandwich full of emotions for me. Its messy and awkward and probably somewhat beautiful.

My Dad died on  Good Friday eight years ago.

What a weird day to die? A loving friend said to me, not long after. She was right. There are almost always two days to mourn his passing each year. The date (April 6th) and the Friday. I find the Friday the one that pulls most at my heart strings. Its hard to articulate. As a christian the symbolism of that means even more to me now that my dad is gone. I understand in a more poignant way the earth shattering grief of Good Friday and the beautiful promise of Easter Sunday.



Elder Joseph B Wirthlin said it better than anyone in his talk Sunday Will Come:

Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. In this life or the next, Sunday will come.

I have had some years to grieve and mourn and understand . Good Friday will always bring tears and Easter Sunday brings tearful and  joyful gratitude. I know because of the death of my Saviour on the first Good Friday I will surely see my Dad again.


 Be patient with yourself. Our Heavenly Father gives us time to mourn and time to be joyful because Sunday will come. Happy Easter!

Never Skipping Church

Kelli and my childhoods were often unpredictable and even chaotic. There were few things we could count on. But there was this one thing. Mom ALWAYS took us to church.

No matter what was going on, mom got us up and dressed in our Sunday best, EVERY Sunday morning and we went to church.

I'm not sure where she found the motivation, when so many other things seemed like insurmountable mountains for her. I know there were times she was afraid of going to hell if she sinned, like at all. Mom spoke so little of her beliefs in the gospel and I can only remember a handful of times she got up and bore her testimony. We never fit the mold really. My mom always brought us on her own. My dad wasn't the church going kind. Once he left I know my mom felt shame. But no matter my mom's awkwardness we simply never missed a Sunday.


Even as a young child I remember loving church and especially primary. It was the only place that I consistently felt safe and loved. Even though home was anything but safe and peaceful, I always knew my Heavenly Father loved me. It started with primary songs.

Its been four Sundays since the Pandemic has made going to church impossible. I'm really starting to miss it. I've also realized the tremendous gift my mom gave Kelli and I by always taking us to church. She built our foundation Sunday by Sunday. She struggled to show and provide safety and love but she knew who could. Although she barely spoke of testimony, her actions taught us to turn to our heavenly father and I always knew he was there, especially when others couldn't be.

Her determination to take us to church was all she had to give us spiritually. It was more than enough. Her ultimate sacrifice, considering ALL she was up against lead to my firm testimony.

I know God lives. I know His son Jesus Christ died for me that I can repent and return to him. I know I am loved and valued beyond measure. I know there is a special work for me to do here on earth. I know families are forever and that our deepest hurts and heartaches can and will be healed. I know no matter the challenges I face here, I do not ever face them alone.

Knowing this makes peace possible for me now. In all the chaos my mom laid a foundation for me to find peace now. My heart feels tender with gratitude for her. I look forward to the day when we meet again and I can hear her love and testimony and thank her for never skipping church.

After this pandemic I hope I never take for granted going to church and the gift the Sabbath is.

Somedays with Superman

Our bishop checking on our family:

"How's Grant handling things with all this Covid stuff?"

 Me: Staying home and not having to interact with people, it's ALL his dreams come true.

We both laughed.


In all seriousness, Grant has been so unwell. His struggle with mental illness have reach depths we never imagined it would. My heart breaks for him as we both come to terms with this ever changing beast.

I could go into all the medical terms for what is going on. What the DSM-V says. How our psychiatrist came to each diagnosis. The brutal choices we have had to make with treatment and medications. The stigma and mistrust of our choices from outside our arena. The isolation. But your understanding of all that doesn't change our reality for a single second. So it's not needed.

Some days my Superman is funny, engaged, and busy. Some days getting out of bed takes hours and he doesn't remember to eat unless I put a plate in front of him and self care is impossible.

Some days he laughs hysterically at some dumb B movie and is showing me funny memes he's saved on his phone. Some days he struggles to respond to a question and carry on any conversation. Flipping through video after video, for endless hours trying to find focus for a troubled racing mind.

Some days he is sweet and kind and tender and some days the frustration and anger rage and nothing I do can reach him.



We no longer talk about healing. Its something we have accepted isn't coming. Not because we have lost faith or hope. We haven't. It's because we have decided to hope for other things. Hope that on the some days that are really terrible we will just be able to cope and not become bitter. Hope that on that one or two or ten really good days we will just be grateful and enjoy it while its here.

I don't know why trials come. And I don't believe platitudes ever help. "God only gives the hardest trials to his toughest soldiers" Um? BARF?? I will seriously punch (from a distance) the next person who says this or anything like unto it.

Some days I am full of courage and faith and some days I'm pretty angry at Good.

Some days I am quick to count my blessings and some days I grieve deeply the things we have lost to an illness we didn't ask for.

Some days I can let the ignorance of others roll off my back and laugh at the stupidity  and some days it hurts my heart deeply and I shed many tears.

 Some days hoping for different blessing is my only way to find comfort

We are all at a time we never imagined in our lives. (Unless you're Prepper or watch some crazy stuff on Netflix :) )

Lets give others something else to hope for because some days we really need each other.

Fighting Forgiveness

I thought God had abandoned me. Suddenly I was invisible to those around me. Anything anyone did say felt like judgement and scorn.  Life felt like it couldn't get worse. My emotions raged like fire.

I was so hurt, so angry. so afraid.

Loving God, yeah right. I was losing everything. My husband and marriage to a cruel illness that no one understands. My testimony was failing in a gospel I knew was true, but in that moment felt like cruel irony. Keep the commandments and life is good, yeah okay.  My own mental health suffered and I questioned how much more I could take.

Weeks, turned into months and I was barely hanging on. No one gets how hurt I am or the trauma and fear I was fighting, no one gets how hard this is. Advice felt like judgement. All my avenues of relief felt closed. I prayed every night but wondered if I would every be heard or feel his love again. Life was chaos. Peace was gone. I was suffering in a way I had never experienced before.

I was going through the motions, barely. The only prayer I could still pray was: Please send me peace, clarity and healing...but that was out of duty, not desire.

At my lowest point, I went to a funeral. Friends had lost a dear family member,suddenly.

{ I promised God after my mom's funeral, where almost no one attended. I would always mourn with those who mourn and go to funerals. Something I still find sacred.}

I sat and listened as wonderful things were shared about this dearly loved family member. Over and over they talked about her Christlike nature, it was evident in every aspect of her life....

I need to be way more Christlike, I thought. Wait, I thought I was....But Christ FORGAVE. He forgave those who had hurt him most.

Oh....

As I sat there an degree of understanding came about being truly Christlike. I had spent months trying to get others to understand what I was going through. But that wasn't possible because the only one who could understand, already did.

Robin you need to forgive and ask for forgiveness.

Instantly a name came into my mind, I knew what I needed to do. I was afraid I'd chicken out so I was determined to reach out as soon as I got home.

I sent an email. Apologizing. Soon after I received a kind and understanding response. A burden I had carried for months lifted instantly.

The next day in sacrament meeting a speaker shared their conversion story and I felt new compassion and understanding for this person and my burden became even lighter.

That afternoon I was set apart in a new calling. In that blessing a I was promised "Peace, clarity and healing" as I served. It was something I had told no one. God had heard me. I needed to be willing to listen.

I'm still building back my spiritual strength as I keep working on forgiveness. But I have had a strong feeling that I'm going to be ok. That Grant and I are going to be ok.

Our struggles with illness will not be taken away. But I don't need to keep fighting forgiveness.

God Heals.... Eventually

God heals all wounds. I believe this, truly I do.  But during the healing process even with that belief, that statement can burn and bite and dig. Especially when someone says it who has no idea of the length and depth of your suffering....

This may seem a bit jumbled and awkward but that's my life lately. So stay with me...

Kelli and I finally talked 10 days after Christmas, each apologizing excessively for being a terrible sister and not calling sooner...neither of us the least bit offended. Holidays are hard, and we just get it.

Kelli said: I just try my best not to think about our parents at Christmas. It's just easier that way.

I instantly understood. Certain things are not forgotten,

My mind flooded with memories.

I was in my Christmas pajamas, but it was after Christmas. I came down the hallway with its yellow shag carpet on the way to my bedroom, the last door on the left. Mom came out of the bathroom across the hall, wearing her purple mu mu with giant white flowers on it ... my eight year old self went to give her a hug before bed. My feet caught on the shag carpet and I fell into her as I tried to wrap my arms around her. In an instant I was flying backwards down the hallway. Landing hard a several feet away. I had no idea what happened.

Don't you ever put your face in my {chest} again!!! Are you a pervert?! {At eight, I had know idea what she meant}
Mom was very ill, well mom's don't shove their kids down the hallway. But the trauma was still trauma

Kelli never flew down a hallway, but her experiences were just as painful and traumatic as mine. Together we survived the impossible.

 Not once has Kelli not honored my truth and I, her truth. Yes we experienced the same events differently and were traumatized differently by them. She has never told me well that didn't happen that way... she listens, we listen.

We have always just given each other space and safety to share our stories. We just understand. I think its just one of our compensating blessings.


The last few years have brought new trauma for me and it has NOTHING to do with Grant or his illness.

Deeply personal events that have that brought anguish and suffering. Events I wondered if I would survive. Events where I walked away physically and emotionally harmed....

I know what crossed boundaries are and abuse is. Dress it up with whatever vocabulary you want,  irregardless its a behavior that is never ok.

I'm in a place where I've asked so many whys these last few years. Whys only God can answer. I've been through so much in life, why do I still  feel so wounded and unheard ??

--------------------------------------------------

I do know that god can and will heal all wounds, EVENTUALLY.  Here or in heaven we are healed. Wounds need to be addressed and dressed to heal. We can't just say well don't be offended. Wounds need the Physician, not our opinions Those in the process of healing are the ones holding the the time card. Healing takes time, there is no express lane. When we say  "god heals all wounds" and things like unto it to others we see struggling. We deeply harm them.


Still healing.
Always healing.

.

My Tithe

I feel the need to share something. Not in an effort to take a side or to judge anyone who feels or has experienced differently,  but simply share my experience...

Tithing.

My first memory of the principle of tithing was as a 9 year old. I'm guessing it was tithing settlement and mom brought us with her into the bishops office. My feet didn't touch the floor as we sat in orange upholstered chairs. We lived in a very affluent area in southern California and my Dad had left just weeks before. I remember the bishop asking in a kind way, if my mom paid tithing and mom saying no, I can't. I have to support my girls. The bishop told her if she paid her tithing and was short that the church would help her...

This enraged my mom: I am not a beggar! And I will not be treated like a poor person!! My mom yelled at our bishop. Stood up, grabbed our hands and  stormed out of that office. That was my first and last experience with tithing as a child. It remained a painful topic for my mom....

When Grant and I married, neither of us had ever had first hand experience paying tithing. It was nothing more than a math equation to us. We struggled to pay it, for years and years. We'd pay for a while, months at a time even, but something always came up and we'd stop. It went on like that for ten years...during that time the church helped us at times and our bishops encouraged us to keep trying to pay our tithing. Trying and trying and trying....

Our ward in Raymond was very kind to us. Those 5 years were traumatic for us. We had Alex (4 under 4),  Grant broke his back in a work accident, We had Dallyn (5 under 6), Grant became addicted to pain killers, Mental health episodes led to hospitalizations and scary diagnosis's. Raymond was where we learned about the church welfare program first hand. Our bishop made sure we did not go without. I remember one night while Grant was in the hospital our bishop showing up on our doorstep and asked for every bill we had... I can't make Grant better, but I can help you here. 

{side story: One time my mom found out  (she saw the groceries in our van) we had gone to the Bishop's store house (think large scale food bank)  in Lethbridge to feed our family after Grant had broken his back in a work accident. My mom lost it at me. Accused me of shaming our family name and embarrassing her because she knew people who worked there....Mom never fully understood tithing or the church welfare program}

In 2003 we moved back to the Island, a fresh start for us in every conceivable way. The only goal we made as a couple when we moved was to pay our tithing. I'm not sure why we both felt so strongly about it at the time but we did pay our tithing. Okay it still took a few years to be full tithing payers but we got there...

A few months after we moved back to the Island my Mom was dying. My sister and I rushed to her bed side in Lethbridge. This wasn't the first rush but unknowingly was our last. Mom wanted to meet with her bishop, which surprised us some. Among a few requests she wanted to pay tithing on her pension check for that month. I still remember her shaky handwriting on that check and her handing it to her bishop....Mom died just a few days after we had gone home. Tithing was a painful thing for her, but I will always admire the courage of that last tithing check.

Over the last 15 years our understanding of tithing and church welfare has grown from a math equation to a principle of faith that we continue to be so blessed by.

As a RS president I had the sacred privilege to administer the welfare program with our bishop. Some of my most sacred experiences ever,  came when I was invited into  homes to talk about needs and then be able to meet those needs. It was never a principle of money but of love, our Savior's love.

I make no judgement on any one who feels differently. The ability to choose and feel for ourselves is such a gift.

 I'm grateful for tithing.

 

Healing Some.

{Ucluelet 2016}

I sat in a pew on Sunday and for the first time in months I didn't want to run for my life...
Stay with me here.

Up until August I gave everything I had as I served in a calling I never thought once I was capable of doing, but I gave my all. I loved my sisters deeply, prayed for them continually and wanted nothing more than for them to understand just how much their heavenly father loved them. While I served some very traumatic things happened and I paid a high price both emotionally and mentally from those events.


Up until April we had spent the last eight years fighting Grant's illness. We had managed to keep him from being suicidal. In April, that changed overnight. Beginning the worst six months we have ever experienced with his illness. Home life was a firestorm of unpredictability and chaos.

The Sunday I was released felt like I was hit with a tsunami of emotions. Relief, frustration, fear, wondering, grief, gratitude..... no one knew or understood what I had been through. Why did I have to experience such difficult things in the middle of some of my most sacred experiences?

Home was no sanctuary either. Grant's illness robbed him of his ability to show empathy or understanding. The more grief and upset  I showed the more unstable his illness became.

God where are you? Nothing.... Chaos collided.

I had never felt so alone and unloved in my life.

I was trying to keep Grant alive and out of psychosis.

Church felt like torture. Going alone a reminder of all the blessings that seemed to be slipping away.
I felt ignored entirely or deeply wounded by senseless platitudes and assumptions. Many Sundays I sobbed in the pew.

What's the point, all my years of trying seemed absolutely pointless. I was ready to run.

A friend has dragged me to Sacrament meeting for months. Most Sundays I just felt like a wounded animal slowly dying unnoticed. There out of duty and my slight fear of my mother haunting me.

I went through the motions...

Sunday something happened...I had begged my Heavenly Father for relief the night before. But instead of asking for him to help others understand us and stop hurting us...I asked him to help me heal and find peace.

As I sat in the pew on Sunday and listened to the introduction of  my favourite Christmas hymn being played. The thought came:

 " No one here knows what you've been through or are going through, but I do, Robin."

For the first time in months I felt the burden of grief lighten and my Heavenly Fathers love.

My heart is healing some. There is still much of the journey ahead. I'm just grateful I didn't run.








 

Gate keeper.

We sat in the psychiatrist office this week. Doing so takes a lot of courage for both of us. We come away feeling exhausted, but heard. It's a place where the gravity and complexity of Grant's mental illness is acknowledged and fully validated.

 Things are improving, sort of. An additional med has provided some tentative relief these last six weeks. . We are holding our breathe, this med has failed before, in 2013 and 2016 but we are hoping that in combination, it may hold him. For how long? It's completely unknown. 

Sitting back and realizing what we have endured the last six months brings bewildered, heart broken tears.

When you think you are going to lose your spouse to his illness... When you watch that spouse's illness destroy him into someone you hardly recognize... When you see this illness torturing him day after day and you are powerless to stop his suffering...you will do anything to save him.

Stress (even minor), being in public, well intentioned but ignorant people,  unsolicited advice, unexpected visitors, paperwork, nonsocial phone calls, criticism, perceived judgement of any kind, too many things to do in a day, unmet expectations...on and on.  These are things that have triggered him, sometimes leading to life threatening events.

I am now the gate keeper and not really by choice. But I will do anything to keep him safe and here. Our home is our sanctuary. Grant's safest place. A place where he can take his mask off and it's ok to be ill.


We have had some difficult things happen, where our boundaries have been bulldozed. Mostly unintentional. Simply not understanding, I guess.

What you don't see is the aftermath. The recovery time. The prayer that he won't slide.

When peaceful days are such a prized procession, you will do anything to keep them.

We've lost many friends, been the subjects of the latest gossip, when people don't understand they judge us.  Say we are too easily offend and we just need to let it go and that nobody can understand mental illness, so its unfair to expect them too. We've heard it all.

You don't need to understand us. You only need to understand our need for compassion is the same as others.

Grant didn't ask for his illness. I never asked to be his gate keeper. We are both exhausted, our hearts ache, but we promised to walk this road together and that we will do.

Today I'm Grateful.

We could have never known just how uncertain our future would ever be or how hard it would get.

China Creek 2004

The last six months...I've come to the conclusion there are not words in the English language to tell the story and many don't have the context to understand our the depth of such suffering. Grant's stability was gone. Almost overnight we were in the middle of the worst storm we had ever experienced.

This can't get worse. But it did. Again and again. The light, gone. Hope, fleeting. The illness just raged.

Grant insisted he fulfill his high council speaking assignment in October. I fully doubted he could do it, and tried everything to get him to cancel. The entire drive to Nanaimo, I felt sick, completely aware of just how unwell he was. Seriously Heavenly Father?? Why?

I watched as he struggled to get out of the seat next to me. The next twenty minutes could not move fast enough for me...

Grant grabbed each side of the pulpit, each hand hanging on for dear life.

"I'm grateful to be here today, actually grateful to be anywhere today...."

I hang my head trying to hide my tears. Knowing if I made eye contact with any of the few who knew in the congregation just how poignant Grant's statement. I would start sobbing....The spirit flooded my heart as Grant spoke with strength and clarity. How is this even possible, with as sick as he is?? His spirit isn't mentally ill. I know this. Still the miracle of the moment humbled me.

His talk ended. As we left the stand I could see in his face he had just given all he had to give that talk. The illness had only taken a twenty minute siesta...

Three more days, I just have to get him to his psychiatrist's appointment on Wednesday.

72 hours of tormented hell, the culmination of the last six months...

I thought I was losing him. Rational thought had left the building. The rage so intense, I could not imagine anything worse...

Tuesday night he begged not to go to his appointment.

I prayed that entire night. Not for a miracle, not for healing.

For courage and that the psychiatrist would be inspired. Inspired just to know what to do next....

We walked in that office more exhausted and weary than we had ever been. Please hear us, I thought.

As the brutal honesty of the last months flooded from my mouth, I fought back fear, panic, heartbreak. Even Grant found the courage to admit just how bad it was.

The doctor was so kind. He acknowledged the intensity of the storm we were walking through. Patient and caregiver. He showed compassion, not pity. Honored my dignity and Grant's.  By the end of the hour he had a plan. No promises but a plan. I have never felt the spirit in a medical appoint like right then. I knew Heavenly Father had answered my pleading from the night and months before. The doctor did know what to do next.

. We left just as exhausted, but hope wasn't so fleeting. 

The storm has slowly slowly slowly calmed. How long will this reprieve, hold? Its unknown. How lives are forever changed, but I have always promised my heavenly father that no matter what comes, I will always be grateful for each good hour or day.

Today I am grateful.

Shedding Light

{Warning: Talks about tough stuff...}

Kelli and I had talked for nearly an hour, when the question came up.

 "What was your single most traumatic event for you as a kid??"

My mind flipped rapidly through my childhood memories, like a Rolodex (sorry millennials)

That time mom locked us all in the bedroom every night because of the Night Stalker.
Oh my gosh, me too!

Is it called reminiscing when its traumatic?

Kelli and I had never talked in depth about this as adults, until that moment.

It was the summer we were 10. Our California house was on the end of a cul-de-sac, Hillock View Plaza. It wasn't as fancy then as it sounds. A tract home, every fourth house was exactly the same as ours.

Dad had been out of the house for two years. Mom struggled to keep up. Cleaning and organization were never her talents. The clutter and chaos had descended so slowly Kelli and I hadn't noticed.

Mom watched the evening news religiously. We as ten year olds probably should not have watched the news quite as religiously, but mom only sheltered us from odd things like Three's Company and Johnny Carson.

Being in Southern California the news had its fair share of violence, crime, car wrecks, and scandals.

I remember throughout that summer hearing something about a serial killer on those news reports but didn't really understand what that meant.

One evening there was a special news report, the entire broadcast devoted to this one story.... Serial Killer Stalking Orange County.

Mom should have made us go play but instead insisted we sit beside her on the brown love seat and watch the whole thing.

Fear gripped our house.

The next morning mom took us to the hardware store to buy 1 x 2's to secure all the sliding glass doors and windows in the house. By that evening she had hatched a plan to keep us even safer....

We three, our two dogs (pound specials) would sleep all together in the first bedroom down the hall. It was the only room with only one window and an extra lock on the door.

That night at dark mom took us all into that small bedroom. A chair shoved under the door handle the last measure of security she could conger up.

We laid there, tv blaring, mom crying until sleep rescued us. When dawn came we were allowed out. Mom's fear was all she could talk about day after day. There was no escape for her innocent audience. The sequester lasted from dusk to dawn for weeks. Mom's fervor was like falling asleep to a horror movie each night. I wondered if we'd die each night....

They finally caught the Night Stalker at the very end of August, just in time for all of us to return to school. The barricaded sequester ended just as abruptly as it started the month before. But I never felt safe in that house again and mom was never the same.  We never mentioned it again. But its mark, changed us, forever.,


I recognize now that what we were seeing in mom was untreated mental illness, fear had turned into psychosis, but we were ten and we didn't have the vocabulary to explain what we were going through or the even the knowledge that this was not normal.

Kelli and I have spent years, each in our own way, to shed light on the darkness of our childhood. I have learned that with light, shame and fear cannot continue. We are not broken, nor do we need pity. Our compassion for ourselves, and others has just come at a very high price.

 We have no idea what each other carries or what they have had to endure. So just be a light to everyone.