the beauty of a child

It has become a Sunday ritual.

I’m usually at my parents' house on Sunday, solving the crossword, when they arrive home from lunch. My niece's small frame peers over the couch and greets me with a smile. There was a time when she wouldn’t acknowledge me, passing through the stages of toddler independence, but she has outgrown that. She smiles broadly, showing her teeth, raises her eyebrows, lifts her head, and with her red curly hair encasing her head like a beautiful halo, she exclaims, “Hi, Kwisti!”. That’s when I melt.

It’s naptime after Sunday lunch. One time, my niece approached me in the living room, holding a stuffed animal, and said, “Kwisti, come nap wif me.” I was sure Nana put her up to it, but it was still adorable. Of course, I obliged.

Again, I was happy to lie down with her this past Sunday afternoon. I had been milling over my choices on my own reproductive future. I hadn’t vocalized my concerns, but I had been running scenarios through my head. What if’s. Why me’s. If only’s.

I crawled into bed with my niece after she was already asleep. Being hot natured, she was shirtless with only a sheet as a cover. I slid up next to her, careful not to wake her, and absorbed her beauty. Her hair is similar to mine—color, texture, lack of control. Her skin is commonly compared to a China doll’s white, flawless tone. But what struck me was her frame. This angel is now 3. It seems an eternity ago that she came into this world. We had wondered at the time what she would look like, act like, sound like. And I have to tell you, I’m awestruck. She is creative, intelligent, and analytical. She is funny and manipulative. She is no longer a baby, but a little girl. The cries and noises, are now replaced by words, conversation, creativity, stories, and song. Lots and lots of songs—in tune, mind you.

I gazed at her neck and her frame. I wanted to touch her soft skin, and even reached out my hand, but stopped myself in fear of waking her. As the light entered through the window, highlighting her shoulders, I wondered how something so perfect could exist--something so innocent. I remember praying before she was born that she not inherit my depression, and be spared my low self esteem and fears. So far, so good.

As I pondered the magnificence of God's creation, I wondered if I had the strength and patience for a child, and if my chance for one was truly over. Surely if I had a daughter, she couldn’t match the beauty of the child next to me. I wondered why some people keep children they don’t want, with so many families waiting for a child. How can anyone intentionally hurt a child? How can God allow some children to be born into horrible homes, and allow good homes to remain childless?

Soon, I fell asleep. But even now, days later, my mind drifts back to those quiet moments of reflection. The song that comes to mind each time is one by Steve Nicks, Landslide:

“…Oh, mirror in the sky what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean’s tide? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well I’ve been afraid of changing, ‘cause I’ve built my life around you. Time makes you bolder, and even children get older. I’m getting older too.”

Many of my expectations and hopes have included lying down with my own child. I am left wondering if this is the closest I will ever get—lying next to my niece. Is a child what I really want, or just what I’ve always expected? How could any child be more perfect than this? Am I really prepared for the dedication of motherhood? Am I really prepared for a life without any children? So many questions, so few answers.. . . . . . .

Barren is dead word

The word hysterectomy has permanence to it. There is no turning back. “Hysteria “ refers to a woman’s reproduction organs , and “-ectomy “ denotes removal.

Since my divorce 7-1/2 years ago, I have battled pre-cancerous cells that went away on their own, some so severe they were removed by surgery. I have my ex-husband to thank for the HPV that caused all of this. I’ve had an enlarged and sensitive cervix my whole life. I have cysts on my ovaries, and cysts in my uterus. When my doctor lasered my cervix, she took as little as possible to preserve my ability to have children, but warned another surgery like that would render me barren. That was several years ago.

Now, I’m 37. I have no children, and have never been pregnant. I did what I was taught—get married first, then have children. My ex not only left me an HPV present, but he left just as we agreed to start trying for a child. (FML) I kept telling myself through all of my abnormal paps, "God is preserving my organs for a child, right?" Apparently not.

I’ve waited for Mr. Right for a very long time, in vain. I sat in my gyno’s office a few weeks ago and she began asking about my periods. I gave her the rundown—my cramps last 7 days, my periods last 7 to 8 days, and are VERY heavy. I may have a period twice a month, maybe only once. You never know until it happens. I’ve had periods since the age of 10. I have other issues that have popped up in recent months that I won’t describe here. (TMI)

She told me that my options have ended, and offered me a hysterectomy. I told her I wanted to wait for more vacation and more money. But honestly, I wanted time to think about it. I was shocked at her offer, and left her office in shock. She told me to call anytime that I’m ready.

I am at that age where pregnancy means taking on huge developmental risks for that child. I’m at a high risk for infertility and miscarriage. And let’s face it—I’m not even in a relationship!!!!!

My mom asked me tonight why I am waiting to have surgery, and I told her that I know what will happen: I will say, “Let’s do it”, and I will emotionally break. As soon as I said that to my mom, I nearly broke. As tears rolled down my face and my lips quivered, I told my parents, “You guys have to realize how hard it is. It’s hard to go to church and see these young couples talk about God bringing them together. And you see them having babies, and saying that God gave them this gift. It makes you feel worthless. Like God hates you or is playing favorites. I can’t look at that anymore! But the day I give in to being barren will be the first day of many, many tears. ”

And so, the reality is setting in. I haven’t been to church in a while for a number of reasons. This is one of them. There is a part of me that thinks it’s pointless, because God isn’t listening anyway. And I am concluding that it is time for a hysterectomy. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of wanting. Tired of hope. The older I get, the scarier the thought of bringing a child into the world. I am only up for it if I’m in a healthy relationship, and I’m not even close to that.

I was talking to my friend Randall the other night about relationships. I told him, “In a perfect world, a man would come up to me and ask me out, and I would say, ‘here is a book called Love is a Choice, about overcoming codependency. Read it, think about it, and then call me if you are still interested.’ And months later he would call me, still interested, but emotionally healthier than before.” Randall laughed and said, “No, in the perfect world, he would say, ‘Oh, that book? I already own it. It’s helped me tremendously.’ Then you would KNOW it was a match made in heaven.” He is so right. And well, this isn’t a perfect world, is it?

Now, it's out in the open. The conversation with my parents, and this blog, make it real. So I guess the next step is: when shall I do it?

"Friends are like church. . . ."

It was nine o’clock, and I had not heard from him. I was concerned, but didn’t want to be pushy or annoying. But he had called me at 4:30, on his way to a stranger’s house that was located in a questionable part of town. He was supposed to call me after his date. I decided to text him, “Do I need to send a search and rescue?”. No response.

After 10 o’clock, I began to get very nervous. I was supposed to text Michelle the moment I heard from him, and she would text Traci. So, I texted her, “I haven’t heard from Randall. I texted and messaged him.” She tried calling him, with no answer either.

With that, we devised the plan: I would drive to Randall’s house and see if he is home. If not, I would drive to the general location of this stranger’s home and look for Randall’s car or his body. I would give Michelle updates, and I would not get out of the car in a bad area without calling her first and staying on the phone.

As I drove, my mind milled over the possible outcomes. He could be in bed asleep. He could be at the man’s house having a grand time. Or my worst fear, he could be lying on the side of the road, injured or worse. There had been a gay bashing in Tulsa just a few days before. Randall is a strong man, a healthy man, and an energetic man. But he is also gay. He had taken a risk by meeting a stranger at his home, instead of a public place. He normally has his phone handy and checks it periodically. He normally tells me what’s going on. This . . . .was not . . . .normal. I had already planned for the worst—call 911, call Michelle, call Randall’s daughter. . . .

I know that people assume a man can take care of himself, but ask that young man who had been beaten, bitten, and stabbed, and you realize the world is a scary place. Three people ganged up on him. Prejudices abound, and ignorant people do cruel things. Get more than one attacker together, and most men would not stand a chance alone.

I drove Randall’s house, and his car was there. It was 11 o’clock and his house seemed very quiet. I rang the doorbell. . . . . .no answer. So, I rang it again, determined to beat the door down if necessary. If he’s home, he’ll probably be in bed and surely be pissed that I’ve disturbed him. But I needed peace of mind.

“Kristi! What are you doing here?”, he asked as he opened the door, smiling broadly.

“Randall! I’m making sure you are alive! We are worried about you!!”

He laughed. “I’m fine. I left that man’s house a long time ago. He was an ass and I wasn’t comfortable so I left.”

Randall had quickly changed focus after leaving his date, and become pre-occupied with other things. He forgot about calling, and his phone was in another room.

“I’m so sorry! I feel bad you drove all the way out here! That is SO sweet!” He said.
‘I don’t mind, as long as I know you are alive and well!” I replied, relieved.

We hugged several times and upon leaving I called Michelle. She then called Traci.

The next day, Randall told me, “That meant more to me than you will ever know. I don’t know if that’s what you guys normally do as friends, but I’ve never had any friend or family member do that for me. You know, people go to church in hopes of making friends. You go every week, shake hands, and make shallow friendships. But I did that for years and never made close friends. After church, everyone goes home to their real lives. Being around you guys is better than church. When I leave you, I feel like I’ve been to church. I’ve never had friends like you.”

Losing a Friend

I had to let a friend go a few weeks ago. I created a boundary and distanced myself from someone who meant a lot to me. But his erratic behavior, negativity, and antagonizing actions were overwhelming. It was a sudden change from the person I had known.

It began with some bizarre purchases he made. He was already in financial ruin. Just when he realized the effect of his purchases, he quit his job. He became embarrassing in public, with random comments and overly zealous behavior. It’s as if his filter was removed, and it was a free for all as he said anything that came to mind, including “jokingly” discussing his desire for drugs, and his previous days as a dealer. In a bar, drunk, he gave me a “message from God’ that made no sense at all. When he wanted to buy my meal and I refused, he told me that I don’t have faith in him or God. God was going to take care of him. For some reason, that really hit a nerve, maybe because of my own relationship with God. Not only did it seem surreal to have him give a false prophecy, but it hurt that he questioned my faith in God or him. His understanding of God at that moment was very flawed. The truth is, we create our own hell much of the time, and we want God to save us from it. God doesn’t always clean up our messes, and when he doesn’t are we going to resent him?

I finally decided that he was on drugs. I do not use drugs, nor do I want them around me. I talked to him about it one night, and he denied using anything in months, which I knew was a lie. He expressed his anger at the world for dealing him a crappy hand, his resentment toward the young gay community for having it easier than he had when he came out, and his unwillingness to let go of bitterness. It’s his right to be angry, he said. I tried to tell him that holding onto that anger will eat him alive, and he should be happy that young gays have it easier than he did. But he kept talking over me. I finally told him that I do not share his anger, nor do I want to be around it. I wasn’t ending our friendship, but drawing a boundary with him.

I am a recovering codependent. Finding myself in friendships like this are dangerous. I will attempt to fix him. I will worry over his problems as much as my own. I will do whatever to appease him, so he will be happy. I will make myself his source of happiness, which is unhealthy. Recognizing my own tendencies, I drew a boundary.

His response was to for me to have a good life.

I tried to relay the story to a coworker who is a Christian, and her response was, “Maybe he needs a friend now more than ever before!” I understand her religious thinking, as if I could help “save” him by loving him the way Jesus loves us. I felt a tinge of guilt, followed by frustration that she doesn’t see the big picture. You cannot help someone who doesn’t want help.

So I had a good cry and I let go of the friend. I think of him daily. But I believe one day our friendship will return. I hope so.

P.S.

I don't cry at movies very often. My ex-husband used to joke that I was hard hearted at movies, while he would bawl. I'm not one of those stoic, emotionless people who are not easily moved. Actually, I'm very easily moved. But a movie is an escape for me, and although I lose myself in it, I alse separate myself from it. I've cried at Titanic (just a few tears, nothing major), but I have all out bawled at The Piano and My Life (with Michael Keaton). Usually people think I'm crazy to cry at those two movies, but I literally sobbed at those movies, gasping for breath.

Tonight, I was at a friend's house and we watched "P.S. I Love You". Yeah, I cried. I nearly teared up several times in the movie, but the point where I really lost it is when she realized. . . . . .she was alone indefinitely. That was the moment when she finally accepted the loss of her husband and the reality of moving on without any help. That was also the time that she said, "I promised I would never let a man hurt me again."

I remember in my divorce, realizing that I was alone IN a marriage. But then when we physically parted ways, the loneliness was overwhelming. The silence was deafening, and the hurt was numbing. I mean, how was I supposed to move on? My parents hadn't divorced. My sister hadn't divorced. I had no idea how to cope. And just as in the movie, I had been hurt before. I had been in an abusive relationship, and after that I swore no man would ever hurt me again. And yet, I trusted again and it all crumbled on me.

And so, this movie touched my heart. I felt like I was reliving that void--a void that is still there today, but that isn't raw anymore. I had to learn to be strong by myself. I had to learn to get out of bed each day, anyway. I had to learn to exist in a way I never wanted. I still don't like to be at home all alone, but that's what my dogs are for.

I hurt for anyone experiencing this pain, but life does get better. Trust me. And I think I need to go to Ireland to find me a hottie musician with an accent. . . . .

The hardest prayer

My mom started having my cousin Jane stay with us some weekends when she was quite young. She is 7 years younger than I, and she was always a nuisance. A redheaded, freckle-faced, stinky, disheveled, wild child. We loathed those weekends, because she purposely pushed our buttons. Jane’s mom is my mother’s youngest sister. Aunt Diane held a job and paid her bills, but she was always a little . . . slow, emotionally. She has married 4 different men, all of whom deserve a padded cell in a psycho ward. Jane was always second to everyone else. My mom’s reasoning for having Jane over was, “This is the only stable place she ever goes. She needs to know that she can have more in life. Maybe we can give her hope.” When it was revealed that Jane had been sexually abused by one of her stepfathers, we were shocked and sickened. Some of her unusual behaviors suddenly made sense.

Jane finally married when she was the ripe old age of 16—with her mother’s blessing. The church they married in was forever dubbed the “Church of the Circus People” in our minds. My family flinched at the little people, the hobblers, the amputees, and the greasy masses. There was an extraordinary number of deformed people in that church. Jane cried with joy the entire wedding. The reception included a delicate blend of tuna fish sandwich quarters and pimiento sandwich quarters. It was a redneck shotgun wedding. We all expected to see a bulging belly protruding from Jane at any moment. Why else would she marry so young? Well, we were wrong. She had not been pregnant, and did not become pregnant in her 12 year marriage. She was simply ready to be important to someone.

Jane is now 30. She is divorced from her abusive, controlling husband. She is the adult in her relationship with her mother. She worked for 9 years at the same place, until recently (laid off). She didn’t flee her marriage to live with her mother and her newest stepdad—she found herself an apartment.

I met her for a drink and to listen to some music one night a few weeks ago. We talked, laughed, and discussed her dreams. She is barely scraping by and looking for work, but she is going to a technical college. She has dated, and already ended a relationship because she knew she deserved better. She is . . . . a beautiful, strong, independent woman.

I dropped her off at her house after a few hours, and as I drove away, I was overcome with emotion. As I maneuvered the winding roads, I thought of the disheveled child that annoyed us, the wedding that shocked us, and the husband that concerned us. You could not see or predict any of those scenarios when looking at her today. Tears filled my eyes as I thanked God for keeping her safe throughout the marriage. For keeping her sane throughout her childhood. And for giving her the resolve she needed to start over.

I actually prayed one of those really hard prayers. A prayer where your heart cries one thing, and your mind tries to stifle it, knowing you may well regret that prayer. But, after a moment of hesitation, I did it anyway:

“God, give her the desires of her heart. She has overcome so much. Show her your love and your blessings. I will give up the desires of my heart, if it means giving Jane hers. She deserves it more than I do.”

I hesitate to even write that. It’s such a deep, personal, difficult thing to think, worse to utter, and nearly impossible to write. When it is written, it is proof. I did it. Maybe God wouldn’t withhold my desires over a goofy prayer. But the reality is, I thought it, I voiced it, I wrote it. It is a plea from my heart to God.

Following that prayer, I texted her: “When u left my car i almost cried. U have overcome so much, and become a vibrant, beautiful, intelligent woman. So many prayers have been sent your way thru the years. I am proud to be your cousin.”

The following day, she responded via text: “Just wanted to tell u that I love u…you made me feel so good after your text ya sent me last night. I now know people see how proud I am of myself too.”



.

Letting Go

Years ago, I was in my mid twenties, and a coworker, Karen, was in her late 30’s. We became friends, and one day I asked if she ever served jail time, expecting her to say no. “Well, yes, I have. Remember how I told you I don’t have kids? I lied. I have 2 sons.”

And she began a harrowing tale of marrying into a very wealthy and very controlling family in Kentucky. After years of emotional abuse, and fearing for the future of her sons (and after hearing of sexual abuse that the youngest had endured), she filed for divorce. She had not worked outside of the home, so she had limited financial means to fight for her freedom and her boys. A very nasty legal battle ensued that was devastating. In the end, she had no proof of abuse, was labeled emotionally unfit, and lost custody of her boys. She was awarded limited visitation. Fearing for her boys, she visited them one day and fled with them. She took them to Kansas, where she had them for a few months before being found. She served 90 days in jail, and lost all parental rights.

Her boys contacted her a few times on the sly, but Karen was informed that they were severely punished when caught, and they stopped trying to reach her at all. Out of fear for them, she didn't attempt to contact them.

“When people ask me if I have children, I tell them no. They wouldn’t understand how I can let go of my children. People assume I was an unfit mother or I was doing something illegal. But I let go of them because I didn’t have a choice. I did all I knew to do, short of killing their father.” She had tears running down her face by now.

She hoped eventually they would understand that she fought for them. She started over in Oklahoma and earned a degree from OU. She had to move on, in case they did find her one day. At that time, she had no contact with them for years, and the oldest was nearing adulthood.

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I have never had to let go of anything that serious. I have had to let go of a marriage, along with many relationships and careers. I usually stayed in them much longer than I should have. I don’t let go easily of things I care about. But I’ve done it enough I should be a pro at it by now.

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about letting go of some things once and for all, and Karen came to mind. I had let go of these things previously--or so I thought. But the desire for a husband and a child, along with other things, have continued to bother me periodically. Apparently, I've continued to secretly hope for them. If my friend can let go of such a huge part of herself, I can let go of these small things in my heart. Her desires were tangible--they were human, and she had once held them in her arms. Mine are mostly intangible, and only ideas and dreams.

I have held onto them for so long that letting go isn’t easy. It’s going to be a long process. But I have to do it, before bitterness becomes a permanent part of who I am. I don't want to be bitter, but I am. I hate to say, "Stop dreaming" or "give up hope". But for my own peace, I believe I need to do just that. I need to live in the now, because tomorrow is too uncertain.

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As an end to this story, Karen contacted me again a few years later. Her oldest son had found her through the internet while serving in Afghanistan. He then paved the way for her to obtain custody of her youngest son, since he was a witness to abuses in the home and was now willing to go public with it. The last I spoke with her, she had remarried, and her sons were with her.