Shuffling

I hear him before I see him.  This has been the norm for awhile.  The shuffling of his feet as he moves from one room to another.  

"Pick up your feet, dad!"  I yell from the bedroom.  

He suddenly makes deliberate, stomping sounds as he moves closer to my voice.  Responding loudly to my commands, "Ok!  I am marching!" I can't help but laugh and remark about him marching like the military man he once was.  He arrives in the doorway and looks around his room.  He is watching me as I strip the sheets from my parent's queen size bed.   

I glance at him and can't help but feel the wave of sadness that has grown all too familiar.  He is looking at me with eyes of confusion.  He knows I am somebody, but can't place how we go together.  I push the sadness to the side and say, "You wanna help?"  He begins to shuffle towards the bed and takes a corner edge of the sheet and begins the arduous process of  wrestling with tight sheets.  After securing the other three corners, I return and praise him for holding it down for me so that I am able to finish the task.    

As we are finishing the bed with their quilt, he asks me where I went to college.  I remind him it was Union University.  He asks if I enjoyed my time there.   On the surface, the is a simple conversation between a father and his daughter, but the reality that he frequently doesn't know who I am or where I went to school is not lost on me.  Often,  I am a nice girl who helps change sheets and refills his ice water when it's empty.  I gently remind him that he is my father and I thank him for helping support me so I could go to school.  He smiles and responds, "I bet your parents are proud of you."  

I turn to hug him.  Thank him for being a good father and say, "I hope they are proud of me."  

He smiles and shuffles his way out of the room.  

"Pick up your feet, dad!"  

Slipping through my fingers

The kids and I were decorating the Christmas tree after turkey day.  The questions abound regarding where they came from, who made it, and whose turn it is to put it on the tree this year.  There are four ornaments that are very special and they all know it.  They are these beautiful and very colorful glass like ornaments of a space ship and a ray gun.  They were given to us by my good friend Richard because he knew the boy's nursery was a rocketship theme from Target.  Two for Thomas and two for James.

When we lived in a house with carpet, I would let the kids put them on the tree and usually I would move them closer to the top to keep prying fingers away from it.  The boys want to play with any type of gun and a ray gun would be AWESOME (they get it from their daddy) When we pull them out of the ornament box there is usually a moment of reverence because we all feel and know how special they are for our family.  Usually someone says that Thomas would have loved his ornaments and that we all miss him.  

This home has all hardwood floors, so I have the privilege of placing those beautiful ornaments on our tree.  And it was like slow motion.  I am hanging Thomas' spaceship on a limb and it slipped from my fingers.  I tried to catch it and I watch it hit the unforgiving floor and shatter into a thousand pieces.  

I was frozen.  I couldn't believe it.  I was hit with such grief that it shocked my system.  As John is coming to help me; I am crying and repeatedly saying to John, "I tried to catch it.  I tried to stop it.  It just slipped through my fingers.  I don't know what happened.  I tried.  I am so sorry.  It's gone."  

As I uttered those words, my brain and body immediately transport me back to 2010.  It's like it was yesterday.  I can see my baby's little body hooked up to more machines than I thought was possible.  He was swollen to over twice the size he was when we walked into Vandy's ER. I can see his open chest wound and the Berlin heart attached to it.  The smell of blood is a constant.  I hear the beeping sounds of machines that are constantly working.   The hushed chatter at the nurses station.  And the all too familiar feeling that I carried in my throat and chest those weeks in the NICU and PICU.  

I felt it when his ornament broke.  I couldn't swallow.  I couldn't breathe.  Especially, that last week of his life, I remember that I was trying to hold on to Thomas so tight.  The feelings of despair and hope were interchangeable, but I could feel him slipping away.  Every day, the treatment options were diminishing.  Every day was more bad news.  I would lean into his ear to whisper encouragement, prayers, hope for his future.  "Please Thomas.  Everybody is praying.  Just hold on.  We are going to bring you home. " 

Then on December 10th, it became clear that we were unable to hold on any longer.  We made the choice to let go.  His life slipped away and it was all in slow motion after those initial moments.  

And here we are.  December 10th, 2020.  My son has been dead for 10 years.  How is that possible?  

In 10 years, I feel like I have learned so much about grief and love and fear and life.  Yet, I am acutely aware that I am still in my infancy when it comes to life knowledge.  Grief is complicated and constant.  

On days like today, I have two options.  I can think about all the things I didn't get an opportunity to know about him.  OR, I can remember the few stories I have and what I feel I know about him in our 15 weeks together as mother and son.  But remember, I also carried that baby for 6 months, so we had lots of talks back then as well.  (one sided of course!)

Thomas Harris McGregor was Twin A.  He kick started that labor and the doctors kept saying that he was anxious to get into the world with me and John.  I think he would have been an early riser and want to show up for appointments ON TIME.  (unlike his daddy, more like me)   He had blond hair, so he would have been tow headed like his daddy was when he was a little boy.  Thomas weighed 4 pounds and 4 ounces at birth.  The NICU nurses said he was a GIANT for a baby to be born at 30 weeks.  Might have been a football player.  Compared to James, he appeared to be more on the serious side.  He had more complications in the NICU and kept us on our toes with different issues.  He contracted MRSA first and we had a helluva time keeping an IV in him.  My favorite and yet least favorite was when they had to put it in his head because he kept messing with the others.  Finally, he was absolutely beautiful.  For sure, could have been a part time model.  

Thomas-

I miss you son. I know that you know this, but I feel like I say it to you all of the time.  We really did all that we knew to do for you.  A day doesn't go by that I don't think of you.  You are never far from James' thoughts.  I am sure the last 10 years for you have a been a blink of an eye.  Not quite the same for us Earthside, but we are doing the best we can.  I am sorry I broke your ornament.  

Love,

Mama

10 years

As I'm sitting here, watching my almost 10 year old Ripstick around the kitchen island with ease,  I'm thinking about what I was doing 10 years ago this night.  It was a Friday night and it had been a very, long week at the hospital.  By the end of each day, my back was hurting and my feet were swollen.  Under doctor's orders, I spent every evening laying on the couch watching whatever movie 4 year old Alana would watch.  This was the beginning of her Netflix addiction. Those twin boys I was carrying were growing and getting heavier every day.  I was keenly grateful and thanked God for each day that my body was able to house them and keep them safe.  

Little did I know that within 24 hours our lives would never be the same.  Thomas Harris (Twin A) was tired of his cramped quarters and ready for the big world. Those contractions started gently on Saturday morning and didn't let up until he was born after 7pm that night.  James, on the other hand, was not ready to leave.  He was nestled high, labeled as Twin B in the transverse position refusing to to make his appearance without a little help.  

August 28th, 2010 was one of the most frightening days of my life.  I've written about it before, so if you can go back to any blog posts around August 28th in the last 10 years,  I have written the gory details of the day.  I will admit that it was traumatic.  I can close my eyes, remembering, and my heart pounds a little harder, that feeling of dread seeps through my pores, and the fear I felt will be clear as day.  

I frequently wonder how life would be different had Thomas lived.  How would he and James be together?  Would James have taken on a more big brother role because Thomas would have had chronic health issues?  It can be quite the rabbit hole for this grieving mama's brain, but I do wonder.

10 years.  It feels like it was yesterday, yet forever ago. Double digits.  

My 3 pound 9 ounce baby boy will be 10 years old tomorrow.  I won't say his weight, but he is a stout dude. :)

Here's a little walk down memory lane with some of my favorite images of James (and with his brother). . . . 

                                                                     Sweet baby James

                                                                               4th birthday

                                                    He loves to release balloons for his brother.

                                                        This picture still makes me giggle.

                                                              

I have said it before and I will say til my last breath.  It was my privilege to be the mother of Thomas, those 30 weeks of pregnancy and 15 weeks Earthside.  Happy heavenly birthday son.  I have no idea what you would have been like, but I know you would fit right in with the rest of us crazy McGregor's.  

It is an honor to watch you grow, James.  You started out behind the 8 ball as a tiny preemie with many delays and struggles those early years.  You were in Speech and Occupational therapy until you were three years old.  Your first cupcake was with your speech therapist because you had ongoing issues with swallowing.  We saw you choke on food on several occasions.  We thought we would lose you during a particularly bad bout of croup.  I know you miss your brother and there is a hole in your heart that we cannot fill.  But I am confident that the work you are doing now will serve you well into the young man you are growing into.  I do not know what your future holds, but please know I am probably your biggest fan  (except maybe Daddy) and always want a front row seat.

Happy birthday, boys.  

                                                                        Mother's Day 2020

Muscle Memories

I am sitting in a hard back recliner, listening to the random noises that hospital rooms make, and glance over to see the blondish messy bun peeking through the hospital bed handrail.  This room is unfamiliar to me, yet when I walked inside the very first time, there was a sense that I had been here before.  Maybe not this particular room, but there is a familiarity with hospital spaces.

On Monday, Alana had a spinal fusion to correct the scoliosis in her spine.  They straightened T9-L3.  I had no idea what that would look like, but she is now the proud owner of a 12 inch scar down the middle of her back. 

As all hospital stays tend to be, it's been a roller coaster ride of highs and lows.  Physical therapy has worked with Alana daily to teach her how to care for this new and improved spine.  PT reminded me of the term 'muscle memory.'  The muscles were comfortable being squished in some parts and abnormally stretched in others due to the curvature. The surgery corrected the abnormalities and it is going to take weeks and even months to train the muscles into their new, corrected positions.  The process of re-training the brain and muscles is a challenging one. Muscle memory has to be replaced by new memories, but that process is often painful, uncomfortable, and unfamiliar. 

As I was thinking about this muscle memory concept, I realize I am struggling with 'muscle memory' of my own.  The doc I see for anxiety and depression tells me that I have PTSD from Thomas' hospitalization and death.  From all I have learned about PTSD, it's fairly common for parents who have had sick and/or deceased children. I honestly thought that PTSD was mostly reserved for war veterans and victims of violence/abuse.  My ignorance. 

My time leading up to this week and the past four days have been filled with what I am affectionately calling the Trifecta;  fear, dread and worry.  Honestly, these emotions have been building since the day they told us that she would have to be fitted to wear the brace almost 2 years ago.  But this week, it's taken my breath away.  I feel myself sinking.  I feel the fear overwhelm the dusty parts of of my brain.  The anxiety giving my physical symptoms that I struggle to keep in check. 

That muscle memory I carry of defeat and disappointment related to hospitalizations beats louder than the rational thoughts that I know to be true.

But I am not who I was 10 years ago.  I have grown.  I have learned that there are times that I will lean into the Trifecta.  Because those three feelings are legit and JUST FEELINGS.  We cannot erase those muscle memories entirely.  Just like this surgery will not let Alana forget that she had scoliosis.  But we move toward re-training the muscles to make us better.  To make us stronger.  And that is what we focus on despite the familiarity of a hospital room. 

9 years

I was startled awake by my alarm this morning and my mind was transported back to August 28th, 2010.   

9 years.

That morning I was not awakened by an alarm, rather by teeny tiny contractions.  I remember laying there telling myself it must be those pesky braxton hicks and I needed to haul my big belly down to the kitchen and drink a large glass of water.  Probably just a little dehydrated.  Fast forward 12 hours and two special little boys were brought into this world like wild tornadoes.  

Twin A:  blonde haired, blue eyed cone head Thomas Harris.  At 4 pounds 4 ounces, he appeared to be the eager one.  He was ready to start his life in this great big world.  Due to the c-section blue surgical wall, I couldn't see Thomas, but I heard this little sound when he was delivered.  Reminded me of a baby lamb.  A small whimper drowned out by the NICU team that whisked him away and furiously worked to stabilize his little body.  

Twin B:  brown headed, blue eyed James Duke.  At 3 pounds 9 ounces, he was a bit harder to bring into the world.  That boy was tucked very comfortably up near his mama's heart.  Nowhere near ready to make his grand entrance.  I'll never forget the silence when they announced his arrival.  He wasn't pink and he wasn't breathing.  NICU team 2 worked tirelessly to breathe life into this sweet bundle.  

9 years.  

After Thomas died, I spent many hours sitting in the yellow rocker I had bought for their room.  It has small white stars to match their spaceship themed room.  I cared so much about what that room was going to look like.  Never occurred to me that I wouldn't have two little boys to rock in that space.  As I rocked away, James was nestled in my arms sleeping.  Hot tears streaming down my face as I would ask God the same questions over and over and over.  How was I supposed to raise only one twin?  What was I supposed to say to James about his dead brother?   What if James hated God and doubted like me?    Why? Why? Why?

9 years.

I don't really ask why anymore.  I have learned that I'm not going to get that answer this side of heaven.  I feel like we are learning a little bit more every day how to rear children who grieve.  But, as all good parents, as soon as I have a bit of confidence, said child will do something that isn't 'typical grief' and leave us humbled and questioning.  

I glance over at the boy who is moving toward being a young man.  Last year in single digits. James Duke, the brown headed preemie that came into the world silent and whose milestones were delayed his first three years.  You wouldn't know looking at him now that he had so many challenges and we not only celebrated his 1st birthday because he turned one, but because we truly felt grateful that he was still alive.   

To know James is a blessing to those around him.  He has a very sensitive spirit and is in tune with the pain and discomfort of those he comes in contact with.  He can be quick tempered, but is slowly recognizing it and making progress toward managing that anger.  He is gifted in math, can build anything you want out of Legos, and loves to help cook/bake.  James has a confidence about his appearance.  Is that a nice way to say he knows he is good looking?  He loves Jesus and has a strong sense of justice.

Happy 9th birthday James.  I have no idea what your future holds.  Whatever it looks like, I see your faith in God carrying you through any of the challenges that life may throw at you.  

Happy heavenly 9th birthday Thomas.  Your brother has been saying that Sterling was sent to heaven to be your dog now.  Sounds nice to me.  She's a good one to keep you company til I get there.  Your presence is missed here on Earth. 

He knows he is a handsome dude.

#sweetsterlingpearl

I decided I wanted you before April 2015.  I was working on John to agree to you.  I guess it took about three months.  He had lots of excuses that we weren't ready for the responsibility.  We had three kids.  A house to run.  Jobs to go to.  Nobody was going to have time for you.  I didn't even want you until that Spring.  By April, Auntie Kacy sent me a picture of your litter.  Old FB friend needed to find homes for silver puppies.  Lab boxer mix was your breed, from what we were told.  (Remember that shocking blog post!?)  

You are now 4 years and 4 months old.  It's hard to imagine what life would be without you.  But, here we are.  Sterling, you have metastatic cancer.  We received the results about a week after your surgery.  Doc thought we would have 4-6 months.  I cried and grieved, but felt comforted that we had a little bit more time.  

End of last week we noticed something on your bottom.  The tumor had returned.  It is growing even faster.  Our time together is coming to an end and I am broken.  It was only 4 years and 4 months.  You have walked with me through some tough times #sweetsterlingpearl.  You would sit with me as I was practicing my meditations.  You rode with me on errands when I was working part time and LOVED the drop off line for school in the morning.  

You are loved #sweetsterlingpearl.  When the Doggie Llama came to train me at our house, he asked me what my goals were for you.  

I wanted you to be the "Champion for Pitbulls.'  Take away some of the fear and misgivings folks have about your breed.  You are loving, gentle, and my most secretive confidant.  

You will be missed by the McGregor clan and anyone who met you. Friday is her home going day.  I don't know if dogs go to heaven, but I like to think they do.  

Perfected the RBF.

The day after we got you.

The day you played Rudolph. (and secretly loved it)

The day I fell in love.

  

Choose your Own Adventure

When I was a kid, I was a huge reader.  Some of my favorite books were from the 'Choose Your Own Adventure' genre.  Remember those?  You would read and come to a part where you had to decide what to do and the book could potentially have a dozen different outcomes.  I'm pretty sure that 99% of the time, I chose whatever the 'safest' next steps appeared to be.  That's me in a nutshell.

The least adventurous person you have ever met.  My list of things that 'Janna has never done and would never choose to do' is much longer than my list of things that 'Janna chose or was forced to do by circumstance.'  

I wouldn't say I am boring.  I would just say I am predictable.  Safe.  I prefer what is comfortable over anything that makes my stomach jump or cringe.

Tonight, that ol' stomach of mine is cringing.  It is the eve before my 'next adventure.'  I turned in my notice at the hospital a couple of weeks ago and secured a new job at a local dialysis clinic.  As I walked over to my supervisor's office, shaky legged and sweaty palmed, I had that feeling that I was standing at a crossroads.  Most of my friends my age have already had several jobs under their belts.  I bet those people like roller coasters and zip lines.  

Not me.  I really thought I would probably retire from the hospital.  Both of my parents worked at their jobs for 30+ years and then retired.  I don't like roller coasters, zip lines, or any type of change really.  

But it had become clear that a change was in order.  But what was keeping me was mostly fear and my constant need to feel comfortable. 

Even thought it was a very difficult decision, I do feel like I chose the hard thing, but also the right thing for me and the whole McGregor clan.  I am about to turn the page in my own adventure book.  Nothing like uncertainty to keep you humble.  

"Will they like me?"  "Can I learn all of this new information?"  "How do I answer the 'how many kids do you have? question?"  "I wonder where the bathrooms will be."  These are just a few of the million questions that are on repeat in my head.  

It'll be fine.  That's what I keep telling myself.  

I already miss my work friends and that feeling of being 'known.'  But there is something to be said for fresh starts, new memories, and creating the best version of Janna with new people.  I will fail and they will see my wounds eventually, but for now, I am choosing to be the Janna that likes change.

(that badge picture was taken the week before I started in 2006.  I had not fixed my hair and would have NEVER chosen that shirt had I known a badge picture would be taken.  I just went by to sign some paperwork and it turned into 12 1/2 years of an ugly badge photo!)

  

Alana's Story, Part 2

**This is part 2 of Alana's scoliosis story.  Please click here to go back to part 1.  Thank you to all who sent encouragement and prayers since I posted last week.  They have been felt." **

I am sitting next to Alana on the table in the doctor's office when Dr. K tells us that her spine is at a 44 degree curve and she will have to wear a hard back brace until she stops growing.  Dr. K explained that many girls who have curves over 50 degrees opt for an extensive back surgery that will place metal rods in her back to straighten the curve. He advised that they always want to try bracing before any kind of surgery.  I hear him say that she will need to be fitted for the brace that very afternoon.  John had to go back to work for an inspection, so it was just the two of us.

I remember the day I was diagnosed and my parents took me to a restaurant near Vanderbilt while I waited for my appointment to be fitted.  My parent's did the best they could, but much of that day was filled with sadness and fear.  There was so much unknown to us about scoliosis, braces, back surgery, etc. 

As a 40 year old who is well versed in scoliosis and because I KNEW what to expect, I decided then and there, that I wanted Alana's experience to be different. 

As we leave Dr. K's office, I said to Alana, "You will remember parts of this day for the rest of your life.  You pick the restaurant.  We are going to take silly selfies.  We are going to distract ourselves for the next couple of hours until we have to go to the brace shop.  Where do you want to eat?"

She sat quietly in the front seat and I hear Alana say, "I heard it's National Taco Day.  Let's eat tacos!!"  Good days or bad days....it's always a right day for tacos.

Alana and I do a great job bringing out the crazy in each other.  I may have danced toward our table while serving her salsa.  I may have talked to strangers in weird ways to keep her laughing.  As a parent, I feel it is my job to validate the hard stuff, but also soften the blow to the best of my ability.   I couldn't change what was happening around us, but I for sure saw it as my personal challenge to lighten the mood as we walk toward unwanted territory.  

We leave Moe's and head to the brace shop.  It's housed in a medical building and has a very small waiting room.  The receptionist with kind eyes greets us warmly and was told we were coming.  I am filling out all of the insurance paperwork while Alana is handed two pieces of paper with about 25 different colored back braces on it.  The receptionist asked her to look at the papers and 'pick a color.'  

"MOM!!  You didn't tell me I could pick a color!!  What color was yours?!"

I look up at her evenly and said, "In the olden days, they only had one color.  White with white straps."  She picked an 'ocean' colored brace.

The receptionist asks me questions about my brace, who my doctor was, etc.  After a few minutes of talking, we came to the conclusion that we are 99% sure that Keith, the brace guy is the one who braced me as a child.  He did all of Dr. Green's patients and was early in his career in the late 80's and early 90's.  You could have knocked me over with a feather.  He walks  down the hallway with a soft smile.

He asked me if I recognized him and I replied with a twinkle in my eye, "Well, I remember a young guy fitting me for the brace." Haha.  We all had a good laugh.  He didn't recognize me either, so we were even.  :)

In my childhood experience, they used strips of cloths and plaster of paris directly on the body to make a mold of the curve.  From that mold, he made the brace that fit my specific body.  I will be happy to talk to anyone in person about that experience, but I won't give any more details here.  Just know that for a 6th grade modest girl, it was embarrassing and something I will never forget.

I had prepped Alana about this process over cheese dip.  We both gave huge sighs of relief when Keith told us the process changed about 5 years ago.  They now measure the body in many different areas, put measurements in a specialized computer program, and it tells him how to make the brace.  

Prior to leaving, we book the date to pick up the brace.  October 31st.  It was about a 3 week wait.  

Alana-you went through about every emotion imaginable in those 3 weeks.  But through it all, you rested on your faith and the fact that you are not alone.  Jesus and family got your back!!  Literally and figuratively.  

Part 3 to come.  

Alana's Story, Part 1

**This post is written with Alana's permission.  She asked me if I was going to blog about her #newnormal and I left it up to her.  Ultimately, she asked me to write about it.  She has read through the last 8 years of my small piece of the blogging world and indicated that she likes to read and remember how God has moved through our lives.  I can't write it all in one post.  It'll be over the next week or so.  I'll catch you up about our last month.**

Future 15 year old Alana.....21 year old Alana.......30 year old Alana....50 year old Alana.... this post is for you.

I pick her up early from school.  It's the day to visit our favorite pediatrician for our annual checkup.  Alana is 5 feet 7 1/2 inches tall.  Healthy as a horse.  Toward the end of our visit, she is instructed to bend over to touch her toes, so that the doctor can evaluate that beautiful spine of my daughter's.  Two years ago she was diagnosed with mild scoliosis (curvature of the spine), it was confirmed with a spinal xray and we were told we would 'watch it.'

I see Dr. Amis eye me as I watch her run her fingers down Alana's back.  She knows my history.  We were sent next door for a spinal xray to "just to get an accurate look at the spine."

I have been here before.  As a young girl, I remember bending over and feeling the doctor's fingers trace the curve in my spine.  I remember the feel of the pen making pen marks to show my mother that it curves in the shape of the letter S.  I remember the cold of the xray room.

As I sit in the waiting room for my own daughter, I feel the bile in my throat, the racing of my heart in my chest.  My thoughts swirl in half prayer, half begging words, "God no.  I have begged.  I have pleaded.  Please spare Alana from this diagnosis.  Spare her from a back brace."

Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.

Several days later, my cellphone rings and I hear a nurse say, "Ms. McGregor, the doctor wants Alana to see a spine specialist.  It looks worse."  The word 'worse' echos in my ears.  I want to know how bad it is.  Can you tell me what the degree of the curve is?  "No ma'am.  The m specialist will go over all of that with you."

Reality is, I already knew.  I may not have known the exact number, but I knew that this the was the path we were walking toward when she bent over to reach toward her toes.  I could see the 'S' curve.  And clearly, I'm not a doctor.

Fast forward another week.  Another large waiting room.  Another xray for better pictures.  Xray of her wrist to guesstimate how much longer she will continue to grow.  Back to wait in a small room.  Her daddy and I try to distract with small talk.  Hushed, reassuring tones.

I have been here before.  Sitting between my parents in a chilly doctor's office.  I remember the feeling of not knowing what is happening and feeling unsure every time I heard the word scoliosis.    A short, older gentleman walks in.  Dr. Greene was the best of the best at Vandy for children's spinal issues.  In my 6th grade mind, he is gentle, yet firm, and as most docs seemed to be, kind of scary.

Back to Alana.....We watch a tall, gray haired man in a long lab coat with a dry sense of humor walk in to greet us.  He recognizes us.  I have jokingly said that we put deck on the back of his house with all of our payments with James' broken leg, Alana's fractured wrist, and broken finger over the last 5 years.  Dr. K is the best children's spine surgeon in our area.  He lays out the xrays and tells us what we already know.

Alana's scoliosis has progressed to an almost 'severe' level.  Her lower curve is 44 degrees.  The upper curve is 30 degrees.  Treatment is a hard back brace until she stops growing.  I cannot stop them.  The tears fall from my eyes.

Scoliosis.  Almost 30 years later, the treatment is the same.  Hard back brace or surgery.  Surgery is a last result.  Surgery is for when the spine is affecting her vital organs, or her gait, or her posture.  "Consistent wearing of the brace can slow the curving of the spine,"  is what I hear from Dr. K.

That's all I will write for tonight. This has been an emotional 6 weeks for all of us and 5am is going to come early for me.  I was diagnosed with scoliosis in my 6th grade year and wore the brace 23 hours a day until the summer before my 9th grade.  I would not choose this path for Alana, although we often do not get to choose our path.  We DO get to choose how we face the path placed before us. 

To be continued.......

Reframing

I was talking to a friend of mine a couple of weeks ago and we were discussing the art of 'reframing.' This is a technique I have learned in my social work career over the years.

Per the Interwebs:

Reframing is a technique used in theapy to help create a different way of looking at a situation, person, or relationship by changing its meaning.  Also referred to as cognitive reframing, it's a strategy therapists often used to help clients look at situations from a slightly different perspective.

I have found that in my life, reframing works well when change is a coming'.  Let's be honest, it takes me awhile to get to the stage of healthy reframing.  I prefer to initially face any change with anger, grief, bitterness, and my favorite life view....denial.

Over the last few months it became clear that I was going to need to return to work full time.  I knew a new floor was opening at the hospital and a new position would be available.  After much denial, anger, and eventual reframing, a date was set.

I start tomorrow.  The new floor officially opens in October, but there is work to be done and I am grateful to ease back into a five day a week schedule by floating and assisting my co-workers until then. 

I have lovingly been calling September 17th D-day.

When I went part time in March of 2015.  I was burned out.  Like WAY out.  We were day care broke with 2 in full time day care and Alana in before/after care.  I felt like I was missing out on experiences with the kids and I have loved (almost) every moment of my part time life.  Not sure how we would have moved to the farm in 2016 if I hadn't been part time.  No way I could have taken the kids on beach adventures by myself for the last three summers if I hadn't been part time.  I had NEVER been to the zoo on a weekday before I went part time.

Great, now I am crying as I am typing.

We are where we are and lots of good things will happen as I move back into this position.  Rebuild some saving, health insurance costs will go down, and John will be able to focus on building his home inspection business with less stress.  First year of being a business owner is no joke.  I am proud of all that he has accomplished and as he continues to grow this business, but the time has come for me to pull more weight on the financial side.

Of course, that means he will have to pull more weight in other areas of family life and the house, but we will figure it out.  I am sure he is doing his own reframing of that reality.  :)

The #socialworklyfe is not an easy career.  I know there are lots of hard jobs out there, I've watched the show Dirty Jobs.  Our job can be emotionally taxing and mentally exhausting as we problem solve, support, and sometime have nothing to offer as a solution to patients/families in crisis.  I know that I do a good job, but there is a certain level that I cannot care so much because by the time I get home, my children get what I affectionally call, "leftover Janna."  Poor John.  He gets "trash receptacle Janna."

That's where better boundaries come into play.  I give you permission to check on me in a month to make sure I am not working over every night and I am being mentally healthy.

This was me and the boys my very first Monday off with them.

At the time, I had no idea how much I needed the last three years.  I am grateful for the time I had with the boys before they started school.  For the time I have had with Alana as she is racing toward teenagehood.  John has been an amazing provider and it's overwhelming how hard he works for our family.  He has always been encouraging with every memory I have tried to make with the kids and he has pushed me toward doing better about my own self care.

When I look at all of my jobs and side hustles, the job of MOM is my favorite.