The Gift of Life

So I was sitting in Relief Society (for those not in the know, that is one hour in our 3 hour block of church where the women folk meet) a few Sundays ago perusing through the various sign up sheets. I was having the usual monolog in my head: "Do I want to volunteer for opening or closing prayer? Really? I hate to answer a question with a question, but are you really asking me that?"; "Am I interested in a scrapbooking class? Absolutely nope."; "Would I be willing to volunteer in Primary (kids Sunday school) if needed? HAHAHAHAHAHA..oh wait, they're serious. So nope."; "Can I take a meal to so and so this week? Only if they want to die on top of the hard times they are already suffering, or want pizza"; "Would I like to donate blood at the ward blood drive? Heck no". Oh wait. Donate blood? I've never done that before. Hmm, maybe it would be kind of fun. And so went my thought process until I actually found myself signing my name next to one of the open time slots. I think some otherworldly force temporarily took control of my hand and signed my name. So then I had an appointment...

So the magic day of giving of my own precious bodily fluids arrived, faster than I thought it would, and I actually felt beholden to the promise I made when I signed my name on the sheet. Before I knew it, it was 5:50 and time for me to leave for the place where this donation was to take place. I was nervous before I even left the house. By the time I got there, I was positively pukey with anticipation. If you can believe it, there was actually a line of people willing to do this, so I had to wait about 40 minutes before my number was up...I mean called. While I was waiting I made the mistake of glancing around at the numerous beds which contained people hooked up to tubes that led to clear plastic bags that were in various states of being filled, with blood. Yes, the bags are actually clear. And yes, they actually have the people right out in the open. You know, just to chase off at least 75% of the first timers who show up to "do the right thing". But I didn't run. No sirree, I stayed right where I was. I think my face might have changed to a frightening shade of vampire white though, because a couple of the people I was waiting with asked me if I was okay.

So then my number was called and I was led into a small booth with black sheets all the way around it. Why choose the color black anyway? I mean, it's kind of morbid. But I digress. So there was just enough room for me, a small table with a computer at it, and the nurse who was sitting in front of the computer. She proceeded to ask me all kinds of questions and if I weren't donating blood to some other person which made the questions relevant, I would have been offended. And just for the record, no, I've never had any experimental vaccines, sex with men who have had sex with other men, lived in the UK for 3 months or more between the years of 1986 and 1996, had syphilis, or any other manner of awful sounding conditions. And yes, if you are reading this, I guess I have given away that I do in fact weigh more than 110 pounds. Dang, my secret is out.

So anyway, reading down the list of 1,000,000,001 reasons why a person can not donate blood, I felt sure I would come across something that would disqualify me. Then I would be able to leave with my head held high and a halo over my head anyway because, well, I would have tried. It wouldn't be my fault they didn't want my blood. But alas, I am clean enough for the Red Cross, and there was nothing to disqualify me. Not even my traitorous blood pressure felt like being traitorous. For the first time in my entire life, it was completely normal in a medical situation. Sheesh, how unreliable. So then the nurse did something completely unforgivable in my book...she actually pricked my finger. And it hurt! I nearly shed tears over it but since black sheets don't actually muffle sound, I felt embarrassed and didn't cry. And yes, my iron levels were "excellent". Absolutely, perfectly high. My level was 15, and it only needs to be 12. So I was officially cleared and led to the table like a sacrificial lamb.

I climbed onto the table, making jokes like I usually do when I'm nervous. I tried to make myself comfortable but my feet were slightly above head level and the nurse wouldn't let me cross my legs, so that was a battle lost before I really even began to fight it. Oh yeah, and of course there was the, "Oh my good grief that thing is huge!!" needle they so delicately shoved into my vein after a relaxing betadine bath for my arm. I'm not kidding folks, it is a big needle. It's long, yes, but the most scary part is the girth of the needle. It is made to drain blood, and fast. As soon as they put it in my vein, my blood was flowing like beer at a frat party. Oh yes, let the party begin. It took 7 minutes and 34 seconds to drain away a pint of my blood. And apparently it will take up to 5 weeks for my body to replace those lost red blood cells. That's an awful lot of time for replacing something that took only 7 minutes to give away.

They gave me a sticker, some juice, and a cookie. I felt an awful lot like a kid must feel after they've been to the pediatrician to get shots. The sticker really just doesn't make it feel worth it. Now if they'd given me a sucker, I might have felt differently :). So why did I do it? I'm not sure, really. All I can say is that it really wasn't all that bad (except for that dang finger prick) and I felt pretty normal the next day. And well, I guess I did feel pretty good about myself and my "gift". I think I left the building looking a little like this. But don't worry, it didn't last long...

Differences

I've been thinking lately. And my thoughts have been kind of troubled. I'm sure you might have guessed lately that I've been feeling "down". I hate to burden you with it, but then again, I'm just writing down my thoughts, it's up to you if you allow them to burden you :). I think being a mom is the hardest thing in the world. Every single day I feel like quitting. Like throwing my hands up in the air and saying, "forget it". But you can't do that when you're a mom. You can't quit. It's the one job that you absolutely cannot turn in your letter of resignation. The second that Mr. Sperm was introduced to Miss Egg, I was beholden to the little zygote. And I don't regret it, that joining of DNA that resulted in 2 wonderful children (though not at the same time). But that doesn't mean that I don't doubt myself.

I'm not going to lie to you, I feel like a lousy mom. If my kids grow up to be a couple of Mansens, well, it's not their fault. It's up to me to mold their little minds, to shape the people that they will become. And it is such a burden, trying to make decent human beings. Every day I feel like ultimately, I will fail them. I especially feel like I will fail Young Man. His particular DNA came with a special set of circumstances. If you know Young Man, you know he's different. You'd call him charming, but you'd also call him quirky. He is absolutely unique. He is who he is, which is unlike most of the little kids we come across in our lives. I can appreciate this. But unfortunately, the world we live in and anything "different" often do not mesh. People don't understand Young Man, and to tell you the truth, I do not understand him either.

If you have one of these unique kids, then you know what I'm talking about. You know how I feel. If you don't, well, then you'd probably tell me to just "get over it". I knew from the time he was 2 years old of his differences. And I spent at least 2 years trying to convince myself that it was all in my head. I desperately sought for people to tell me I was nuts, that there was nothing different there. But Young Man didn't speak until he was 3, and then it was this strange kind of echolalia that made the hairs on my arms stand up for quite awhile. Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, he walked up to me one day and literally spoke a complete, complex sentence that was an original thought. His speech therapist was floored. I was elated. He was finally "normal". But you know what, he was still who he was, just with the ability to tell me about it.

I have utterly failed him already because I cannot just accept him the way he is. I struggle every.single.day with my immense guilt and the hate I feel for myself when I get embarrassed at something he does rather that support him. I am his advocate, but here I am hiding under a rock. Have you gathered yet how very painful this is. It is awful. Thankfully he is fine and has not yet felt the sting of the world. But I am shouldering a burden that is going to crush me very soon. And you know the worst part, I feel completely alone. I am wallowing in misery, guilt, and complete confusion, and I am looking for a hand up. Anything. He has trouble socializing with other kids, and unfortunately, he is not given the chance to practice.

I know this sounds bad. Trust me, I know. I guess I hope that someone out there will read this, someone who feels the way I do, and she will not feel alone. She'll know that she's not the only one in the world feeling such terrible things. She'll know she's not the only mother out there that cannot seem to stop mourning the loss of a child she never had. I don't know what it's like to have a "normal" little boy. I don't know what it's like to have a child that other children like to play with and invite to birthday parties. Princess is too young to have really had any of these experiences yet.

You know, I never talk about this. And the few times I've gotten up the guts to mention it, I really only scratch the surface. I cannot fathom the depth of my sadness over this. He is healthy, he is beautiful, he is wonderful and smart. So what is my problem? I cannot help but fear that his will be a life filled with judgement and rejection. And I ache to think of my beautiful little boy feeling desperately alone. So there is one thing I'm working on and it is that he may never, ever think for one second that he is not completely loved and accepted by me. His Mother.

Let's play catch-up...

Folks, I left you on a sad note last I wrote and I do apologize. But as I'm sure you are aware, life just isn't all sunshine, roses, and unicorns. But wouldn't that be great if it were? I mean really, that would rock. My unicorn would be pure white with a pink tail and mane, and of course would have a garland of baby pink roses wrapped around her neck. Oh, and I of course would ride her with no saddle or bridle, she would simply read the subtle movements of my super long, very slim thighs. Oh, no wait, she would read my mind. That's better huh? Our minds would be linked together in some kind of other worldly, Rainbow Brite, virginal kind of way. But hey, like I said, no unicorns. And sometimes we get rain and poopy diapers instead of sunshine and roses. I'm just not perpetually happy all the time but I sure as heck do wish I were.

Just what in the world have we been up to anyway? Well, a whole lot of the same stuff we're always up to. I know, I know, you were expecting exotic travel, stories of hobknobbing with glamorous celebrities, and the spending of copious amounts of money on children's clothing weren't you. Okay, well, I have been up to a little bit of the latter, to my husband's irritation, but the kids sure are lookin' sharp this winter ;). So anyway, I'm just going to post some pics of things we've done lately and sort of leave it at that. Lame, I know. But I promise I'll dazzle you with some super witty and intelligent post at some point in the near future...

We went to Aspen Grove in the mountains where we played a lot of volleyball with the whole extended family, Princess nearly lost a hand to a hungry bear, and Young Man picked his nose and did sweet Kung Fu moves...a lot...


Oh and of course I ran around looking like Bigfoot in my enormous pink sweat shirt and absolutely no make-up, but was still lookin' cute just because of the cute vibes that ooze off of Princess onto whoever happens to be near her...

We've done a lot of playing...


We trick or treated and nearly died of body wide shock from all the sugar we ingested...

Princess suffered the dreaded stomach virus (and the rest of us too!)...

And the kids have become better friends nearly every.single.day.

So that's a little photo fun for ya! I hope you enjoyed it :).

P.S. The husband does exist, I promise! Unfortunately there just happened to be no pictures of him in the computer files I was accessing for this post. I was simply too lazy to go looking around for one with him in it.

Oh wait...here's one. He's holding Princess and her best buddy, cousin E :).

Grief

I've been thinking about suicide. Not about committing it (I promise!) but about suicide in general. Not so long ago one of the people most dear to me in the world committed suicide. He was my brother, my friend, my listener, my family...my Eric. I got a call from my Mom at 7 am and I knew before I even answered the phone that it was going to be terrible news. I'm not a morning person, my Mom knows this, she would never call that early except to deliver a devastating blow. I answered the phone and Mom was crying. Crap. "Oh yeah, this is going to be bad", I thought for a split second before she said, "Eric is dead. He's dead, he killed himself last night". The floor dropped out from under me in an instant. Eric? "Eric who?", I irrationally thought to myself. It was my moment of denial, my precious split second where my mind wouldn't even accept that my brother had killed himself. It was someone else, some other Eric, and not one that I even knew. "He shot himself", was the only other thing my Mom said because shortly thereafter I hung up, and shaking hard turned to Joe and told him the news before I couldn't even speak anymore. I spent the entire day in some state of crying. Either just finishing up a round of tears, just starting one, or right in the middle with my head pounding and my nose flowing. I spent the next day exactly the same way. And I couldn't stop the terrible images in my head. For some reason my imagination would not stop torturing me by playing the whole scenario over and over in my mind.

Terrible questions occurred to me, questions I would never ask and I was sure that I did NOT want to know. "Did it hurt? Was it instant? Was he crying? Was he at peace with his decision?" Awful things that I'll never know and I'm sure I'm better off for it. That day Eric removed himself from my world, from our world. And it was violent, tragic, and just plain unacceptable. What do you do when one of the people you love most in the world actually puts a gun to his chest and pulls the trigger? I'll tell you, you spend countless days, weeks, then months feeling just fine one minute and then having it come and bite you in the arse while you're driving to the grocery store. I have arrived at many destinations in tears because of a song on the radio, on my iPod, something I've seen that jogs the sleeping monster in my head back into awareness, and I must sit in my car until I feel calm again. It's a sad existence. I was pushed into a very dark place that day my Mom gave me the news, and I have so far been unable to fully come back from it.

I went home to Texas for his funeral last February. And the whole experience felt like it was happening to someone else. I felt sort of detached from everything. At his viewing I couldn't bear to look at him or touch him. I spent the entire 2 or 3 hours standing as far from his coffin as I could and averting my eyes when I was forced to stand near him. I hate to cry in front of other people and I knew that if I saw more of him than an accidental glance afforded, that I would break down into a sobbing mess. I haven't been back to Texas since. And that is unusual. I generally visit several times per year. I'm going back for the first time since Eric died this December, and I'm absolutely dreading it. I'm mad at Texas for even continuing to exist without Eric there too. I'm afraid everything will look and feel different being there and knowing that he's not breathing the same star-spangled air as I am. Only 1/3 of Eric is still even in Texas. He was cremated and his biological mother took 1/3 back to Virginia, while his wife planned to scatter 1/3 of him in the ocean, and my Mom, Eric's beloved adopted Mom, took the other 1/3 to hold for safe keeping. Just until Eric's wife decides what to do with the rest.

There were so many things I loved about Eric. And I loved him so much, so many of us did. My senior year I had a guy ask me to prom and I said "yes". I got a dress, made an appointment to have my hair and makeup done professionally, and got myself all excited. Just a couple of days before the prom my date had bad news. He couldn't go anymore, but he was really sorry. I guess he had gotten himself into some kind of trouble and his parents wouldn't allow him to go anymore. I was so upset, as you can probably imagine. My Mom told Eric what had happened, and guess what he did. He rented a tuxedo the day of the prom and he took me himself. No one knew he was my brother because he was quite a bit older and never went to my highschool, and we looked nothing alike because we weren't biologically related. So everyone thought I brought a really cool, older guy to the prom. That's just the kind of guy he was.

I'm sorry to be a downer, but it's on my mind. Eric left behind a sweet wife and a wonderful son. He left behind my other brother, who was his best friend in the world. And he left me behind, something I haven't quite forgiven him for. Why do people do things like this, you ask? I think you might as well ask what the purpose of life is, for all the clarity you'll get in answer. When you boil everything down and stop asking questions that really have no answers, you're left with a hole. A big, gaping hole that is filled with nothing but the substanceless feelings of remorse, sorrow, and how much you miss him.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find a bucket of ice cream...