Luanne had a great post the other day, I encourage you to take a minute to go over to her blog and read it before you finish reading this. It came at a perfect time for me and though at first it appears to be about a horse (Big Brown) and a jockey (Kent Desormeaux), there's so much more to it than that. It's about having someone in your life who knows that, no matter how much pressure there is and how much potential you might have to meet everyone's expectations, we all need someone who knows when today just isn't our day to win the race, and lets us off the hook.
My Kent is named Brenda. Her parents and my parents were friends from church before I was born, so I've known Brenda for, well, I don't remember not knowing Brenda. She's a little bit older than me and over the course of my life she's been my babysitter, my big sister, my other mother and the best kind of friend. We've been through pretty much everything there is to be through together. I've had the pleasure of watching her boys grow into amazing young men, and have had my own chance to be their babysitter and big sister, just like their mom was to me.
Brenda fed me extra fudgesicles and helped me learn to swim in her parent's pool. She did my hair (much to my dad's dismay sometimes!), painted my nails and did my makeup when I was still young enough that those things were a HUGE treat. She took me shopping for prom dresses and did my hair for the Big Night. She was my Matron of Honor when I married the love of my life. She's prayed and hugged and laughed and cried and supported me through my cancer scare, my career challenges, my Big Move to Florida, the birth of my children and everything in between. Her love and support and "making sure Kat puts herself first" are without fail, without condition, without question.
But what makes Brenda most remarkable is that even from 1360 miles away, she still knows when I need a hug. She still knows when I'm over-doing it, she still knows when I need a break. And she's not afraid to call me on it. She knows that even though my potential is there, the expectation is there, that every so often, I just can't do it all. She reminds me to ease up, to take a break, that it's OK to not win all the races all the time. And she means it. And when she says it, I believe it.
Luanne, thank you for your post and the great reminder and perspective.
And Brenda, my wonderful, amazing Brenda... thank you today, tomorrow and always for being there for me, for being my Kent.
Showing posts with label support. Show all posts
Showing posts with label support. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
The Power of a Ladybug
When my little sister was six years old, her best friend's mother passed away from cancer. My sister, being six, couldn't begin to understand the "how's" and "why's" of this (can any of us, at any age, really?). This was 18 or 19 years ago, but I remember vividly her tears and the way she was grasping to comprehend what "not having a mommy anymore" was like.
I'm seven years older than my sister. Certainly no Sage at the ripe old age of 13, but she was looking to me, her trusted big sister, for comfort and love and guidance. To this day I can't remember where it came from -- Did I hear it someplace else? Did I make it up on the spot? I'm not sure. But I told her a story about a ladybug.
Some of the details are fuzzy, but the end result of the story was to say that whenever you see a ladybug, know that you are not alone, that someone you love is right there with you, loving and supporting you in whatever you're going through and that in the end, it really is going to be OK.
My sister's love of all-things-ladybug began that day and the story was passed around in our family. Ladybugs became a way to say "I love you" or "I'm thinking of you" or "I'm right there with you, wherever you are." Little did I know how important those ladybugs would become.
I was on my way home from the Sloan Kettering Memorial Cancer Center in New York City, after a very expensive "third opinion" appointment with a doctor who didn't take my insurance. The first doctor had already told me I'd likely never carry a pregnancy to term, even if they could stop the cancer from progressing. The second doctor recommended a complete hysterectomy to make sure we "got all the pre-cancerous cells" before they had a chance to multiply. Sloan Kettering was my last resort, before deciding for sure to tell the man that I loved, the man who's ring I was wearing, that I couldn't marry him since I didn't think I could give him the children I knew he so badly wanted. The subway ride home was a long one and even though this latest doctor seemed more optimistic than the first two, life as I knew it was over.
When we got home, I was rummaging through things on my desk and accidentally knocked over a box of old cards and notes and other random papers. Annoyed at one more mess to clean up on my already terrible day, I scooped everything up and threw it angrily back on the desk. What should happen to land on the very top, face up, staring right at me? A greeting card with a ladybug on it. It was a blank card that I had bought years before but never sent to anyone and had completely forgotten about. BAM! There is was, right in my face, when things couldn't have been any worse. Suddenly, I was not alone and it was all going to be OK. For the first time in months, my fear and anxiety subsided. What power that tiny little ladybug had to take the weight of the world off my shoulders. Seven years of marriage (to that same wonderful man), two perfect little girls and dozens of "no abnormal cells" test results later, I still thank that ladybug for reminding me not to give up hope.
******************************
My grandfather was a very simple man, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, the only person in this world I've ever called My Hero. We didn't see each other often, but we had an amazing connection that words cannot explain. He was truly a gift, a man of God, a man who did not see race or religion or anything other than a person's spirit. He lived in Upstate New York, near the Finger Lakes. Having greenhouses his whole life, he once got into a debate with a neighbor about whether you could grow tobacco plants in that climate. The friend said "no way." Grandpa said, "Oh yeah? Watch me!"
The day of his funeral was the hardest day of my life. Harder than the day I heard "cancer" at the age of 23. As the "go-to-gal" for the family, they were all looking to me to take care of things, to hold them together, to make sure everything was handled. I paid for his cemetery plot. I ordered the flowers. I (physically) held up my sister and my cousin as they said goodbye to him before leaving the funeral home. I gave a eulogy at his funeral. Physically and emotionally I was exhausted, I hadn't had any time on my own to grieve and I felt like I was spiraling down a long dark tunnel with no one to catch me.
After the funeral, we went back to his house to spend some quiet time with my grandmother. I decided to take a walk through his now 8-foot-tall tobacco plants, growing so strong and so proud on the front corner of his yard. As I neared them, my eyes welled up with tears, I nearly collapsed to the ground in disbelief. Hundreds, thousands, of ladybugs covered those giant green tobacco leaves. They were everywhere. Countless little bugs that told me he was right there with me, loving me, supporting me and that everything was going to be OK. Once my legs steadied, I ran inside to get my grandmother and my cousins. We hugged and cried at those plants for an eternity, right there with Grandpa and his never-going-to-grow-in-this-climate tobacco plants, and his thousands of little ladybugs. My grandmother's house was infested with ladybugs for months after that, she said it hadn't ever happened in the 50 years she'd lived in the house. Of course, she didn't have the heart to call an exterminator!
******************************
A few years later, after working out-of-state for months on end, 16+ hour days, the Partner I was reporting to had a bad day and he yelled at me for something so trivial and insignificant that I probably should have filed a report against him. It was the very last straw. I marched back to his desk to put in my resignation. That was it, I was done, I was going home once and for all. Wouldn't you know it, he wasn't there.
******************************
There are similar ladybug stories for the day the obstetrician told me one of my tests came back abnormal and there was a chance the baby I was carrying had Down Syndrome. Did I want to "reconsider" the pregnancy, he asked me. And one for the day I took that same otherwise-perfectly-healthy baby for an ultrasound on her hip to see if she had Developmental Hip Dyslpasia. And one for so many other countless times when I saw a ladybug at a moment in my life I was so low I didn't think anything could pull me back up again. And I knew that everything was going to be OK.
Some people may say it's just a random coincidence, that it's just a little bug. But I know better.... those little ladybugs have a power I can't explain, a healing power, a power of hope and calm that words can't express. I only wish my writing was strong enough to do them justice.
The next time you see a ladybug, know that someone is thinking of you, that you are not alone and that indeed, everything is going to be OK.
I'm seven years older than my sister. Certainly no Sage at the ripe old age of 13, but she was looking to me, her trusted big sister, for comfort and love and guidance. To this day I can't remember where it came from -- Did I hear it someplace else? Did I make it up on the spot? I'm not sure. But I told her a story about a ladybug.
Some of the details are fuzzy, but the end result of the story was to say that whenever you see a ladybug, know that you are not alone, that someone you love is right there with you, loving and supporting you in whatever you're going through and that in the end, it really is going to be OK.
My sister's love of all-things-ladybug began that day and the story was passed around in our family. Ladybugs became a way to say "I love you" or "I'm thinking of you" or "I'm right there with you, wherever you are." Little did I know how important those ladybugs would become.
******************************
I was on my way home from the Sloan Kettering Memorial Cancer Center in New York City, after a very expensive "third opinion" appointment with a doctor who didn't take my insurance. The first doctor had already told me I'd likely never carry a pregnancy to term, even if they could stop the cancer from progressing. The second doctor recommended a complete hysterectomy to make sure we "got all the pre-cancerous cells" before they had a chance to multiply. Sloan Kettering was my last resort, before deciding for sure to tell the man that I loved, the man who's ring I was wearing, that I couldn't marry him since I didn't think I could give him the children I knew he so badly wanted. The subway ride home was a long one and even though this latest doctor seemed more optimistic than the first two, life as I knew it was over.
When we got home, I was rummaging through things on my desk and accidentally knocked over a box of old cards and notes and other random papers. Annoyed at one more mess to clean up on my already terrible day, I scooped everything up and threw it angrily back on the desk. What should happen to land on the very top, face up, staring right at me? A greeting card with a ladybug on it. It was a blank card that I had bought years before but never sent to anyone and had completely forgotten about. BAM! There is was, right in my face, when things couldn't have been any worse. Suddenly, I was not alone and it was all going to be OK. For the first time in months, my fear and anxiety subsided. What power that tiny little ladybug had to take the weight of the world off my shoulders. Seven years of marriage (to that same wonderful man), two perfect little girls and dozens of "no abnormal cells" test results later, I still thank that ladybug for reminding me not to give up hope.
******************************
My grandfather was a very simple man, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, the only person in this world I've ever called My Hero. We didn't see each other often, but we had an amazing connection that words cannot explain. He was truly a gift, a man of God, a man who did not see race or religion or anything other than a person's spirit. He lived in Upstate New York, near the Finger Lakes. Having greenhouses his whole life, he once got into a debate with a neighbor about whether you could grow tobacco plants in that climate. The friend said "no way." Grandpa said, "Oh yeah? Watch me!"
The day of his funeral was the hardest day of my life. Harder than the day I heard "cancer" at the age of 23. As the "go-to-gal" for the family, they were all looking to me to take care of things, to hold them together, to make sure everything was handled. I paid for his cemetery plot. I ordered the flowers. I (physically) held up my sister and my cousin as they said goodbye to him before leaving the funeral home. I gave a eulogy at his funeral. Physically and emotionally I was exhausted, I hadn't had any time on my own to grieve and I felt like I was spiraling down a long dark tunnel with no one to catch me.
After the funeral, we went back to his house to spend some quiet time with my grandmother. I decided to take a walk through his now 8-foot-tall tobacco plants, growing so strong and so proud on the front corner of his yard. As I neared them, my eyes welled up with tears, I nearly collapsed to the ground in disbelief. Hundreds, thousands, of ladybugs covered those giant green tobacco leaves. They were everywhere. Countless little bugs that told me he was right there with me, loving me, supporting me and that everything was going to be OK. Once my legs steadied, I ran inside to get my grandmother and my cousins. We hugged and cried at those plants for an eternity, right there with Grandpa and his never-going-to-grow-in-this-climate tobacco plants, and his thousands of little ladybugs. My grandmother's house was infested with ladybugs for months after that, she said it hadn't ever happened in the 50 years she'd lived in the house. Of course, she didn't have the heart to call an exterminator!
******************************
A few years later, after working out-of-state for months on end, 16+ hour days, the Partner I was reporting to had a bad day and he yelled at me for something so trivial and insignificant that I probably should have filed a report against him. It was the very last straw. I marched back to his desk to put in my resignation. That was it, I was done, I was going home once and for all. Wouldn't you know it, he wasn't there.
My next best option was to buy myself a giant cup of Starbucks, grab a cigarette and head outside behind the building to sob and hyperventilate. There I was, contemplating my career, ready to give up on everything I'd worked so hard for professionally. I looked down on the concrete step where I was sitting, and there was a ladybug. It was October in Atlanta and there was a ladybug. I was not alone, it was all going to be OK. I cried even more over the ladybug than I had over being yelled at, I think. But when I pulled myself together and went back to work, I really did know that I was going to be OK. Five years later, I still work for the same company (though not the same Partner!).
******************************
There are similar ladybug stories for the day the obstetrician told me one of my tests came back abnormal and there was a chance the baby I was carrying had Down Syndrome. Did I want to "reconsider" the pregnancy, he asked me. And one for the day I took that same otherwise-perfectly-healthy baby for an ultrasound on her hip to see if she had Developmental Hip Dyslpasia. And one for so many other countless times when I saw a ladybug at a moment in my life I was so low I didn't think anything could pull me back up again. And I knew that everything was going to be OK.
Some people may say it's just a random coincidence, that it's just a little bug. But I know better.... those little ladybugs have a power I can't explain, a healing power, a power of hope and calm that words can't express. I only wish my writing was strong enough to do them justice.
The next time you see a ladybug, know that someone is thinking of you, that you are not alone and that indeed, everything is going to be OK.
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Unhealthy State of Mental Health
First and foremost, my heart goes out to all those impacted by the recent tragedy at Virginia Tech. I can't begin to imagine the sorrow and the grief of the families, friends and communities of the students who lost their lives, were injured or were on the campus that day. My sincerest wish is that we never see something like that happen again. The "why?" questions abound and I know there are more of them than answers.
Some people will make this tragedy about gun control. After all, we're in election season (yes, a full 18 months before the actual elections). No better time to start talking (finally) about the issue. But this post is not about gun control or 2nd amendment rights, it's about a much larger, more pervasive issue in this country. It's about mental health.
I know at least half a dozen people close to me who struggle with some form of mental health "disorder" (more in a minute about why that's in quotes). They're bi-polar or have depression, anxiety, chronic stress or ADHD. Amongst them are both men and women of varying ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, races, religions, etc. There's nothing common about them, no way to categorize them into a group "likely" to be impacted by such a thing. Beyond the people I do know who struggle with these, I'm sure there are many, many more people I know (live near? work with? am related to?) who have similar struggles that I know nothing about. Why? As a friend, neighbor, family member, co-worker, etc., why would someone not want to tell me, to share, to ask for help? It's because there's such a stigma. Telling someone you need help makes you weak.
Just think about the words themselves... "mental" is slang for "crazy," right? I had to break up with that girl, she was mental! And disorder, well, it means something is wrong with you. But if you break your arm, I don't say you have an arm disorder. If you get strep throat, I don't say you have a throat disorder. If your heart isn't beating properly, I don't say you're weak. I say you're injured or you're sick, and I encourage you to go to a doctor. Anyone would. So when there's something "off" in your brain, why is that a "disorder?"
I said before there was nothing common about the people I know who struggle with these "disorders." But that's not entirely true, there is one thing. Each and every one of them has expressed the same feelings: I didn't want something to be wrong with me, I was ashamed/embarrassed to tell anyone, it was hard for me to finally ask for help. Why? When your arm is broken, I'm guessing it's not so hard to let people in on that. Why should this be any different?
Some might say that mental health "disorders" are "all in your head." OK, so physically, the chemical imbalance (or whatever it is) might physically be located within your skull. And I admit I tend to stress myself out over the small stuff, and that is in my head. But when we're talking about a true "disorder," that's not something you make up or talk yourself into.
I think this country has a "drug" mentality. Got a sore throat? Antibiotic. Stiff neck? Muscle relaxer, maybe some pain pills. Depression? Prozac. I'm not opposed to medication when it makes sense and I believe that in many cases, it's a good way to even out the imbalances that cause anxiety, depression, etc. But I think we (as a society) need to realize that medication only treats the symptoms, it doesn't treat the problem. If you have stresses or situations that trigger your depression, you need to work to avoid those situations, maybe get some help on how to work through them or view them differently. If talking to your crazy aunt gives you an anxiety attack, then stop talking to her. We need to find ways to change our routines, our patterns, eliminate (or at least reduce) the triggers. Balance the situation so that you can balance yourself. Again, this is not to say that medication isn't sometimes required long term, or that you can "think your way out of depression." And it's a lot easier to get a prescription from a doctor, presumably a "stranger," who you know is obligated not to tell anyone he saw you in the first place, than it is to fess up to someone you know, someone who might "judge" you and remember it years later that you were "weak" and couldn't handle life on your own. Children should have their parents, teachers, other "grown-ups," etc. But who do the grown-ups have?
If more of us had access to counseling (formal or informal), if more of us felt comfortable talking about this, being honest about this, learning to say "no" when our plate was too full and one more "yes" would spiral us out of control, feeling comfortable telling people that we might need a little understanding... then maybe we wouldn't need so much medication. Maybe we wouldn't feel so alone, maybe we wouldn't get to the point of tears or panic or, God forbid, shooting up classrooms.
Maybe if asking for help was easier, maybe if people were less judgemental, maybe if the stigma was reduced, just maybe that kid with the gun in the classroom would have talked to someone, would have realized he wasn't alone and would have been able to make his own life better instead of ruining so many others.
Some people will make this tragedy about gun control. After all, we're in election season (yes, a full 18 months before the actual elections). No better time to start talking (finally) about the issue. But this post is not about gun control or 2nd amendment rights, it's about a much larger, more pervasive issue in this country. It's about mental health.
I know at least half a dozen people close to me who struggle with some form of mental health "disorder" (more in a minute about why that's in quotes). They're bi-polar or have depression, anxiety, chronic stress or ADHD. Amongst them are both men and women of varying ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, races, religions, etc. There's nothing common about them, no way to categorize them into a group "likely" to be impacted by such a thing. Beyond the people I do know who struggle with these, I'm sure there are many, many more people I know (live near? work with? am related to?) who have similar struggles that I know nothing about. Why? As a friend, neighbor, family member, co-worker, etc., why would someone not want to tell me, to share, to ask for help? It's because there's such a stigma. Telling someone you need help makes you weak.
Just think about the words themselves... "mental" is slang for "crazy," right? I had to break up with that girl, she was mental! And disorder, well, it means something is wrong with you. But if you break your arm, I don't say you have an arm disorder. If you get strep throat, I don't say you have a throat disorder. If your heart isn't beating properly, I don't say you're weak. I say you're injured or you're sick, and I encourage you to go to a doctor. Anyone would. So when there's something "off" in your brain, why is that a "disorder?"
I said before there was nothing common about the people I know who struggle with these "disorders." But that's not entirely true, there is one thing. Each and every one of them has expressed the same feelings: I didn't want something to be wrong with me, I was ashamed/embarrassed to tell anyone, it was hard for me to finally ask for help. Why? When your arm is broken, I'm guessing it's not so hard to let people in on that. Why should this be any different?
Some might say that mental health "disorders" are "all in your head." OK, so physically, the chemical imbalance (or whatever it is) might physically be located within your skull. And I admit I tend to stress myself out over the small stuff, and that is in my head. But when we're talking about a true "disorder," that's not something you make up or talk yourself into.
I think this country has a "drug" mentality. Got a sore throat? Antibiotic. Stiff neck? Muscle relaxer, maybe some pain pills. Depression? Prozac. I'm not opposed to medication when it makes sense and I believe that in many cases, it's a good way to even out the imbalances that cause anxiety, depression, etc. But I think we (as a society) need to realize that medication only treats the symptoms, it doesn't treat the problem. If you have stresses or situations that trigger your depression, you need to work to avoid those situations, maybe get some help on how to work through them or view them differently. If talking to your crazy aunt gives you an anxiety attack, then stop talking to her. We need to find ways to change our routines, our patterns, eliminate (or at least reduce) the triggers. Balance the situation so that you can balance yourself. Again, this is not to say that medication isn't sometimes required long term, or that you can "think your way out of depression." And it's a lot easier to get a prescription from a doctor, presumably a "stranger," who you know is obligated not to tell anyone he saw you in the first place, than it is to fess up to someone you know, someone who might "judge" you and remember it years later that you were "weak" and couldn't handle life on your own. Children should have their parents, teachers, other "grown-ups," etc. But who do the grown-ups have?
If more of us had access to counseling (formal or informal), if more of us felt comfortable talking about this, being honest about this, learning to say "no" when our plate was too full and one more "yes" would spiral us out of control, feeling comfortable telling people that we might need a little understanding... then maybe we wouldn't need so much medication. Maybe we wouldn't feel so alone, maybe we wouldn't get to the point of tears or panic or, God forbid, shooting up classrooms.
Maybe if asking for help was easier, maybe if people were less judgemental, maybe if the stigma was reduced, just maybe that kid with the gun in the classroom would have talked to someone, would have realized he wasn't alone and would have been able to make his own life better instead of ruining so many others.
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