In 2011when we began to realize we needed help understanding what we now know to be high functioning autism, we were put in touch with the most amazing Family Therapist. She helped us sort out some of Lucy's symptoms and helped us know which experts to seek out for help. So when I realized I had emotional work to do, I knew right where to go. It was like starting on the fifth counseling session -- I knew I loved Lisa and trusted her, and we were able to dive right in.
Lisa helped me figure out what worked for me, and long story short, I learned that I needed to write. She encouraged me to block out time to write when I could really dedicate some time to it. She encouraged me to remember the little details — how the room smelled or sounded or what someone was wearing, but only as they came to me or felt necessary. What came after that was the opportunity to go back through our experience and name some of the feelings I had. Things came out on the page that I had no idea was in there. What surprised me most was the deep gratitude I had for how well cared for we were during that time. People were practically tripping over themselves to bring us meals, care for our kids, do our dishes, mow the lawn, clean our pool, send toys to our kids. There is a reason that people are encouraged to count their blessings—it is a strong balm for deep wounds.
When we were still in the hospital, the (WONDERFUL) social worker came to see how we were doing. We had both had the strange experience of wanting to revisit the accident in our thoughts. I felt almost desperate to remember it sometimes, like it was important for me to remember the details before I forgot them. “Is this normal? Is this healthy?” we asked. She said something to me that served as a sort of mile-marker, and that I have passed on to many, many people. She said, your mind knows that you need to process what happened to you both. You are both able to see that you don’t need to be afraid to remember it. If you choose to repress it and pretend everything is fine, it WILL come out, one way or another, and most likely when you don’t want it to. So let those thoughts come, acknowledge them, and then you can start to move on little by little.
I share this with you, because I am hoping that someone will benefit from hearing about our experiences. There was such deep healing for me in going back and acknowledging everything that happened, taking the time to let those things come out, making time to understand what I went through. Every single time I sat down to write I thought, “It doesn’t hurt to think about this anymore, this shouldn’t be that emotional.” Every single time, I finished writing with tears streaming down my face, but feeling totally refreshed. I had worried about how to “place” my experience. I always put the people who had something tragic happen to them in a special, sort of saintly category, like ,”Oh, I will never be able to manage hard things like those people. They have it way worse off than we do.” But it was also worse than a broken ankle or something. What was this thing that happened to us? Was it over? Was it ongoing? How do I categorize and understand our family as a result of all this? Am I pretending it’s not that hard? Am I placing MYSELF in some special category as Varsity Sufferers? Wallowing and even proud of having had suffering that set ME apart as “saintly?”
I’m not really sure how to explain it, but I absolutely found rest and peace, and I was ready to keep moving with my life. Steve’s condition isn’t going to change. We know that now. He may make small improvements, but he is paralyzed. We worry about things like ulcers in his feet or infections in his body that he can’t detect in time. We struggle with not having the medical support that makes sense for him. That’s our life. Those are other kinds of things to deal with. But taking that time, making healing an activity that happened on a Tuesday at 10 am, that I got a babysitter for and turned off my phone for, well, it closed that chapter for me in the very best way. God is so, so good.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
From there to here (Part One)
This is a pretty old blog post that I never posted — who knows why, I just got busy or something. With the 4th year mark after Steve’s bike accident about to pass in June I went back to look at this and decided this is something I need to share. It’s about my own experience that first year.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Steve and I often comment that our experiences of June 2014 are so vastly different from each others'. I have a solid week of vivid memories, poignant moments, sharp-focus. Steve has a very fuzzy blur of severe pain, exhaustion, people coming in and out, worry, grief, loneliness, thankfulness. Almost 16 months later, I have a very personal story to tell about my own trauma and recovery. I'd like to tell this story because I think it is an important story to tell, and perhaps for some of you to hear. And because for the first time, I feel like a renewed woman.
When Steve had his accident, I found that my mind could only take in so much. I could get from one day, one hour to the next without losing it, but no further. I allowed myself to experience things as they came without denial of my feelings, and truly trying to soak up what I needed to learn. But I think I knew even then that I would have work to do later. I knew that it was a deep wound that would need very particular care at some point. I remember telling Søren the day after Steve's surgery that Dad would be coming home tomorrow. Somehow I wasn't able to fully take in that this was going to be a very long haul. Even after Steve had gone to rehab and come home, I remember feeling sheepish for accepting help and even sympathy. It was like, well, we're doing okay, I don't want to intrude on your life. The return to just a bit of normal can be a dangerous place. It gives you a security in something familiar and an assumption that you can continue everything you have always done.
What this looked like for me was not allowing as much help as was offered. And not shedding responsibilities when I had the opportunity. I focused more on the tasks of caring for Steve and my home and my family and didn't recognize the importance of prioritizing rest and down time and space. I had a vague understanding that those things were important and I must be intentional about them, but still allowed myself to believe the lie that self-sufficiency and productivity are more important.
As the year went by, because of the the combination of my allowing this pattern to develop and the strange plateau-land Steve was living in, I continued to put off the work I knew I needed to do for myself. By May, I had depleted my reserves so fully that the thought of packing one more lunch for the kids seemed daunting. I wanted to just crawl in a hole and not have to talk to anyone again. I knew some time was coming up for me to sort things out and I started to make plans to disengage myself so I could do the work I needed to do.
Then the anniversary of Steve's accident arrived. Seeing it coming was just... sad. We both realized we'd been expecting him to recover fully by then. And he hadn't. We wanted to acknowledge the day and originally wanted to plan a party for so many that had loved us well during that time. But somehow we just couldn't seem to manage it. In the end, we went to lunch with the Geringers, with whom we'd most closely experienced that day. Both of them read things they'd prepared for us, which touched me deeply. We shed some tears but were mostly so grateful for how God had cared for us this last year. We visited the accident site. I thought this would have been traumatic or emotional for me, but it wasn't at all because it didn't look like I'd pictured it in my head. (Strange--I just this minute realized I can no longer see my original "head picture" of the place. Can't even conjure it up.)
And then I was off to a baby shower. And that was the day. Some appropriate tears, but not really that hard a day. But toward the end of the baby shower, I felt myself sinking into a strange fatigue. I saw my friends helping clean up the tables and put away leftovers, which I would normally jump to help with. But I felt melted into a chair like a blob of goo and found that I didn't want to talk to anyone. I headed home and went to bed.
Suddenly as I lay there, I discovered that tears were coursing down my cheeks and I had no idea they'd even started. I thought, perhaps I just need a short cry and then I'll get to sleep. But the tears wouldn't go away. I got out of bed so I wouldn't disturb Steve, and I wept. And wept. This heaviness descended over me and I couldn't shake it. I knew then that the time had come. It was time to find out what I needed to deal with and get to the work of dealing with it.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Steve and I often comment that our experiences of June 2014 are so vastly different from each others'. I have a solid week of vivid memories, poignant moments, sharp-focus. Steve has a very fuzzy blur of severe pain, exhaustion, people coming in and out, worry, grief, loneliness, thankfulness. Almost 16 months later, I have a very personal story to tell about my own trauma and recovery. I'd like to tell this story because I think it is an important story to tell, and perhaps for some of you to hear. And because for the first time, I feel like a renewed woman.
When Steve had his accident, I found that my mind could only take in so much. I could get from one day, one hour to the next without losing it, but no further. I allowed myself to experience things as they came without denial of my feelings, and truly trying to soak up what I needed to learn. But I think I knew even then that I would have work to do later. I knew that it was a deep wound that would need very particular care at some point. I remember telling Søren the day after Steve's surgery that Dad would be coming home tomorrow. Somehow I wasn't able to fully take in that this was going to be a very long haul. Even after Steve had gone to rehab and come home, I remember feeling sheepish for accepting help and even sympathy. It was like, well, we're doing okay, I don't want to intrude on your life. The return to just a bit of normal can be a dangerous place. It gives you a security in something familiar and an assumption that you can continue everything you have always done.
What this looked like for me was not allowing as much help as was offered. And not shedding responsibilities when I had the opportunity. I focused more on the tasks of caring for Steve and my home and my family and didn't recognize the importance of prioritizing rest and down time and space. I had a vague understanding that those things were important and I must be intentional about them, but still allowed myself to believe the lie that self-sufficiency and productivity are more important.
As the year went by, because of the the combination of my allowing this pattern to develop and the strange plateau-land Steve was living in, I continued to put off the work I knew I needed to do for myself. By May, I had depleted my reserves so fully that the thought of packing one more lunch for the kids seemed daunting. I wanted to just crawl in a hole and not have to talk to anyone again. I knew some time was coming up for me to sort things out and I started to make plans to disengage myself so I could do the work I needed to do.
Then the anniversary of Steve's accident arrived. Seeing it coming was just... sad. We both realized we'd been expecting him to recover fully by then. And he hadn't. We wanted to acknowledge the day and originally wanted to plan a party for so many that had loved us well during that time. But somehow we just couldn't seem to manage it. In the end, we went to lunch with the Geringers, with whom we'd most closely experienced that day. Both of them read things they'd prepared for us, which touched me deeply. We shed some tears but were mostly so grateful for how God had cared for us this last year. We visited the accident site. I thought this would have been traumatic or emotional for me, but it wasn't at all because it didn't look like I'd pictured it in my head. (Strange--I just this minute realized I can no longer see my original "head picture" of the place. Can't even conjure it up.)
And then I was off to a baby shower. And that was the day. Some appropriate tears, but not really that hard a day. But toward the end of the baby shower, I felt myself sinking into a strange fatigue. I saw my friends helping clean up the tables and put away leftovers, which I would normally jump to help with. But I felt melted into a chair like a blob of goo and found that I didn't want to talk to anyone. I headed home and went to bed.
Suddenly as I lay there, I discovered that tears were coursing down my cheeks and I had no idea they'd even started. I thought, perhaps I just need a short cry and then I'll get to sleep. But the tears wouldn't go away. I got out of bed so I wouldn't disturb Steve, and I wept. And wept. This heaviness descended over me and I couldn't shake it. I knew then that the time had come. It was time to find out what I needed to deal with and get to the work of dealing with it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)