Taking Ownership

Like most people, I have a few flaws. I’m scatter-brained. I forget things like birthdays, anniversaries and doctor’s appointments. I say what is on my mind, whether you are prepared to hear it or not. At times I appear as if I am not listening to you or not interested in what you are saying. My ADD brain doesn’t always like to cooperate and share my attention span.  My facial expressions are dead give-a-ways of what I am feeling. I tend to jump into things and instantly want to retreat because I overwhelm myself with responsibilities.

I am not perfect by a long shot.

February 23, 1993 I woke up with the awful realization that I had hurt someone I care very much about. The pain in my heart began as soon as my eyes opened and was growing by the minute. Shame, remorse, disgust, and despair weighed on me that morning. I knew I had to see my friend that I had hurt. I got dressed, threw my hair up in a ponytail and grabbed my cigarettes. I knew I had done something horribly wrong. What I didn’t know was the whole campus already knew about it.

Well, maybe not the ENTIRE campus knew but it certainly felt like it as I walked along the path towards the dorm I was asked to vacate months earlier. I couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes and struggled to hold myself together. There wasn’t anyone (thank God) at the sign in desk. I ran up the steps to my former suite. I opened the door and saw a few of my former friends sitting on the couch. I said hi and asked if my friend was there.

“Did you hear what happened last night?” I asked not wanting to hear the answer.

Anne, one of my former suite-mates, flicked her cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Oh we heard what happened. She’s in there.” I saw the glances between herself and the others. I looked as sorrowful as I felt, hoping that they would feel sorry for me. When I looked at them, the expression was pure “You have a lot of balls to show up here.”

I slowly opened the doorknob and timidly opened the door. The door felt like it weighed 500 lbs. All I remember is my friend not being able to look at me because she was so angry. Her face was swollen and basically I had to get out after I expressed how sorry I was.

From there I went to the library and saw my ex Jim at one of the computers. He always made me feel better. I sat down next to him. I opened my mouth to say what an awful night I had and he immediately said “I heard what happened to Martha.” I stopped. Jim knew the story before I had gotten there. I asked him what he thought I should do. He told me he didn’t know, but what he did know was that people were fed up and that I had to stop. My hands shook as I wiped my tears away. I wanted to stay with him so I didn’t feel so alone but he had other plans. I went back to my room carrying a sense of loneliness and despair I had never felt before. This was it. I could not drink again. Ever.

That was the beginning of my journey to sobriety. It was an experience I never want to forget. It made me into who I am today. I own it. It’s mine. I did something horrible and learned from it. I didn’t get sober right after that, unfortunately. Instead I had to experience more insanity that eventually led me to where I am today.

My father also made a lot of mistakes. All were made due to lack of self control. What I love about him and who he was, was that like me, he owned them. My father took responsibility until the day he died. He didn’t try to lie, make up a modified version of the story to make himself look better, or dodge the subject. He stood up and accepted it. As I see others around me try to manipulate truths, it makes me even more proud of him. It’s not easy owning huge mistakes, especially ones that are the result of lack of self control. Decisions made when you are in the throes of your addiction are especially difficult to reconcile in this society where being ‘strong-willed’ and in control are ideal.

Don’t get me wrong- my father ultimately paid the price by giving up on life and choosing to be alone his last years on this earth. The weight of his mistakes crushed what soul he had. Instead of embracing the forgiveness that was given to him, he succumbed to guilt and his heart just couldn’t go on anymore.

One thing I have learned in my life is that when you run from your problems, your mistakes or poor decisions, eventually they catch up to you. You can only run so fast and so far before the consequences are nipping at your heels. I am grateful that I faced the music for what I did to my friend, and have for other mistakes. When I did try to ease the pain for myself, it didn’t work. It hurt like hell but the reward is knowing that in spite of my weaknesses, I am stronger than I realize.  It is better to say “Yes, I did do that and I know it hurt you. I am so sorry and will make an effort never to do that again” then it is to say “It wasn’t me.”

For me it brings back the question of “What kind of person are you and what kind do you want to be?” If I want to be truthful, accountable and a decent human being, then I need to accept all of me and step forward. My father’s example of not hiding who he was, on one level, inspires me to continue doing the same.

 

 

 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to Me?

According to Ancestry DNA, I have about 20% of Irish DNA. Granted, it’s part of the 75% European piece of the Elissa pie, but it was enough green to shock me. I don’t know why it came as a shock. Since 1981 U2 has been my favorite band. My favorite part of summer camp werdna piee the counselors from Northern Ireland as a child. My affinity for all things Irish has been with me as long as I can remember. Even the men in my life have tended to be descended from the Emerald Isle, so why the big surprise?

I have always known I was adopted.  There was never a time where I didn’t look around and think “They made this up.” I mean, if you saw my baby pictures, it was kind of obvious. The story always began with “We were so excited when the phone rang announcing your arrival.” Then it would lead into a theory that my birth mother was in the military, that she was too young to take care of me, that she was Mediterranean, and that I was in such a hurry to be born, I was born en route to the hospital in the ambulance. The story always ended with how much my family wanted me. That had to be made clear before we moved on to something else.

As I grew up, I began to notice that there were a few holes in the story. For example, how did we know she was in the military? The hospital where she received her care was a Naval hospital in Chelsea. My birth mother was a patient of a family friend who was her obstetrician. This family friend got in touch with my parents and that is how I was brought to Plymouth.  It was never confirmed that she was in fact- part of the US Navy. That was assumed because you had to be in the Navy in order to be treated at this particular hospital. And why did she need to take an ambulance? Didn’t anyone drive?

When people would ask me my nationality, I would say that I was Mediterranean, because that was the answer for a while. After someone told me I looked French, I would say that I was part French. People would ask me if I was Italian. I didn’t think so. When I was in college I was asked if I was French Canadian. At the time people weren’t crazy about French Canadians so I didn’t want to be associated with that dislike. “Nope, the other kind of French.” I would reply, even though my looks said otherwise.

A few years later I went to Montreal with a friend. One night we were on the Tube, and I saw the reflection of a beautiful girl across from me in the mirrored glass. She had greenish eyes, reddish brown hair, and a medium complexion. I thought she was very pretty and was a little envious. Then my eyes caught my reflection right next to hers and I realized that we looked alike. I had the same complexion, hair color and eye color. Our builds were similar. Until that moment, I had been surrounded by people who did not resemble me whatsoever. I felt ugly until that moment where I realized that I shared this look with everyone around me.

That was a great day.

Earlier that summer, my cousin Larry helped me gain access to my birth certificate and I saw my birth mother’s full name for the first time. Patricia Therese Frappier. There it was. My French identity had been sealed with an accent ague. According to the papers, Patricia was living in Newburyport at the time. I was told later that it was a home for unwed mothers. This tells me that she was most likely from a Catholic family from the area. The blank signature line for the Father’s name also told me that she was alone. She took an ambulance to deliver me at the hospital because chances are she didn’t have anyone who could be with her. Her name was the only one on the certificate. He is a complete unknown. I had an idea of what half of me was, what was the other half made up of?

About 5 years ago, I decided to see what my DNA compilation album is and took the Spit Test that comes in the kit. I sent off my vial and didn’t think anything of it until an email found its way into my inbox with the results. 21% Native American. 20% Irish. Well, certainly explains a lot if you know me at all. Took “born to be an alcoholic” to a whole new level. I didn’t see ANY French Canadian, or a lot of Mediterranean. I did see some Greek, small percentage of Italian, and the token below 1% of African which supports the theory that modern humans began in Africa. Irish? Really? Wow. Native American? Even better.

Unfortunately, I know this is just a representation of what my makeup could be. I won’t really know anything until I hear more of my story. The DNA Pie does solve a few puzzles that I struggled with growing up so that was worth the $99 alone. Seeing a glimpse of who I am in such a unique way was truly breathtaking. The years of obsessing about Ireland makes sense to me now.

St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland, as the legend goes. Snakes represent old ideas and practices that are considered undesirable and mostly likely were the Pagan religions that were competing with Early Christianity. St. Patrick drove away the snakes and darkness, and brought in the light. My snakes are self-doubt, depression, self-loathing, and insecurity. I want to continue this journey to find out more about my origins but I can sense the fear growing when I see possibilities of where I can find the truth. I don’t want fear to keep me from asking a retired OB questions about Patricia, even though he may be bound not to answer them. Either way, the snakes of discontent need to leave this island. They need to be driven out from under the rocks and dark corners. Today, on this St. Patrick’s Day, I am ready to drive them out.

 

 

 

Inviting in Compassion while shutting the door on resentment

When she awoke the next morning after a very restless night, she realized that she still had blood in her hair. Wincing as her arm slowly moved upward to the source of the pain in her head, she was still trying to piece together the events that happened the day before. The strap of her bra dug into her shoulder. She went to adjust it and realized that she still had on her sister’s white bathing suit. They were supposed to go to the beach. “That was how the day started,” she thought, “we were going to go to the beach after we picked a few things up for my bat mitzvah.”

The events began to knit together. We went to Paperama, where Christy and her practically wetting her pants laughing over the silly books we were reading. We stopped for ice cream. Christy had Cherry Vanilla. She had Heavenly Hash. Then the next thing she knew, a woman’s hands were reaching toward her through the glass window and her mother’s head was at an unnatural angle in front of her. She could hear her grandmother crying out. She turned her head to the right and her eyes met Christy’s.

“Are you ok??” Christy shouted, in complete shock and bleeding from the back of her head. She had been wearing her father’s oxford shirt. It was a complete mess now. The ambulance ride consisted of her trying to remember what happened, and what was happening to her mother. Where was her grandmother? And Christy?

She smacked her lips together and reached for the tepid water that was next to her on the stand. It felt good going down her dry throat. Her head hurt so much. She could barely handle the sunlight in the room. Did she still have her period? Oh crap. She paged the nurse to help her get out of bed. Slowly she swung her legs to one side. Stepping down gingerly, she began to make her way to the bathroom. A wave of nausea overtook her as she stepped forward. She saw her when she looked up and out of the door into the hallway. Instant rage trumped the nausea and her eyes narrowed. Her fist clenched around the IV pole and she could feel her palm pressing so hard on the metal it was turning white. She regained her balance immediately and stepped towards the hallway.

“If anything, anything happens to my mom, I will fucking kill you.” She managed to spit out through her clenched teeth. Her voice became louder. “If she dies, I will tear you apart!” She took another step towards the hallway. The nurse quickly pulled her back into the room and sing-songed her into the bathroom. When she opened the door to leave, the girl was no longer visible.

“That bitch better stay the fuck away from me.” She said to no one in particular. She heard the door shut across the hallway. Exhausted from the bathroom trip, she closed her eyes.

True story.

This is actually what happened to myself, my mother, grandmother and my best friend on a beautiful summer day in August. A 16 year old without insurance was drinking with her mom and blew through a stop sign doing 65 mph. She hit us without hitting her brakes. My mother’s neck snapped with the force of the impact and I was knocked unconscious. The impact hit my grandmother’s ribs and broke them. Christy fell on top of me and was ‘lucky’ enough to catch all of the glass.

My mom was almost taken out by a drunk driver. Thank God she wasn’t, but she could have been. I could have been sent to live with my dad, which would have been disastrous since he disappeared over a year later. My sister was in Israel and had no idea this had happened. Today, even talking about it still gives me feelings of anger and I think I may be onto why I get so turned off when people drink with their parents. If I want to be honest, my mother was in fact taken from me that day because the woman she became after that is not the same person. She lost full rotation of her cervical spine, and was in a neck brace for what felt like months. She was afraid when she rode in a car. She couldn’t play golf anymore and struggled with the intense pain her surgery had left her.

Throughout the years I have wondered if I would meet this girl or woman in the halls of AA, if they ever learned from their mistake. A close friend made a similar mistake the other night and is facing some serious consequences. Since Sunday, I have been angry at how thoughtless this person could have been. No one was hurt but still- what the fuck are you thinking when you get behind the wheel after drinking a decent amount? The resentment and disgust stayed with me until this morning.

This morning, I realized that I wanted to invite compassion in because I know that is what this person needs at the moment. The last thing they need is another person telling them what a piece of crap they are. I have been shown compassion by those around me who choose to be in my life in spite of what I did to them while drinking. Wouldn’t I have wanted the same when I was in a similar pickle?

When you love someone, even as a friend, you accept them exactly as how they are. You don’t pass judgment, you pass on love. You don’t try to make them pay for their mistakes, you forgive them so that maybe they can forgive themselves. I care about this person very much and I know that with each minute they are praying that they could go back and make a different choice. We can be harder on ourselves than others are on us.

The girl who hit us in 1985 could have used some compassion too. She was young and probably thought she would never get into such a horrible car accident. I remember how frightened her eyes became when we saw each other. Her muffled sobbing could be heard through the door.

Justified anger is just anger. It doesn’t do anyone any good to hold onto it. As I flowed through postures that were designed to open my heart and chest, I breathed in the intention to welcome in compassion. I have to say that today has been an incredible day and I hope to do it all again tomorrow.

 

Marathon Monday

On a day when many people I know are standing at the starting line waiting for the race to start, I am sitting here in my pajamas sipping the last cup of coffee out of the pot. People’s excitement is threaded throughout my FB feed and it is hard not to get excited for them as they make their way to the start of one of the most memorable run of their lives. I am happy for them and thrilled that they get to have such a coveted spot that so many people train tirelessly for and not get. The hope I want to talk about today is my fading hope that someday I will be one of those people.

When Izzie was accepted as a patient partner for Miles for Miracles, I was over the moon excited. This chance would bring me closer to that dream I had of running someday. This would also allow us to participate in the greatest race of the year. What I didn’t count on was other people around me not sharing the same excitement.

When you submit to be part of a great fundraiser such as this, everyone needs to be on the same page. Expectations need to be set and a strategic plan needs to come together. It also helps if the people you are partnered with make a connection to your child. The runners we had didn’t meet Izzie until we had our fundraiser for them before the race. I would be sending emails and forcing the connection. It felt very awkward. It didn’t feel as though they really understood what our life was like  as a medical family and how fortunate we felt to have Boston Children’s in our lives. I was hoping that we could be at the Miles for Miracles events together. That didn’t happen. On the day when we were to meet the runners at an event sponsored by the hospital, neither one was able to make it. I felt like my dream of having this inspirational experience was fading fast. This wasn’t what I had thought it would be. It didn’t get much better after that first event.

We planned a fundraiser and thanks to my in-laws, was a huge success. I guess it was a good thing that they took over where they did and made everything happen. There were many parts of the planning that I hadn’t though of but they did. As the days came closer to the date,  I began feeling like this was not a good idea. The parts that I did do – the brochure, posters, and news article, weren’t good enough. I felt very disconnected and not an important part of the process. To make matters worse, the runners who were running for Izzie didn’t understand that we were raising money for them. I can’t imagine how I would have felt if they didn’t show up.

After the fundraiser, things didn’t improve much. The benefit recognizing us for our efforts was very stressful. We didn’t meet or socialize with other families like I had wanted to. This wasn’t what I had planned for in my mind and it was very disappointing. My family knew that I was upset and chalked it up to my typical moodiness.

Race day was exciting and we all were at the BCH area in Wellesley to cheer on our runners. For a little while I felt like we had done the right thing and that we were part of something great. We were part of something great. We helped raise money for the best hospital in the world. We were just like all the other families that were there but we hardly chatted with anyone. It wasn’t the camaraderie that I had hoped for. None of the Miles for Miracles was what I had thought it would be for us.

I am not blaming anyone here. Chris did his best to try to make it be successful and so didn’t other people. My friend had his band play for free and that was a huge success. Other friends from my meetings and such came and supported us. It wasn’t a total loss. What I am starting to see now is that I had forced something to happen instead of letting it happen. I had taken a dream of mine and forced others to share this dream.

If and when I do apply to run for Miles for Miracles again, I will make sure that everyone knows my intentions and is willing to support me. I want to run for Izzie, and for many of the cardiac children who are her comrades in arms on 8 East. She still has her moments and our hopes for new treatments for her condition grow every day. Recently, she was hospitalized overnight and it was a stark reminder that she is not cured. We need more options for her and for others like her.

Tuesday we have a cardio appointment and we are taking Addie with us so she can see first hand that these appointments aren’t always fun. Sometimes it is really hard to be a patient and Addie needs to see that. She needs to understand that her sister didn’t ask to have a heart defect, and wants to be just like her. I think this non-invasive appointment is a great way for her to see this.

I wish everyone on the Miles for Miracles team great luck today and thank you for running for us!

 

 

 

Lesson Learned and Many More To Go

Today I attended a luncheon honoring women who have been inducted into the YW Boston’s Academy of Women Achievers. The CEO at the firm I work at was one of the honorees, and she had extended the invitation to include a few women from my group. I always jump on networking opportunities for both personal and professional reasons. It turned out to be a lovely event, and I am really happy I went. As always when I hear inspirational speakers at these types of conferences, I tend to reflect on my own current situations and try to see ways I can improve myself. Words that came across loud and clear were “authentic self”, “fake it until you ARE it”, “Passion” and “Pay it forward”.

Authentic self. What does that mean exactly? I have taken a chance and revealed my authentic self to a few of my “friends” recently and have received mixed responses. Some have conveyed their support. Others have asked a few questions, and then stopped talking altogether. Then we have the ones that don’t respond at all. Does this bother me? Of course it does. It bothers me to be rejected, especially after being honest. Many people say they admire honesty but the truth is, they want it on their conditions that are best for them. What do I mean by this? “Be yourself” is what I have heard my entire life. I have also heard “You need to calm down”, “Do you have to be so outspoken?”, “You wear your heart on your sleeve, can’t you just pretend to be (insert socially acceptable behavior here)?”  I pay the price being myself sometimes with the loss of friends, relationships, and even jobs. Over the years I have tried to learn to manage these defects of character only to find that they just morph into other defects. Being myself has its drawbacks and trying to be what others expect me to be only leads to depression.

I have recently discovered that someone’s authentic self has caused me to be more honest about who I really am. Something I wasn’t prepared emotionally for at all. We took a risk and some of the reactions were unpleasant. At the same time, the majority was very positive so it isn’t an experience I regret. The experience showed me the limitations I put on myself. It opened my eyes to where I really am at with this situation in my life as oppose to where I would like to be. I have a lot of adjusting to do which I am willing to do because I truly believe this is where I am supposed to be. The lessons I see before me are invaluable, including the lesson of who my friends really are.

Last Thursday someone who has no idea or experience with a particular topic decided to share her opinion. After reading it against my better judgement, I became angry because it came from a place of pure judgement and not of intellectual curiosity. She proceeded to agree with this article that cites antiquated assumptions about gender and identities. You know, things that she doesn’t encounter in her Christian world and that she has no business starting a debate about. If you have experience or know people that struggle with gender , that’s one thing. I am pretty sure she does not and when I commented about my own PERSONAL and PAINFUL experience, I was told that it was a perspective, not a reality.  Hey-It’s my reality, bitch. Just like being a heart mom is a reality. Yes, I am going there.

The comments reminded me of when people tried (and sometimes still do) to relate to open heart surgery when they compare their childrens’ ear tube surgeries to Isabelle having her chest cracked open and her heart stopped. Folks- there is empathy, there is curiosity, and then there is being stupid. Comparing holes in the heart to missing an entire side is like comparing an apple to a grape. Comparing gender issues to being insane or having a fetish is just wrong. Seriously. Just stop. Go back into your homeschooled bubble and to the things you know about. I don’t pretend to know about Jesus so don’t pretend to know anything about having an open mind.

Perhaps I need to pray about this resentment. Duly noted.

Passion. My passion has always been my family, liberal and or Jewish causes, and congenital heart disease. Those who know me know I am also passionate about my sobriety and about my work. My passion for creating effective compelling design is what brings me to work every day. I thought I lost it, and the last month I think I found it again. Today I heard ways of channeling my passion and taking a leap into uncertain waters. I take leaps all the time. Sometimes with glee, other times with terror- but I make them. Having my children grow up Jewish is a passion, and teaching Sunday school is too. Although I am taking a year off for personal reasons, I hope to continue the following year.

I am passionate about my sobriety. I go on commitments, I speak, I open my home group meeting just about every Friday. It has saved my life. Period. I would be dead if it wasn’t for my commitment and passion for sobriety. Which brings me to “Pay it forward”. Giving back what was freely given to me is the name of the game. I had the pleasure of being given a service position in my group. I also have been given the opportunity to give back to one of the many heart organizations I love and am part of. Combining my passion for CHD awareness and my love for design came together this week bringing me a sense of fulfillment that has lifted my exhausted heart.

The ‘passion’ I need to lose is my need to be liked and accepted by everyone. It’s just not possible. Add my aggressive personality to the mix and we all know that just isn’t happening. Recently, I took a risk and put myself out there. I also know that the price of being authentic has been hearing crickets instead of responding to the posts I make on peoples’ pages, even non-confrontational ones. I want the heart moms I am ‘friends’ with to like me. I want fellow sober peeps to like me too. However I am learning fast that when I do reveal who I really am, these “friends” of mine head for the hills. Someday it will be ok, but that isn’t today. Today I am sad that people are no longer talking to me. It upsets me that people who claim to have open minds really don’t. And the lessons that lie before me are painful ones that will require a great amount of strength I was hoping to get from some of these people.

Sweet Pea

February 14, 1996 I found out I was expecting. On October 17, 1996 I gave birth to a baby girl, 7 lbs 9 ounces at 7:45 am. After cleaning her up, a nurse handed her to me and I stared into her beautiful little face wondering how on earth could I have lived without this little person in my life. I held her in my arms and said to her, “You are so little, I cannot imagine you being a year old!” The brilliance of the autumn leaves filled the window. My heart was full.

In 2001, I registered this little girl for kindergarten at the school next to our home. It my mother’s high school. It was my middle school and now, it was to be her elementary school. On the paper telling me what class she was in was her graduation date. 2015. 2015? That was so far away! I had years before I would have to think about her graduating.

This past week I have been reflecting about Elizabeth, how she came to be and how we have lived our lives together the past 18 years. I have thought about her first drawings of blobs with tiny smiley faces in them. Watching her draw stars with my best friend, Christy at the kitchen table. Reading her stories every night, tucking her in, getting her ready for school. Meeting (and sometimes marrying) different people whom I thought would make our lives whole, not realizing that we were just fine as we were. Me and my Sweet Pea.

Today I watched her put on her cap and gown in preparation  to make the final walk as a high school student. The hardwood floors of Mt. Pleasant school have ended here, on the athletic field of Plymouth North. I looked at the faces around me of the students and of her.  It reminded me of that first day when I held her and looked into her beautiful face – full of promise and hope. What would she be like? Would she love to swim as much as I did? Would she love to laugh and sing? Would she have her father’s musical talents or be a writer like me? How would she see the world?

Twenty five years ago it was my moment to walk beneath the blue and white flowers towards the podium. Today it is her turn. I cannot express what these past 12 years have been like watching her walk through the very halls I walked through as a Plymouth student. Learning from a curriculum my mother created in the schools my grandmother helped build.

Elizabeth is everything I ever dreamed she would be. She is beautiful, insightful, poetic, artistic, incredibly talented all wrapped up within a beautiful old soul. I could not have asked for a daughter better than what I was given, for I was given something more precious than anything on this earth. I was given an Elizabeth Marie Sheldon.

6 Days and Counting

Tuesday is looming over in the distance like a lone dark cloud on a sunny day. Izzie is blissfully unaware that 6 days from now she will be on an operating table with her chest split open and her body on ice. She has no idea that they are going to stop her heart and put her on bypass so they can do the final repair of her Fontan. She does not know that this will hopefully be her last surgery for a long time, or even that there is still a possibility of a future transplant when she gets older. She doesn’t even know her heart isn’t like everyone else’s. All she knows is that the Backyardigans are awesome and that Dora needs her to say “Swiper no Swiping!”

I know other parents have tried to prepare their child for surgery by talking about it, reading stories about the hospital and explaining what is going to happen. With a two year old it is really hard to explain the concept of what is going to happen since I barely understand what Dr. Emani is planning on doing. To be honest I am very worried as to how she is going to deal with being poked and prodded again. She has made the connection of white coat=owie. I don’t know how to abate those fears and am hoping I get some answers today.

Her upcoming surgery affects all of us and I am also worried about how to is going to affect her sister Adeline. Liz I can talk to and she is pretty good about telling me things (most of the time). Addie has already said she wants to see Izzie every day. She doesn’t like that idea that she won’t wake up to her sister every day for a little while. I am so grateful she has no idea what is about to happen otherwise I would have a very worried four year old on my hands. All she knows is Izzie is going to be at the hospital because she needs her heart fixed. She knows a healthy person has four chambers while Izzie only has about 2 1/2. Chris and I have made a big effort to make Addie s secure as possible since we both are going to be back and forth to the hospital and she will be with family a lot.

Last night I did a little housecleaning. I took out the bags I will need for the hospital. I also sat down and wrote out a personal inventory of what has been going on the last two years. I can’t believe I finished it in one night but I was able to be honest and get out a lot of junk that has been floating around inside. I woke up feeling much better than I have in a long time and am so grateful I was able to take care of myself in spite of the focus being on the girls.

I know how fortunate we are that Isabelle is doing as well as she has been doing. I know that there are many children who still struggle post-Fontan. I haven’t been able to get myself to check Facebook this morning because I am afraid of what I will see today but I care about my fellow heart mama friends who are at their children’s bedsides sick with worry. I will check in a few minutes. But for now, I wanted to sort through my anxiety of dealing with Izzie’s reaction to walking through that revolving door. I know we have many people praying for us and for that I am so grateful. I don’t know how I would be able to get through anything that is going on in my life if it wasn’t for my family and friends. Thankfully today all I have to do is show up at my job, do what is asked and see my girls tonight. Oh- and bake cookies for snack for my home group. I don’t have to get a parent badge, hold her arms while they try to get blood, listening to her crying in my ear and watch the tears roll down her face. I can just enjoy the day that I have.