Organ Failure

May 5, 2010

Yesterday I was writing in my journal and I could not remember which direction the accent went on the ‘e’ in Laurèn’s name.  My pen stopped, hovered over the page, I questioned, was it accent grave or aigu? - my brain was a complete blank.  With a fifty percent chance of being right I willed my body to write; I wrote, I paused, I chose the wrong one!  The moment I wrote it on the page, my hand revealed to me what my brain could not.  I was stunned.  How could you give a name to your child, and then forget the intricacies of it?

There may be some argument about what the most important organ of the body is.  Some would say heart, some would say skin, and some would say brain.  Of course it is an integrated system, a team effort, certain aspects of living not possible without all parts. But, the brain is a fairly important organ for day-to-day functioning.  I don’t know about you, but I rely on mine more than ever before.  Scientists know that we will only use a small fraction of our brain in our lives.  If I am not even using it to full capacity, how can it start to fail me now? 

Last week, I had stopped for a coffee late in the morning.  I knew I had a certain amount of time before picking the girls up for lunch.  I sat down and relaxed, doing some reading and writing while watching the time. At 11:46 I started packing up; I had plenty of time, I thought.  However, when I got to the van, a full ten minutes had passed.  All I remember doing was putting my things into my bag – normally a thirty second job, and walking the eighty-five meters to the parking lot.  Even if I had crawled there, it would not have taken nine and a half minutes.  I was stumped, and more than a little worried.  That loss of time could not be classified as a micro-sleep – what had happened?

Our brains do take short breaks throughout the day, especially if we are tired, stressed, or over-committed – did you ever drive home and not remember the route you took?  Or walk to a room in the house, and forget why you went there in the first place? The other day I picked up the phone to call my mom, but I only stared at the numbers, as I could not even remember the starting point.  Another time I was calling a friend and realized when I ‘ran out of space’ that I was punching her phone number into the microwave!

Sleep deprivation can affect your brain in ways that are similar to being impaired[1].  According to researchers Fairclough and Graham, partial sleep deprivation (aka: motherhood, less than 4 hours of sleep/night) causes “noncritical alterations in primary task performance”, but alterations nonetheless.  Whereas full sleep deprivation (no sleep) results in behavior similar to that of an alcohol level of 0.07%; both the alcohol group and the sleep deprived group exhibited “a safety-critical decline in […] performance”.  I would be curious to know the effects of continual sleep-debt over time.  Another interesting fact of this particular study was that both sleep-deprived groups were aware of their performance impairment, while the alcohol group was not aware.  So maybe I should just start drinking, and then I won’t really even notice my momentary blips!

When I was younger and my brain was unencumbered by the mental, emotional and physical details of supreme motherhood, I accomplished things, I was on top of my game, and I was busy and successful.  I was (as it turns out) disillusioned! Even though I yearned for and imagined motherhood in those days – I was not a mother.  I simply had no idea of the many demands and challenges I would be facing on a regular basis. 

Today I stopped by the house of a stranger to pick up my cell phone, which I had lost a day or two previous.  I found the house, slowed down, pulled up to the curb, and then attempted to exit my vehicle while it was still in Drive!  Thankfully, I still had my seat belt on,  (I only got dragged a few feet before I realized there was a problem.)

Now there are so many ‘things’ in my house (think Thing One and Thing Two, and multiply) I can’t think.  I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for things.  I pick something up to put it away, then I get distracted and put it down; later I can’t find it.  There are occasions when I need to take a toy away from the kids; the problem comes when they want it back and I can’t remember where I put it.  They don’t believe me, who can blame them?

Before kids, I had systems: alphabetically organized spices, CD’s and Movies by genre, clothing by color, shoes IN the closet, and so on.  My systems were my strength.  Now my systems have all failed because kids are not systematic, they won’t be sorted and catalogued, alphabetized and stacked or sized and slotted.  They will simple not fall in line! They are not always capable of picking their things up, let alone placing them back in order, on the right hook, in the right slot in the fridge, on the right shoe shelf, or in the correct CD/DVD case. 

Am I going crazy? I admire women who can work AND raise their kids.  I feel completely under-qualified for the task.  However, lately I have been glancing at Help Wanted signs in windows – so far, I think I could make sandwiches for the Lunch Lady, pump gas at the local gas station, deliver for Meals on Wheels, and join one of the animal ‘visiting’ programs at the seniors homes (as the animal).

Well, onward ho! 

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[1] Human Factors: The Journal of the Human Factors and Ergonomics Society March 1999 vol. 41 no. 1 118-128

Ethiopian Turned Canadian

Not long ago, in the midst of our day, right after asking the kids to shut off the TV, Faven wistfully said to me, “It would be great if we could stay home all day and watch TV!” 

Amazed (and somewhat annoyed), I said to her, “You would really want to do that!?”

“You bet!” was her exuberant reply.

I found myself deeply disturbed by this desire in my Ethiopian-born daughter.  What had I done to her, I painfully pondered?  How could she want to participate in this waste of time activity, when a world of opportunity was right before her, for the taking?

Later I realized that this same desire has been alive and well in all of our children.  Faven is not an exception, simply because she experienced a different way of life in her first ten years. And yet, it still bothered me.  I remember a story in Melissa Fay Greene’s book, There is No Me Without You, where Haregewoin Tefera (orphanage director and subject of the book) visits the United States, and comes to Melissa’s house.  Standing in her home, Haregewoin witnesses one of Melissa’s daughters, who had for a time been in her care at the orphanage in Addis Ababa, jumping from one chair to the next to the next.  Undoubtedly disenchanted by the behavior, she commented to Melissa that she had spoiled her.  I hear that same voice in my head.  Not necessarily the voice of Haregewoin, who also had a hand in caring for Faven, but the more lingering, indistinct voice of Ethiopia.  I take my responsibility for maintaining my kids Ethiopian-ness seriously by: celebrating Ethiopian holidays, presenting Ethiopian food, connecting my kids with Ethiopian born Canadians, pursuing opportunities for them to maintain and learn their first language, and allowing them to connect with their heritage in their own way.  Therefore the fact that both of my Ethiopian-born kids have become Canadian is heart breaking even amidst the reality that it is inevitable.  Ethiopia, simply, is far and away from where and how we are living – no matter how hard I try, I cannot change that simple fact.

In my struggle to harmonize aspects of life in Ethiopia with this contrary life in upper-middle-class Canada I simply have to accept the gifts and blessings of both places, and give and receive accordingly.  Ethiopia has shared so much more with me than its’ children.

The tools you need for conflict.....

Faven and Yohannes are prone to name-calling and baiting one another, more than any other combination of children we have raised in our home.  It is a marvel to behold, one person, so perfectly aggravating another.  In the plethora of parenting seminars I have taken in the last few years, I am continuously learning and practicing new tools - filling up my toolbox.

Yesterday, Faven and Yohannes were into round three of their morning match - when I called them to me.
Mom: Guys, I notice that you are fighting more with each other this morning, can you tell me what is going on?
Faven: He called me a Chicken!
Mom: Oh..... I bet that didn't feel very good.
Faven: No, it hurt my feelings!
Yohannes: Whatever.
 (Faven launches herself at Yohannes)
Mom: Faven, we don't use our hands (or feet, or bodies) to tell someone how we feel; we use our words.
Faven: He is bothering me!
Mom: Remember that you can't control Yohannes' behaviour or words, you can only control how you react to it.  You can chose to walk away.
  (thinking out loud)... hmmm, it sounds like you guys need some more tools to solve this problem....
Yohannes: Give me a hammer, so I can whack her on the head!

Mental Marathon

I ran a marathon when I was twenty-six.  It was hard.  It was painful.  It took several months for me to recover.  I never made the mistake of doing it again.  I am a fast-twitch kind of runner: my muscles contract quickly and powerfully, but fatigue rapidly.  How do you make that kind of physiology work for twenty-six miles?  It is simply not for me; I was passed by a speed walker!  At the time, I don’t’ think I truly appreciated the need for training. 

Now, in my forties, I have difficulty managing the emotional and mental marathon required to raise my kids.  It completely blows my mind!  Even though I ran the marathon eighteen years ago, I have no doubt that I could (if I foolishly chose to) physically train my body to run that distance again.  But, despite vigorous training efforts, on my journey as a mom, I cannot (completely) train my mind and body to accept that there are fast-twitch and slow-twitch days – or even moments!  I continue to struggle with frustration and disappointment in myself, when it comes to parenting.  I fully accepted a 4:45 time in my first marathon, even though I knew that I could have trained harder and done better.  In the aspects of my living that require physical output, I can accept success, or failure.  If I miss a goal-scoring opportunity in a soccer game, I do not wake up at 4:00 am to question my judgment, choices, or abilities.  It simply is what it is.  Our physical efforts are so much easier to measure.  Children bring so many unpredictable challenges into our lives that it is difficult, if not impossible to train for them, to fully understand how a loving parent should handle them and behave.  So, of course, there are times when I am not at my best, and I suffer because of it.  My kids have usually forgotten the screaming tirade, angry tears or undignified treatment they have experienced in my care, before the clock has struck the next hour.  On the other hand, I carry it with me, not as an experience to prove that I am human, but as a stabbing knife, set to sustain pain. Even if it washed through on the rinse cycle, I would be fine.  But, it doesn’t and these thoughts of failure create worry and stress and eventually, depression.

This week, my body is filled with a seasonal sadness, due to the completely predictable event of returning my kids to school.  Many mothers simultaneously heave a sigh so long and restorative that it changes weather systems a hundred miles away.  I simply shudder.  Where will I go?  What will I do?  Once again the description of my job has changed so irrevocably, and so quickly that I am left questioning my very purpose.  Of course, the summer takes its toll.  Of course, I am ready to drink my coffee while it is still hot.  And yes, I am ready to give up my summer role as ‘Cruise Director’ on a ship destined for ‘Who’s in Charge Around Here Anyway’.  But the deep and abiding despair that I feel at giving my kids up to a system I am not only uncertain about, but also not in control of, is consuming.  So as you think of those mothers who now have their freedom back, also think of those who will experience some grief and loss at the sudden change to the shape of their days.  

The Straight Goods

I began styling hair for willing friends when I was a young teen.  By then, I had already cut my own hair several times.  I can remember sneaking into my Mom’s bathroom, where all the accoutrements of glamorous hair were kept, and cutting, then styling my friends’ hair.  Most of the time, it worked out quite well.

Now, through parenting three vastly different girls, my skill with hair has been put to use. In Kristin, I found an extremely willing participant; the only obstacle being the tangled web of curls that we faced on a daily basis.  But her laissez-faire attitude allowed me to experiment with various techniques and further my prowess.  That was good, because as soon as Laurèn was old enough to ‘tell me what to do’ (which incidentally was a lot sooner that I had thought possible), my hair styling days were over.  Well, temporarily over.  Faven joined our family in September of 2009 and I would soon come to realize that I was tangled up in a new set of strands. 

In ignorant bliss, while waiting (and waiting) for the adoption process to be completed, I envisioned some one-on-one time with my Ethiopian daughter creating sleek locks, fancy braids and adorable curls.  Then I met Faven - and her hair.  Each tiny, tangled, tress was coiled tighter than a dreadlock on a Rasta!  I agonized, I labored, and each day I awoke to Faven, imploring me to tame her hair.  She wanted it straightened, which took me two or three hours; she wanted it braided, I could not even get a brush through her hair to separate one section from another. Then, while I hesitantly put my fingers to the test, Faven, with fingers trained from birth, rapidly pulled and twisted on the opposite side creating small, tidy braids faster than I could even separate three pieces.  Faven’s fingers worked deftly within the hair, whereas I hovered cautiously above looking for a place to start.  It reminded me of learning to ski moguls in my 20’s; someone told me to envision the first two turns then take a deep breathe and go for it; it was equal parts skill and guts. Hair, like skiing, comes with choices and risks: bumps, twists and turns, or long, smooth, flat terrain.

Recently at Shopper’s Drug Mart while stocking up for holidays, I glanced up and saw on the aisle marker the words: Ethnic Hair.  I went curiously forth, not looking for anything in particular when I saw it – a home hair-relaxing kit for children.  My senses tingled with apprehensive delight as I remembered my own Mom applying at-home Toni perms. I tossed the box into my cart with an exuberant (yet ignorant) glee.  Faven was delighted, assuming that she would soon look just like the girl on the box cover with sleek, straight and shining black hair.  It was during our July holiday in Summerland that I pulled the box out, and the experiment began.  I had no idea what I was doing.  But that had never stopped me before!  Further, Faven encouraged me as if I were the top stylist in Canada!  Though purchasing the box was easy, the follow through was more difficult.  Faven’s natural hair is exquisite; it sparkles and shines with a golden hue atop her deep-brown, coiled locks.  It is however, like my girl herself, extremely strong, occasionally rebellious, and very difficult for either of us to manage.  Faven’s hair would easily and willingly form unwieldy, matted dreadlocks, which would require no work at all.  However, Faven, like many other ten or twelve year old girls has a picture of something else in her head.  Over our months together, and through many hours of washing, brushing, twisting, clipping, braiding, straightening, and curling I have started to see what that picture is. 

This spring, while visiting family in Eastern Canada, a brief conversation around relaxing Afro-textured hair got me thinking.  The result is this personal essay. The debate about whether it should be worn naturally or altered is long standing – historical.  Africans and their descendants have been experimenting with hairstyles (at least) since their arrival in the Western Hemisphere.  Few would argue that it was the African Diaspora, brought on by the slave trade that caused the move away from traditional styles and towards Western ones.  The argument in the late 1800’s was that it rose out of a desire to conform to a “Eurocentric standard of beauty”[1].  It is hard to imagine the devastation faced by the people who were unwittingly shipped across an ocean to a new and challenging life, a place with widespread prejudice and racial discrimination. The constant criticism and lack of acceptance may well have prompted the movement for change – towards a more acceptable style.

In the recent conversation, there was the notion that relaxing an African girl's hair (in present day) was counter-cultural.  There is much written on this topic and I cannot justly reiterate all the work and knowledge out there.  However, I believe there are opinions, which are not based in personal experience or on present-day circumstances, but in supposition and historical perspective. When does the historical cause of a shift in culture or style cease to be relevant for the subsequent generations?  Also, it seems that Caucasian people are more sensitive to and critical of other Caucasian people’s treatment of or effect on Black people.  

Well I am in a tremendous position of effect right now, being a parent in a mixed race family. But I don’t look at it that way.  Despite the challenges we might have with hair, it is truly not complicated.  Hair is just hair.  It gets cut; it grows.  It is one color, then another.  It is curly, then straight, straight, then curly. In the beginning there is none, and then some, and then, perhaps, none again.  The shape, color, texture and density are part of our unique make-up – but given the gift of free will, it is something that we can change, virtually on a whim.  Our appearance forms part of our identity and our identity is ever changing.  There is not one snapshot that describes who we were, who we are and who we will become. Hair is simply one characteristic that identifies us with a particular ethnic group or race.  Changing that feature doesn’t change our ethnic or cultural background, but illuminates what we as individuals (momentarily) identify with.

The world is a medley of diversity.  That is how it is meant to be.  Moreover, humans have been gifted with free will, regardless of whether circumstances allow the exercising of it.  For as long as we have existed, there has been desire.  Desire for food, desire for love, desire for happiness, . . . and desire for attractiveness, for change. It is not unusual then to admire a physical characteristic of another, and want it for yourself, to simply try-it-on and feel the effect. Hair is just one of those characteristics. 

I did manage to make my child happy that day, despite my nervousness and warnings to her that it might not work out as planned.  She envisioned that she would look like her older sister Kristin, not with straight hair, but with loose curls.  Truthfully, her hair more resembled that of an Afghan dog, but she really liked it.  I have no idea if I made a mistake that day, and it doesn’t really matter.  I have personally survived many hair mishaps, and so will she. Perhaps that is more of a North American privilege.  Through adoption Faven now has access to the abundance a stable family and community can provide:  abundant love, abundant shelter, abundant education, abundant medical care, abundant food, and yes, abundant hair products.  With abundance comes choice, and I have no doubt that Faven will, over time, continue to want to fit in while also celebrating the unique and beautiful being that she is – fearfully and wonderfully made.

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[1] Wikipedia

The Lighter Side

In the intensity of our living...... there is still lots of laughter.  Here are some of our lighter moments.

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Lauren:  Mom, what does Bri-dal Bow-teak mean?

Mom:  Huh........ oh, Bridal Boutique, that is a store where they sell wedding dresses.

Lauren:  Yeah...... that would explaing the puffy white dresses in the window.

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Wendy: Well, I found out some bad news today.

Ward: Oh, what was that?

Wendy:  Well, I found out that i wasn't born in the year of the Horse afterall!

Ward: Oh, but I thought you and Lauren were both horses.

Wendy: So, did I!  But Lauren wanted to know what Bumpy (grampa) and Isabel were, so we looked them up in the book.  While we were checking everybody's animal year again, i realized that the year of the Horse starts on January 20th, and i was, of course, born on the 14th.

Ward:  Oh, well what are you then?

Wendy: Well...... I am a snake.

Ward: (gulp)

Wendy:  But in Chinese mythology, the snake is capable of transformation, just like the caterpillar.

Ward: Oh, what will you be transforming into?

Wendy: A dragon.

Ward: Honey - you're already there!

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Yohannes:  Mom, do grown ups and computers know everything?

Mom: No

Yohannes: Oh.

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Yesterday afternoon I had to take Faven to her team soccer pictures at our community centre.  All the girls were fooling around waiting for their turns.  I was standing with the parents, and updating them on the week's schedule, as i am the team manager.  I happened to glance over at Faven, and she had her head tipped back chugging a clear liquid,  from - a plastic Bacardi Breezer bottle!  Shocked, I hastened over, and asked her where she got the drink - she laughed at me and informed me that it was water.  After a hearty swig, I realized that is exactly what it was.

Surrounded by Love, Stalked by Loneliness

The potential for love in my life is immense.  I have been blessed to share this journey with a loving and supportive partner, his two exceptional children (now young adults) and three children who we have welcomed into our family together.  Moreover, I have family, friends and community who love me deeply. And yet, this particular period in my life is the loneliest. 

Each day, I am kissed, hugged, snuggled, tickled, and affirmed (“You are the best Mom”) by my kids and I have to admit that there are no better moments in my days.  Life is full.  Life is busy.  We are living without margins.  As a time-driven and goal-oriented person, I don’t always think I have time to stop, simply to love and be loved.  In his book, “A Path with Heart”, Jack Kornfield poignantly reveals that following a path with a heart “transforms and touches us in the center of our being” (Kornfield, p. 12).  He also says, “in modern life we have become so busy with our daily affairs and thoughts that we have forgotten [the] essential art of taking time to converse with our heart”.  When I choose to practice this dialogue with my heart, which some traditions may refer to as prayer, my living is more in line with my values; my peace of mind is maintained.  However, I routinely align myself with my idealist and perfectionist notions of relationship and life instead of trusting the sage wisdom of tradition.

My vision of motherhood was…. somewhat different than what I have been experiencing over the last number of years.  Given my desire to become a mom and the unexpected (but consciously thought-out) journey we took towards creating a family, it is completely baffling to me that parts of motherhood challenge me to stretch and grow seemingly beyond my capabilities, beyond my comfort and beyond the place where confidence lies.  The ideal and the real, for me, share virtually no commonalities. The ideal simply begins as an idea.  Ideas form the basis for the romance we carry on with ourselves; romantic notions allow us to step forward and experience something new and unexpected.  We can get stuck in the ideal when we don’t allow experience to shape and re-shape our ideas into something that is real.  In my life, the ideal has collided with the real resulting in a chaos that has required extreme effort and will to pull out of.  Much of my adolescent life was spent creating images of marriage and motherhood.  I did not doubt either my destiny or my abilities; both have been challenged in my adult living.

Being around children has always come easy to me; I naturally relate to and enjoy them. My kids, however, have challenged me beyond imagination and revealed a somewhat demonic ugliness (in me) that has been gut-wrenching and soul breaking for me to experience.  Therefore, reaching my parenting potential has taken intentional effort and conscious ‘training’.  Through parenting seminars and personal counseling, I have honed my natural abilities, learned and practiced new parenting tools and learned about child development; all this has helped me to cope with the unforeseen demands of parenting, especially those of children with special needs.

My parenting journey has also come with an inordinate amount of grieving.  There was, in the beginning, the difficult task of getting pregnant.  Then the change of self, somehow losing and gaining parts in the depth of responsibility, the clamoring need and the wholeness required of a skilled and loving parent.  Then, far beyond my imaginings, the loving relationship I have shared with Ward has been challenged, and feels, at times, fragmented.  But it is even deeper and broader than that. 

When Yohannes’ had been in our family for a few weeks, we sat snuggled in the rocking chair, naming things in English (nose, eyes, mouth); it was an early moment of beauty, similar to moments I had shared with my newborn nestled into the crook of my arm, feeding.  However, when I looked into the pool of his deep brown eyes and wondered who this little boy was, and how exactly God had chosen us to parent him, I became aware of another presence: his birth mother; a woman who had to give him up under the worst circumstances. And I felt her trust in me.  I fully felt her loss in that moment, and have not been able to forget that sensation.  Now I am mother to another of her children.  Faven reveals to me the person her birth mother was; she remembers the pain of such a loss; Faven questions God’s motives for the path her life has taken; she misses her birth mother so deeply that she would be willing to die, so that she could see her again in heaven.  My grief is renewed for my children, and for the family that has left them and the family that we have left behind.

Over these years, with so much emotional intensity, stimulation and grief in my life, it has been difficult to be around other people.  What many people see is a happy, connected and beautiful family with parents who are not only capable, but are also successful, proactive and caring.  That is only part of the truth.  Our daily reality, right now, is that we are stressed, challenged and working as hard as we possibly can to hold our marriage and our family together.  We have so little left for anyone else and are reluctant to share our struggles – we simply have no energy or words.  We have isolated ourselves as a basic coping mechanism and also to protect ourselves from the narrative of society.

Being an introvert further removes me from the community I once thrived in.  I need time to re-energize away from people.  Those of you who have been in my presence as I am parenting my three (or four) children will understand how much stimulation I am privy to in a day – or even an hour!  Spending the majority of one’s time with people (ie. children) who are naturally and developmentally egocentric takes its toll.  Young children are naturally self-centered; it ensures that they get their needs met.  Brilliant design!  They truly have the gift of ‘living in the(their) moment’ and feeling that moment only.  Furthermore, if you add in the characteristics of AD/HD, you have a longer period of time to endure this self-centeredness!  All this knowledge does help my logical brain (and I am a logical person), however, it still challenges my emotional brain, and my energy level immensely.  When my ‘shift’ is done, or when I have a much needed ‘break’, I don’t welcome further stimulation, of any kind.  It becomes extremely difficult to maintain adult relationships with the fuel gauge sitting on empty.

One key for me is to practice gratefulness for the love I have in my life, but also to notice and be okay in the loneliness.  My life has benefited from living with intention and accepting the intensity, while consciously choosing the presence of insightful, skilled, loving and supportive counselors.  My life is filled with opportunities (disguised as challenges)!  I know that love and loneliness can and do co-exist.  Loneliness is simply a feeling that crashes down on us like a wave, but eventually drifts back out to sea.  Our thoughts are powerful creators of feelings. 

In my loneliest and most trying periods, I am but a seedling in the hands of God, capable of growth beyond my own dreams.