This Is What School Looks Like . . . I Think

I know I've already talked about wondering what a day looks like in the life of a home schooling family. But the whole month of November was difficult and I feel like we got very little accomplished. I'm told this is pretty normal - and a friend of mine who is a public school teacher says November is one of the most difficult months in traditional school, too. Knowing that it seems to be education wide makes me feel better. And maybe next November, when I'll be better prepared for so  much difficulty, will be better.

Last Monday we woke up struggling, again. I decided to start the day with our read out loud book, "The Master Puppeteer" by Katherine Patterson. We have just started studying Japan and I was hopeful that since we were so lackluster in our day already, that beginning school with something we all find enjoyable would help turn the day around. I read and the kids drew - they have to draw things that are related to what I'm reading about. I figured out pretty quickly that if I give them something to do as I read then they focus more. At first this was difficult for me, as that's really not what reading out loud to a classroom of kids looks like. It's certainly not how I did it when I was a classroom teacher. (Which is probably why I had to stop every couple paragraphs and tell kids to be quiet, stop jiggling their desk, etc.)

While I was reading I found that they were interrupting to ask questions about the clothing, surroundings and objects that were being described. I spent two months in Japan when I was 14, so I still have some knowledge of the culture, etc. They also had questions about the puppets that were being described - which I couldn't explain. One of them suggested YouTube. . . and we spent the next 1 1/2 watching videos of this specific type of Japanese puppet, how they are made and move and watching them in action. That led us to Kabuki videos and tutorials on applying their makeup, why it's only men who perform this, etc. Which led us to Geisha girls, their kimono's and how to apply makeup. Then I ventured up to the attic and dug out my box of things I kept from my trip. We spent the next two hours on the floor looking at photos, talking about all the festivals and shrines in them. I have three pair of 'flip flops' and for the rest of the day they tried to walk in them. Violet and Sarah have been trying to go from kneeling to standing in a kimono like a 'lady' does. (And I'm a bit smug because I can still kind of do it. Kind of.)

This was how we spent our day. We didn't stop until it was time for John's speech. It was a really great day. We laughed all day as we tried the shoes on - and looked at pictures of me as a 14 year old in 1987. (14 year old girls don't look like 14 year old girls today. At all. )

Then, as we were waiting for John I realized . . . we didn't do any math. Or reading. Or science. Or journal, calendar, art, grammar, flash cards. GAAAHH.

BUT, when my husband came home and I mentioned that I'd pulled my Japan stuff down he said, "Yeah, the kids told me. It sounds like they had a great time. That's all they talked about in the car the entire time."

And although we didn't get any 'subjects' done, I'm reminded that this, this being immersed in a topic, this is why we home school.

The Good Life

I had a doctor appointment today, with my primary doc who I haven't seen in 2 years. I was there for a migraine. She looked me over, sat down and said, "Well, you have a nasty migraine, we need to break it. Other than this though, how have you been? I haven't seen you."

And it hit me.

I used to see her every week or so, for some complaint. An illness, a migraine. My depression.

I looked at her, sitting there all pretty in her doctors white, me in my grunge clothes and unkempt hair, and I traveled back in time. Back to the last time I saw her. In that very room.

John and Sarah were toddling around the room, they couldn't have been older than 2 1/2 and 1 1/2. I was sitting in the chair, half hearted attempting to entertain them and keep them from screaming. I have no idea if I was successful.

I was unshowered. I was heavy. My hair was frizzy. My skin was greasy. I may have put on make up to show I was making an effort. I remember that I had on too tight yoga pants, a long sleeve tee shirt and most likely no bra. (And I totally thought I was fooling people, with this appearance.)

More showing than my physical appearance was my mental state. I know that I was shaking uncontrollably. My hands, my legs, my body. Tears flowed from eyes constantly, no matter how hard I tried to stop them. I was so humiliated at this, but I couldn't do anything about it.

I had three gorgeous kids, two of them playing at my feet, a loving husband, a wonderful home and friends. I was so ashamed that I couldn't keep it together. And nothing was working. Nothing. Not the meds. The therapy. The quiet time. The journaling. The naps. The diets. The exercising. The praying. The yoga. The power foods. I was doing it all. And I was failing.

My doctor walked in the room and I started crying even harder, asking her, begging her, "Is this me? Is this what I am? Is this what my life is? Because I need to know. If this is my life then I have to learn how to cope. If this is what I have . . . then I have to figure out how to live. Because this isn't' living. My husband needs to know if this is his wife. My kids need to know if this is their mom. I need to know if this is my life."

I remember her staring at me, caught off guard. She finally asked if I'd driven myself to the appointment - I guess I came off pretty frightening. I admitted that I did and she shook her head.

She calmed me down. Recommended I get a new psych and try some new meds. She did everything she possibly could to help me.

I'd had two stays in the mental hospital at this point, a third could be in my future if I didn't do something.

I looked at my babies. I looked at her. At myself.

And I left.

I listened, though. I got a new psych and new meds. I kept doing the work and  all of those things fell into place. I began to live.

And I havent' been back. I never called her to say, "Hey, I listened and thanks" or "You were right." I haven't said a thing.

So today as I sat there with a migraine and she asked how I was, I cried a bit and said, "Well, it's been nice not seeing you, I'll be honest. I'm doing so well. The meds have been life changing. I have a good life. Thank you."

I should have said that sooner. Since I didn't, Dr. Kelly, Thank you. Thank you for listening and not dismissing. Thank you for telling me to do something, to not just accept less than the best for myself. Thank you for telling me that my kids deserved a mom who was 'there,' my husband deserved a wife who was present and most importantly that I deserved to be me, to live and enjoy every bit of life.

I have a good life, a great life, now. Thank you.

Diaries and Depression

So, this blog is like a public diary. I know that's an oxymoron if there every has been one, but that's just what it is. Sometimes it's easier for me to write about what I'm feeling than to talk about it. Eventually I'll talk about it, and sometimes I'll talk about it first. But if I haven't talked about it to you yet? I'm not ready. So please be patient and know that when I'm ready I will. This is a place I come to understand my feelings and find a community who have felt the same. Sometimes I need that first, before talking out loud about things.

This Christmas

I will remember everything.

I will be functional.

I will be happy.

I will be present.

I will be thrilled to see my children opening gifts, not wondering when I can go back to bed.

I will be remember what gifts I received and from who.

I will appreciate the little things and the big things.

I will make dinner from scratch (not all. Just some, because I realize I am not Martha).

I will be here.

I will be healthy.

 

The Girl Who Didn't Run

On Monday I will board a train and head for NYC. Two hours later I'll be in Penn Station. And with a very, very great friend of mine, Karen. Six hours later we'll be at the closing concert of Josh Groban's Illumination tour. Did you miss the important detail there? Karen is the important part. Not Josh.

[caption id="attachment_1592" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Our Philly concert. Karen is on the far left."][/caption]

*gasp*

I met Karen three and a half years ago online. Right about the time I was really losing my mind I started talking to her. Since we only talked online I was able to paint a pretty normal picture of my life. But as we got to know each other better and our talked turned from, "OK, Josh's first CD makes my kids sleep. What's his latest??" to "I have a therapist." She was clued in.

And she didn't run.

Then I went into the hospital. The mental hospital. And I told her.

She didn't run.

I even said to her, "Now I really am some crazy person you met online!"

We met in person, and just laughed and talked for hours. She asked how I was. If I was seeing my therapist. If I was taking my medication. If I felt well. She cared.

And I was some crazy person she'd met online.

Nine months later I called her again to say I'd been back in the hospital. She already knew. My husband had told her when she'd called to check on me because she hadn't heard from me.

Again, she didn't run. She just made sure I was still coming to her house for our girls weekend.

No fear, this girl.

In July we spent our third girls weekend together and went to the Josh Groban concert. Yes, it was a thrill  to see him. But the bigger thrill? Spending that time with Karen. And now, here we are another four months later ready to do it all again. Heading to NYC for a mere 24 hours to act like teenagers, giggle, dance and scream  for this random singer that literally brought us together.

But the greatest part? Karen. The girl who didn't run.

The War Within

Someone said to me the other day, "Oh, you suffer from depression." And for the first time I thought, "NO, no I do not suffer from depression."

I used to suffer.

Awakenings

I'm awake, fully and completely awake. I know it to be true. And I know that I'm not going to slip back into that hole at any moment.

Finally.

Freedom. Relaxation. Room to take a deep, deep breath. Smile unguarded. Laugh with complete ease.

Live. Just live.

I know that for over two years I was not present. I am aware, now, how checked out how I was. There was no happiness in my life, despite an incredible husband and three beautiful children. I couldn't find the joy there. I remember searching for it but even when I found something to spark my interest it couldn't hold my attention for very long. I remember just laying on the sofa as the kids played or watched television.When I did interact I yelled. John was barely two years old. Sarah barely three. That put Violet in the care taker role.

The guilt that comes with it sits on my chest and weighs it down so I cannot breathe at times. It is a heavy, wet, sucking weight.

But today I play with them. Television is practically banned in our home. Do I still yell? Yes, but mostly because I'm a loud (oh, so loud) person.

I know I have large chunks memory that are gone. Some are not going to return. I feel the truth in that deep inside me. But for the most part I've come to accept that, even if it still brings me to tears. I'm noticing more details that I've forgotten, but I'm more comfortable with it.

 I'm also living in the moment. In this very moment. Right here. Right now. I'm not worried. I'm not self checking, looking for signs of me checking out. I do this, yes. But not every single hour of every single day. Or even every day.  I know that I'll have to be vigilant and fight this enemy, depression, forever. But while I fight it, I'm fighting it totally and completley awake. I'm aware of everything. This weekend I was present for every moment. And during our drive to Michigan yesterday I realized that I've been present, completely awake and alive, for months now. All June and July we ran around like crazy. And I enjoyed every moment of it. I remember all the swim meets. I remember the names of the women I met -- and how I met them. I'm still over emotional but I'm beginning to think that's  just me. I always was way too empathetic. I just forgot how to be that way when I was busy concentrating on breathing. And medicating the world away.

Today I just have good days. There aren't bad days looming on my horizon.  I have bad moods. The kids drive me crazy. But I'm not crazy. I'm not sad. I'm not waiting for a good day to get something done.

I'm just . . . awake. Alive.

And with that's how it's going to stay.

*I'm on my laptop, which is overly sensitive (as well) and jumpy. The spell check won't work, so please forgive any mistakes. Thanks!*

A Bitter, Yet Oh So Sweet Day

Two years ago a dear friend of mine called me. She said she was driving through the town where we taught in Michigan. When I asked why she was in Michigan she told me her brother had commited suicide.

I told her I was sorry. But I had to go. I had a thing to get to.

Really. 

I worked through some of the hardest, most shocking days of my teaching career with this woman. We met the week before our first day of teaching -- ever.

One day, very early on in our first year of teaching, I walked into her classroom and found her curled up next to one of her students, just talking to him. She calmly wiped the drool, gently blocked his spastic movements, laughed when he laughed, and I'm telling you right now -- they were having a full on conversation. I learned more in that one moment about teaching and loving children with severe mental impairments than I had in three classes and a five week practical.

Oh. And we dated the same boy. (And he was such a boy.) At the same time. Only at first we didn't know it.  And when I continued to date him ::head desk:: she didn't stop being my friend. Instead she helped me find an apartment in town and helped move me. We actually grew closer. I joined the same gym as her. We did aerobics together, went for long walks (oh sweet lord, those long walks with her long legs!), and after our marathon workouts we'd go to this great little ice cream hut and get a shake or cone. Totally makes sense.

When she was pregnant with her second, I was pregnant with John. When she was in early labor I was lucky enough to be on the phone with her. That right there is beyond awesome. John was born about two weeks after her second daughter.

So. Why did I say I had a 'thing' to get to?

Well, because I was at the height of my depression, and on my way into the hospital. I went to that 'thing,' only I remember very little about it. My friends, Mary, Kendall, and Carolyn tell me about that day every now and again. I honestly only remember bits and pieces.

I remember what I wore. (Because that's important.) And that I had to get Mary's house to borrow a Silpada ring. (Becasue, again, important.) I remember walking through Mary's house for the first time and having tunnel vision. I remember that I couldn't find my way there and it's two turns and five miles from my house.  I remember thinking, "I got this. Totally." Those friends now tell me they all thought, "What the fuck is wrong with Kim?" (That's word for word, all told to me without the knowldege of the other person. And these are all classy ladies, so don't go judging them for dropping the F-bomb. That's how messed up I was.)

That is so frightening. So very sad.

Mary actually tried to track me down, get me to go to lunch,  but I had gotten lost in the parking garage. For a half an hour.

On the way home I called my sister in law, Kerry and told her I was on the way home. Then I got in an accident. That I don't remember. NOT  because it was terrible and tramautic. It wasn't. It was just my van and the curb. I remember calling Kerry back and laughingly saying something like, "I won't be home! I just got in an accident!" And then thinking, "I don't know what to do." By the grace of God  a tow truck driver was following me. He knocked on my window and asked if I was OK. I do clearly remember looking at him and saying, "Yes. But I don't know what to do. I just don't  know. Should I call my husband?" And he must have walked me through what to do.

I don't remember anything else of that day.

The next morning my husband took me to the hospital.

Two months later I off handedly said, to my therapist, "And then I got into the accident. Wait. WHAT?"

I'd forgotten that I'd forgotten. How's that for messed up?

But today. Today is two years later. Today I will call my friend and tell her thank you. For still talking to me. For understanding. For giving me a second chance. For letting me explain why I didn't listen to her at the worst possible moment in her life. She, somehow, understands that I entering one of the worst possible moments in my life.

Today I will take care of my children. I will possibly paint, weed the garden and clean the kitchen.

Most importantly? I will remember this day.

And all the days that come after. I will remember the smiles and sighs, the laughs and cries. The 'I love you's' and 'How dare you's'.' I will remember the way John grabs our face and turns it towards him when wants something. I will remember the way Sarah screamed, "Today is the day! This is it!" When she got the news telling her she was going to be an angel in the Nutcracker this December. I will remember the way Violet beamed and said, "Thank you, Mom. I just love my nails and hair. I love you." After her spa and salon birthday party with her three best friends on Saturday. I will remember the way my husband makes chocolate appear every time I say, "I could go for some chocolate." and how I see love in his eyes when he looks at me. I will remember the amazing family and girlfriends I've surrounded myself with.

And now I have a phone call to make.

New Directions

I've spent the last week doing a lot of thinking about this little blog of mine. I started it with a specific purpose in mind: to tell others that they are not alone in the battle against depression and to prove that by sharing my story. Graphically. I've read so many stories about depression that leave me going, "Nope. I'm alone." Because they are santitzed and prettied up. That's not what I want to do. I share the grit and the grime. I show the postivie outcome, but I'm not going to tell you that I ever, ever pulled off the facade of making it. Because I didn't.

And I came to the realization this past week that I can no longer do this. I can't be totally honest. I can't edit myself. But because of the way my blog posts I've started having to do this. It's my own fault. When I first started blogging I posted my blog to my personal Facebook page. And since I knew all of you there, I was fine with you reading it. I was scared, yes. Not all of you knew what had happened. Most of you didn't know. And I was afraid that some of you would run, screaming into the night. But the most amazing thing happened: not one single person did. Not one. I recieved more postive comments, likes and private e-mails than I'd ever thought possible. And it's continued. Every time I post something and somebody I'm not aware is reading likes the post or comments, I'm blown away.  And this is not the problem.

The problem is, Facebook has become a way of connecting with new friends. Friends I'd like to coordinate playdates with, coffee with. Friends I'm not sure when or if I'll ever share the depths of my struggle with. And by posting my blog to Facebook I shove it all out there. So it's like, "Hey, we should totally get Violet and Suzie together for a playdate this summer! Find me on Facebook!" Then the mom finds me, and wham! She's on my blog. Reading about cavity searches and suicidal thoughts. That's really something I'd like to ease her into, you know?

So. I know that a lot of you come through my personal Facebook page. But I'm not going to be posting my blog to that page anymore. I'm asking that you come in a different way. There are three ways you can come in, two of which do not require you to set up any kind of account. I promise it's easy!

1. Click on the 'follow' button. You'll need a google/gmail account for this.

2. Enter your email into the 'feedburner' box. I don't see your email, feedburner doesn't see it. You don't get e-mails from anybody else but my blog. When I post, you get the post in your in box. You can read it there, or click into my blog.

3. 'Like' my fan page on Facebook and when I publish my blog you will get a notification on your Facebook page.

That's all. I truly, truly value your reading. When you leave comments or like my posts it makes me smile and warms my heart. Like you wouldn't believe. I count them and hold them with me.

This Is Why

Last night I chatted with a friend across the Atlantic Ocean. We've never met in person, but she is a dear, dear friend and I love her deeply. She's warm and funny, kind and loving. She has the sweetest smile and the absolute loveliest voice. Recently she sent me an e-mail with the subject line, "Hey Kim" and then she just asked for help.

A mutual friend, knowing what I've been through, suggested she tell me what was going on. And so we've been talking two or three times a week about depression and meds and therapy. About doing the work and how hard it is. About letting go of things and making new habits. About crying jags, memory loss, triggers, living, not living, surviving and the fact that she will survive and dammit, she will live. (Do you hear me? I know you are reading. You will.)

A few days ago I received an e-mail from a fellow blogger asking if she could pick my brain. So we talked. Turns out she's visiting this play ground I call depression, as well.  We've exchanged a few e-mails, laughed at our 'TMI' moments (uhm, I still win, I blogged about it!) and I think I actually answered a few of her questions.

And so I realized, I did it. When I started this blog I wanted to help just one person. I wanted to let just one person know that they were not alone in this. I wanted to encourage, cheer, push and love on other people who felt unloved in this ugly place of depression. I wanted to explain depression in easy, every day, no nonsense terms so others could understand. I wanted to make others see the humor in this situation, because I see it.

Somehow, in some crazy way, I did a little bit of that.

My friend across the Atlantic is explaining her depression to her friends as she is experiencing it. Do you see the wonder in that? She 's telling them about it in real time.

If is sounds like I'm patting myself on the back? It's because I am. These two ladies let me know that I am getting the word out. And that was my goal. (So, my emotional vomiting on you all is working. Yay for you!)  :)

And The Oscar Goes To . . .

First, I have super exciting news :) Diana, over at Hormonal Imbalances invited me to do a little guest post over at her place today. She's all kinds of awesome-sauce, so jump on over there and see what I had to say about potty training John and how incredibly well that went. And check her out while you're there. I puffy heart her. Her take on life as a SAHM, natural parenting and blogging cannot be missed. Plus? My husband has known her before she was born. Crazy, No?

Over here, today I have this to share with you:  I am not Meryl Streep. I am not Rene' Zellweger. I am not an Oscar winning actress. This may not come as news to you, but to me? Sorta.

You all know about my fight with depression. I've talked about how I fought it, I tried to fix it, I was hospitalized because of it. I also hid it. Or, I thought I hid it. I was wrong.

I ran into a friend this weekend. I've known her forever, but we haven't sat down together in ages. Since before I fell apart. Through a strange series of events, one of her best friends bought a house around the corner from me. So now I have two amazing women right smack in my face. (Uhm, hello answered prayer?)

Anyway, we saw each other and our kids were playing together. And then she said, "I read your blog." And I knew from the way she waited for us to be alone that she meant business. She wasn't about to pat me on the back and say, 'how cute!' I drew a deep breath, because I suddenly realized that she had read all about my depression -- the meds, the hospital stays, the crying, the guilt, the grief.  And she'd known me, seen me a few times a week when this was all happening. My mind started to race as I thought of how to explain that during that time, when we saw each other at school pick up, that I was hiding my problems. How I was pulling it together to deceive her and everyone else. She, too, took a deep breath and told me, "I saw you one day and I knew. You were pale and unkempt. And I knew. But I guess I didn't know how to say . . . what? Were we close enough for me to say something? I mean, I have a degree in family counseling. But I didn't do anything. And I think I knew."

Right there, in the midst of a birthday party, my heart swelled with such gratitude for this woman. I didn't know what to say.  My eyes filled with tears and I didn't bother to hide them from anybody.  I hugged her and said, "Thank you so very much." And then I let her know, I hope, that I really don't think she could have said or done anything that would have changed things for me.

I'm beginning to see that I had to go through this. In order for me to be here, where I am right now, I had to be there two and half years ago. Does it suck? Large hairy donkey balls. Do I understand why? Not even remotely. But I do know that without having been there and mucking through it like I did, I wouldn't be healthy today.

After I left the party I sat and really thought about what she'd said. Thought about what might have happened if she'd approached me and gotten my attention. And said what? I was a steaming pile of a hot mess. I was desperately holding onto the idea that I was fooling everybody. And failing miserably. Again, not an Oscar winning actress. Shocker, right?  I would have been defensive and completely denied any and all help she offered.  Yes, even friendship. I didn't nurture friends during that time, so there is no way our friendship could have blossomed. There is no way she could have quietly, unobtrusively helped me.  So, no. Nothing would have changed.

But as I stood there, listening to her, I felt . . . lifted up. Supported. Loved. She wasn't judging me. She wasn't running, screaming, in the other direction. She was doing exactly the opposite. She was, in fact, throwing herself in front of this crazy train. Because she didn't have to say a thing. I would never know that she suspected. I would never know that she felt this way. But instead of hiding, she put it out there. She made herself vulnerable to me. To me. To this crazy lady.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt normal.

I also felt incredibly blessed. Because what kind of person comes to you and says, hey, I think I realized there was a problem but I didn't know what to do and I wished I had done something and I didn't. So I wanted to say I'm sorry I didn't reach out. What kind of person is that honest? That vulnerable? What kind of person puts herself out there like that? I'll tell what kind of person. One that I want on my side, in my corner. The kind of woman I want to call my friend. The kind of woman I want to be when I grow up. 

See, she knew me 'when.' And she knows me 'now.' She might have watched from a distance, but she saw, oh, she saw. And instead of leaving, she has said, "I know, I'm telling you I know, and if it happens again? Oh, I will tell  you I KNOW."

That accountability is something I crave. It means she cares to stay around and that I'm not scary.

So, in the middle of a loud, giggle filled birthday party for a seven year old I was given an extrodinary gift. It was the best gift. And Kirsten? Thank you. From the bottom of my soul. I cannot express what you have given me. Thank you.

And, I see coffee, kids, laughter, play dates and giggling in our future. Ready?

A Purpose Driven Life

Irene, Matthew, Violet, Elizabeth Christams '05

What is the purpose? I've been asking myself this question a lot the past few weeks. What is the purpose for my depression? It was and is so huge. I lost such a large piece of time to it. Now that I am healing and learning, there must be a reason for it. I do not believe that I went through all that despair and anxiety to come out on the other end and do nothing with the knowledge. I believe there is a purpose.

Sometimes we learn the purpose for something immediately, other times it takes years to see it. Whenever I start to doubt that there is a purpose I think back to when I had my first miscarriage. 

We kind of planned for that baby, in that we did nothing to prevent him or her from being created. So when I didn't feel well and took a pregnancy test, we weren't exactly shocked at the positive result. Violet was nine months old and we were ecstatic about having another baby. We quickly told the world. 

My friend, Jill, came over to watch Violet while I went for my ultra sound appointment, alone. We wouldn't be hearing a heartbeat or anything like that during the ultrasound, (it was too early) so I insisted my husband go to work. 

I'm not going to get into the details of the appointment in this post.

Although there was a sac, there wasn't a baby. To say I came unglued would be an understatement. I only remember crying and shaking, and people staring at me. They escorted me out a back door so I didn't pass back through the waiting room full of pregnant moms. Because I was no longer pregnant.

My husband came and got me, took me home. Then he and Jill went back to get my car. On the way back to our house he called his mom. We needed her to come help us watch Violet when I went back to the hospital for the procedure.

My mother in law is an incredible woman. I simply adore her. She is probably the most organized person I've ever met. She's practical, well planned and scheduled. She's kind and quietly loving, gentle and thoughtful.

My husband called her at 11 o'clock, told her what had happened and could she help? I expected her around 7 o'clock. She was at work, lives an hour and half from us, needed to finish the day, get home, pack, fix my father in law dinner and drive here.

So at 2 o'clock I was a bit surprised when I heard a noise, looked up and saw my mother in law rushing at me with open arms. She wrapped me in a huge hug and held me while I sobbed. I'd been on the phone with my mom, but it wasn't the same, you know? I needed to be touched. To feel. To connect. And there Irene was, just holding me, letting me sob and snot all over her.

For the next three days Irene stayed with us, cooking for us, taking Violet when I was short tempered or the sadness welled up inside me and even my baby couldn't soothe it.

We sat and had pots of tea in pretty cups, talked about marriage and babies and love and sorrow and cried. I'd known her for just about three years at that point, but during those three days I actually got to know her. I got to know the woman that is my husbands mother. The woman that carried him in her belly. That felt him move for the first time and felt joy in it. Loved him first. Held all his hopes and dreams in her heart. I never knew this woman. But in that time of great sorrow came a great knowledge. And I've taken that knowledge with me.

It's no secret that the past few years have been difficult, to say the least. When I have been humiliated and horrified by what I have had to ask of my family, Irene has always shown up at my door. When I flinch away I am reminded of this time, this time when we sat and cried over that first lost babe and I really got to love her. And for that, I am thankful. That is the purpose.

Kim