Given the amount of setbacks, disappointments, and family drama in my life before I ever left middle school, one would think that nothing could get to me very easily. When I ended my very intense, romantic, on-again-off-again relationship of three years back in 1999, I sank into a very deep pit of constant sadness. That same summer, when my biological parents that had promised to pay for my fifth year of undergrad changed their minds with less than one month until classes began, I panicked. Luckily for me, my husband (then brand new boyfriend) was there to pick me up and put me back together.
Moving from the east to the Midwest proved to be more than a challenging experience for me. I was enrolled in graduate school in a field that was not my passion, living in an extreme weather environment, living in sin with my husband (then fiancé), and I felt like I was in a foreign country in terms of the people. Sadly, that feeling never went away completely, even after eleven years. I had such a difficult time processing all that change at once that my guy suggested I see a counselor or he would ship me back to my folks. Yes, it was that bad.
When my wedding dress came in in the wrong size, I worked it out with the seamstress pretty easily and without much stress. When I got pregnant nine days after we got married, I was excited, even though this was not our plan. When it came time to deliver my first child, I just did what had to be done with determination. When I got put on restricted activity with my second pregnancy, it was no big deal.
When the grandfather I grew up with as my next-door neighbor got cancer and died, I got sad and fat. I am an emotional eater. When I nearly lost my third child due to partial placental abruptions and preterm labor, I worried constantly and hid it by knitting. For a year or more after she was born, I cried just thinking about what almost was. When I found out I was pregnant for a fourth time, quite unexpectedly, I was angry and scared until two weeks before she was born. I still carry guilt over this. When my husband had to leave us behind for nine months while he moved to the east coast for a new job, I went into survival mode. I had mild PTSD for nearly one year after we were reunited.
Yes, I can roll with some punches, but others knock me to the ground. I will manage through faith in Jesus Christ, that I know. In fact, I am more affected by the imminent passing of my grandma than anything else right now. And just like with Grandpa, I know I am eating emotionally and sleeping more and not interacting enough.
At least I have valued the time I have had left with my dear Grandma, and my girls have grown to adore her just as much as the rest of us. We helped her pick produce in her garden last summer. We baked her zucchini bread from the zucchini we picked in her garden. The girls ate Freezey Pops all summer with her last year. We spent most of the summer in West Virginia, taking in all the time and memories we could with my parents and Grandma. We have visited her. We have called her. We have loved her.
And she has loved us.
We are blessed.
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