Thank you.

Thank you for recognizing I wasn’t ok.

I’m really good at hiding it. Almost flawlessly at times. You know that.

Today, even through my mask, you knew I wasn’t.

I could barely spit out the words, “I’m very…” (deep breath, don’t cry) “…triggered coming here this time of year.”

And without hesitation you replied, “tell me about Charlie.”

You know, that he is my saving grace. Even if he is the reason I’m not ok. He’s also the thing that makes me better.

I flawlessly rattled off the last several months of events. You turned to your medical student and referring to me said, “Shelby is one of my most sophisticated parents, as you can tell.”

Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that the person who broke down repeatedly on the drive and pulled into the parking ramp sobbing is a sophisticated parent.

You continued your exam. We went over head to toe of my handsome, curly haired boy. We reviewed medical records from other providers. I told you I already knew where this was all headed, but I’d play along. You laughed, because you know I’m right.

We devised future, strategic treatment plans. You asked me for my input. We discussed the new providers replacing some of our most beloved. You explained things medically and on my level to answer my questions. I love all of this about appointments with you.

Just as you were getting ready to depart. You looked me in the eye and asked if I’d like a hug. And the me inside that despises hugs kind of jumped for joy that you had caught on.

Thank you. Thank you for empathizing on a level that I don’t often feel. I heard your gentle sob. I felt your deep breath. I embraced your compassion full heartedly.

Today, you were more then my son’s medical specialist. Today you demonstrated what Patient and Family Centered Care is. You did it beautifully.

And as you closed the door you added, “I’m not going anywhere.” How wonderfully fortunate we are for that.

I’d like to start with my apologies for my absence. Life seems to be quite consuming as the children grow, and my priorities are in order. With them forever remaining at the top.

Today however, I have some feelings to share. If you wouldn’t mind, we’re going to go 6-years back in time.

I woke up to a feverish babe. Not like slightly feverish, like this child had been pulled straight out of hell. With no sign or reason for this, I rushed to the Emergency Department.

There was no use questioning me, by now we’d been there so many times only the Lord really knew the count. The ED staff knew our names, they knew his medical status, and they immediately began his routines.

Pneumonia? Maybe it’s pneumonia. They checked the X-Ray. They cultured his blood. They cultured his urine. Then they put us in an ambulance, again. On our way to our second home.

The nurses in the hallway waved and smiled as he was admitted straight to the cardiac unit this time. He was a local celebrity.

Now connected to all of his wires and IVs, they began antibiotics for the unknown.

He was getting sicker by the minute.

They found a blood infection in his broviac line. The line coming from his chest.

The worst part came later. It wasn’t just contained to that line, it was in all of the blood. In his entire body.

He was septic.

I was scared. Which is the biggest understatement you’ll read to date. Let’s try again.

I was out of my mind terrified.

If you’d been there 6-years ago. You would’ve complimented me for how well I was handling everything. Told me “I just don’t know how you do it.” You would’ve seen me calm and collected. And I was.

I could mask my feelings of terror and sadness beautifully. Now some of you won’t believe this part, but even my frustration was pretty minimal on the outside.

I was numb. I had trapped in and shut off any pipeline that could present outward emotion. I was inwardly preparing my defenses.

Turns out, while I was busy turning off pipe lines, my body was making some core memories. Like the ones in Disney’s Inside Out. Except I didn’t have a pink, cotton candy elephant in an outdated suit and a wagon to help me access those.

I just had me. And me wasn’t touching it.

Me now however, has a lot of things to feel about that.

Turns out, opening those pipes back up isn’t as controllable as one would like. Imagine it something like turning on the garden hose. You forget that the sprayer setting is on jet. So you quickly try to turn it to sprinkler and end up at flood before you can make it back around a couple times to the right setting?

By then the water has shot off the house a couple of times, sprayed dirt into your face, and you’re soaked in water and there’s really nothing you can do but finish the task at hand. The next time you try again, and again, and again, for as many times as it takes. And maybe, just maybe, one of these times- you’ll show that PTSD who has gained control of the sprayer.

One morning, waking up to a core memory won’t feel like a stab to the heart. Today wasn’t that day, but the pink elephant is telling me we’re going to get there.

You know that meme, the one that says, “If I’m ever murdered or kidnapped, please don’t make up lies about me.” (If you don’t- go find it.)

This meme makes me laugh, unnecessarily hard actually. I find it extremely relatable. Upon growing older, despite my sweet daughter’s insistence that I’m 23 or 28, or anything under 30, I’ve been taking a lot of time to reflect.

Here’s how I imagine mine goes:

Her smile did not light up a room. It was often uncertain if her smile even existed. Upon meeting her, you questioned your status immediately. If you made it through the screening process, you would learn, there was a smile hidden there. If you wanted to see it, you had to earn it.

Her mouth, it was pirate worthy. Her filter broke the day she learned her child’s heart was broken. That was the day she learned everyone had feelings, and sometimes they need expressing.

She learned feelings needed expressing. However, it would take her years to learn how you do that the right way. She did not do emotions. They made her feel weak and uncomfortable.

She feared failure, failure in any capacity it came. Parenting. Friendship. Marriage. Work. Life. She failed often, or at least she always felt like she did.

She was difficult. In communicating. In compromising. In changing. In existing.

But…

If it was important to her. You knew it. She was an advocate for everything she held value in. And she held value in a lot.

She believed in the good of others. She believed that progress was always possible. She believed that everyone deserved a chance, or several. Even, when those chances personally hurt her. She believed in people.

And…

If she loved you, you knew she loved you. She gave everything in her. Everything. All of it. She didn’t know the word no. If you needed her, whatever it was for, it mattered more than her.

I played again today. It’s been over 4 years. Some things, some things are just harder than others to pick back up again. Some things are harder to start again with someone that’s not the same someone. But it was time. So I bought a board, the closest I could get to looking just like the one I learned on (I did damn good).

And I taught Charlie.

I taught Charlie the game we loved to play most. He got frustrated. He cheated. A lot. I got frustrated. He told me I cheated. We got frustrated. We kept playing. And it was just like I was sitting there 25 years ago, when Papa taught me.

We’d spend hours playing Chinese Checkers, he in the chair, me on the floor, with the board placed on the rolling foot stool between us. Which was basically just hours of endless defeat for me. He was never easy on me and he never let me win. What he did, was he taught me how to learn. I had to play to learn, I had to try to learn, and I had to be willing to be defeated. Over and over and over again. Because he was damn good.

And one day, many years later. Many defeats past. I won.

In my small little heart, beating Papa was when I knew I had arrived. Strike up the band, get my crown, the queen has taken the throne.

And for Papa, that was a proud moment. I can still see the smile on his face. He taught me to learn. He taught me to lose gracefully. He taught me to learn some more. And with that he taught me to win.

As I was teaching Charlie, he asked several times with hope, “am I winning?”

“No bud. But you’re not going to win. You’re learning. I’m teaching you how to play and you’re going to lose a lot first. But you’re just learning. The day you beat me, that’s when you know you’re good. I’m the “Papa” you now have to beat.”

In your little life, it’s my responsibility to teach you how to lose, in all of the ways Papa taught me. And how to lose often. Because you will lose often.

You can’t cheat your way across the board. You can’t double jump your marble without following the lines. And you can’t move the marble at the top of the pyramid straight to the bottom row.

What you are to young to realize and what I was to young to realize then, is that while we are being defeated, while we are learning how to lose with dignity and grace, we are learning how to win with respect. Through all of those endless games of defeat, we are winning.

I didn’t win all those years ago because he let me. I didn’t win because I cheated. I won, because I took the time to learn how. And when I could’ve accepted my defeat and quit. I kept learning. Because I wanted to win and I wanted to earn it.

I never thought that one day, I would be sitting at the counter trying to teach a child, much like myself, a game passed down by family tradition, when those memories would flood back in. I never thought that one day, I would be the “Papa” to beat.

So I played again today. With a new someone. A someone who needs me to teach him all of the somethings Papa taught me. And while I teach him to lose, he’s learning the valuable lesson, of how to earn that win and the respect that goes with it.

In the last couple of months, I’ve started any number of posts. And I’ve stopped every one. I have drafts of drafts and revisions and updates and nothing seemed to be what I wanted. Nothing what I thought worthy of sharing. Nothing I finished. But I’m a blogger, so something had to come out eventually…

I wanted to be honest, I wanted to ask you to withhold your judgments on something you know nothing about, I wanted to let you know how okay I am, I wanted you to know how ok my children are, I wanted you to know the answers to the questions you keep asking. But you never asked me.

So I didn’t share.

At the end of the day, the answers you seek so desperately, even though they are none of your damn business, are never going to be the right ones. Because even with them, you’ve made your judgment.

I wanted to tell you that your judgments hold no value. And then that felt like you’d think they did. The ridiculousness of the human mind astounds me.

I hope that the versions of me you’ve decided upon in your head, are good ones. Maybe, I’m the heroic mom who made the difficult move, in the best interests of her children. Maybe, I’m the woman who left behind emotional disaster, and you’re proud of me for doing the hard thing. Maybe, you really don’t give a shit (this is my favorite version of me that you’ve made up.) Or maybe, your version of me isn’t good. Maybe, your version of me is the one you drew up in your head, with the answers to the questions, you never asked me.

I’m ok with all of that.

I don’t need you to be.

I need me to be.

And you know what version of me is my ultimate fav? The real one. Have you met her? She’s god damn amazing AF!

I can tell you, that I’m ashamed for how I judged others in my situation. And I’m sorry. I can tell you that I never knew any of the feelings they had. I can tell you that I never understood why they would put their children through that. I can tell you that I have learned. I can tell you that I will never again judge anyone in that situation. And I can tell you, that what you think is going on, is not.

Not that you asked me.

But, thanks for asking.

One of the most beautiful souls I know, and I have the privilege to call a fellow Mama Bear, brought this story to me tonight. With all of its love and straight up realness, it needed to be shared. And supporting my tribe, that is something I’ll do in a hot second.

From the beautiful soul of Megan:

“Pink hangers….

I was in the middle of doing respite foster care for a 4 year old girl and a 3 month old baby boy recently. With two one year olds of my own, I had 4 kids under 4 living in my home. I was less than put together at this point.

My in-laws had taken my girls for the night so we could have some form of “rest” (sleep through the night, not bathing 4 children at the same time, actually getting to eat supper, take your pick…) and the night was going very well.

My hubby was rocking the baby and watching the news and I was putting my girls’ laundry away. I grabbed their hangers to hang their clothes and the 4 year old was in the room listening to music. She looked and said what’s those things. I replied they are hangers to hang your clothes on. She said yeah but they’re pink, they make pink ones of those? I said yes sweetie they come in all kinds of colors. She ends the conversation with oh I’ve never had pretty pink hangers like that before.

Consider my world ROCKED. To her these were not JUST hangers.

They were PINK hangers.

Now, I don’t know the back story of this girls family situation, nor does it matter. What matters here is that with that comment, this girl knocked me down to a level so low that I looked up to her. So low that I had never even considered that my girls wouldn’t have pink hangers, they’re girls right? Obviously you get pink hangers to hang their clothes. But to her, one, we had hangers. And two they were pink.

I stood there for a minute. And she carried on with her music and dancing. And then I walked out to the kitchen to help make supper and told my husband the story. All the while still thinking it’s just a hanger but to her it’s so much more. It’s someone who is there to hang up your clothes and cares enough to care that you want pink hangers not just plain hangers or no hangers.

So- I marched right back into that room. I said sweetie where are your clothes you picked out for school tomorrow? She handed them to me. I said pick out a hanger. She grabbed that pink hanger and I hung those clothes right up on there.

And you guys- the smile that came across that girls face, my heart almost couldn’t take it.

It’s more than just a hanger.”