Look for the Helpers

 

As I’m hitting the end of my 40s, I’m so much more aware of the pain that each person carries with them.  No one is free from some sort of tragedy in their lives.  Death, divorce, miscarriage, money troubles, cancer, diabetes, mental health issues, kids growing up and wanting to live their own lives (How dare they?!), each crisis has the potential to change our attitude towards life. 

For me, a mostly introvert who lives with a bit of anxiety, it’s easy to get overwhelmed.  When bad things happen, I retreat to my bed and don’t want to see or talk to anyone. But what if I could reframe the big bad moments in my life with the hundreds of little sweet moments that  also are in my life?

 

One of my worst moments/seasons happened sixteen years ago, after the birth of my son.   After a relatively easy pregnancy and birth experience, I got sick.  Really sick. I had mastitis, an infection in my breast, which can be resolved with antibiotics.  But though a series of misdiagnosis and a little denial on my end, the saga eventually ended after two surgeries, a week in the hospital with temps above 104 degrees, multiple visits by infectious disease doctors and surgeons, AND a month of antibiotics.  I knew my short maternity leave (8 weeks for me, all we could afford at the time) would be tiring, with a newborn and 18-month-old Jaelin at home.  But I was a healthy young mother, who had never been to the hospital except for the birth of our kids.  Who imagined that things would go wrong? Kumar and I still have a hard time talking about those weeks, or watching TV shows when people are wheeled to emergency surgery, without feeling mild PTSD.

I recovered completely, and went on with life, but for years I tried not to even think about that time.  Why?   Because I’m a crier, and a bit of a stuffer when it comes to hard emotions.  When I had Wilo, 3 years later, I got mastitis again, but I nipped it in the bud.  It was a win, and I thought I was over it, and moved on busily raising three kids under five, but sixteen years later I still get teary when I think of that time. 

It’s time (maybe way past time) to acknowledge my feelings and reframe the whole story, so I can move on.

 

I felt regret.  What if I called the doctor sooner? Did I catch those germs by going out too soon after giving birth?

I felt anger.  The doctors/midwives didn’t take my concerns seriously at first.  I even daydreamed about filing a complaint against the surgeon who told me to “stop crying” while she cut away at my infected breast in her office. 

 I felt jealousy. I had a crew of friends who had their second/third babies and were enjoying their maternity leaves with their families, and meeting at the playground. I was changing bandages and formula feeding my son (the horror!). 

 

 

 

 

But thoughts control our minds and even our bodies, so while I am acknowledging that it was a terrible time, and not wishing for it to ever happen again, there were also moments of joy in those eight weeks.  This time, I’m thinking and talking about the helpers.  I certainly was never alone during that time – I have a huge Indian family who lives nearby and a church full of people who supported us.    

 

The helpers….

 

My husband who changed some nasty bandages in the weeks after my surgery.  He’s always been the best nurse in our house.  I can’t even look at wiggly teeth without grimacing.

My mom who took weeks off of work to take care of me and my two kids under 2.  She’s a devoted “ammachi” (grandma in her language, Malayalam), who continues to help raise our kids when we want to give up. 

My old roommate, Minnie, who came over on the drop of a hat to take care my little ones while I was in the ER, and then gave Kumar stellar advice on how to get second opinions and better care at the hospital. 

Other friends who dropped by to chat, bring my favorite childhood treats and flowers and just sat with me.  If I try to name them, I will invariably leave someone out and ruin this love fest.    I was always surrounded by love.  I am always surrounded by love.  If I have to remember the pain, I also have to remember the love.