The Blessing of Goodbye

My dad with Nyah in the Summer of 2009

My father was a truck driver and as such listened to talk-back radio on the road all-day every day.  Some time ago as my dad listened to the radio, for a few weeks running he noticed that quite frequently there was discussion on prostate cancer or commercials from the Australian Health Department admonishing men over the age of 55 to get tested for prostate cancer.  Dad started to feel like the radio was speaking directly to him and he did something about it.  I was almost 14 years of age when my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  I can’t really say it meant much to me at that young age and my dad hid things very well.  I have mentioned previously that my father was not much of a talker by way of feelings.  Talker he was, but not the mushy, touchy, feely stuff. 

There were a number of avenues dad could have taken to treat the illness and after much consideration dad opted to have his entire prostate removed.  During this period my uncle, dad’s brother was diagnosed with cancer of the bladder.  The brothers were actually on the cancer ward of the hospital at the same time.

Cancer is not a disease that just goes away.  Even for those who have fought cancer and have been given full remission, have to have things monitored.  There are periodic blood tests that let one know if the cancer is at bay.  For the next 17 years of y father’s life, he would have these blood tests, indicating a rise or fall in the blood count.  A rise in the blood count, as far as I could tell was not a good thing and every quarter when dad would near the time of the test, he would be on edge.  He wouldn’t say anything, but mum and I always knew that it was on his mind.

Over the course my dad’s battle with cancer he remained positive.  He did not sink to the depths of despair, nor did he cry out, shaking his fits at the heavens screaming “why me”?  He got on with his life, doing all the things he loved.

From 1994 to 2012 my dad’s battle with cancer was a rollercoaster ride.  He had had every kind of treatment there is to keep the cancer at bay, minus chemotherapy.  For some reason dad never wanted any of that rubbish in his system.  His theory was “sometimes the cure is worse than the complaint”.  It was at the end of 2010 that we learned dad’s cancer had spread to his bones.  It was found in his spine, pelvic bones, neck and a couple of ribs.  Me living away from our home-state made this news seem unreal.  I guess I knew dad was slowing down, I knew he was tiring but when you’re not actually there you feel somewhat distanced from the reality of it all.  My mother, bless her, oft times would do a big panic too whenever there was unfavourable news surrounding my dad’s health.  Rightly so, this was her companion of almost 50 years.  Sometimes however one would need to get another perspective and so I would have a quiet chat with dad on the phone to get the ‘real’ story.  Dad’s side was always more comforting but I wonder now if he was just doing the manly thing and putting on a brave face.

I would often think about life without my father.  In his later years his short-term memory was rubbish, but his long-term memory was sharp.  He would repeat the same old stories all the time and many of us lost our patience with him.  I feel sorry for that.  It really wouldn’t have hurt to listen to that story another time.  In fact, I’d give just about anything to hear him tell one of his over-told stories again. 

My sister and I organised a 50^th Wedding Anniversary in December of 2010 for mum and dad.  It was a wonderful night.  I wanted it to be a celebration of their lives together, where they got to hear their ‘eulogy’ whilst in the flesh.  I have wondered at funerals when people say all kinds of wonderful things about the deceased, if the person to whom they are talking about actually knew their loved ones felt that way about them.  Or had it all been saved for sharing once the person was gone?  Mum and dad’s night was perfect and I could see that dad enjoyed it.

Easter Sunday 2011, Tori's blessing

In late January 2011, dad became a great grandfather; a wonderful milestone for the patriarch of our family.  At Easter time in that same year dad came over to Melbourne to celebrate my 30^th birthday with me and also to assist in the blessing of little Tori on Easter Sunday.  Soon after mum and dad returned to Tasmania, dad’s health really deteriorated.  I visited my father in September of 2011 with my little Tori.  My dad looked grey, he hardly moved from off of the couch and he was constantly cold.  It was at this time that I knew my father did not have long to live.

Early September 2011

I remember sitting with him on the couch, with my hand in his and having a very difficult conversation.  I looked down at his hands that were pale white.  My father having worked on trucks for most of his life and always being a tinkerer never had clean hands.  They were always washed clean of course after coming home from work, or having been in the garden, but the grease from years of trucking life had stained his hands, that in the creases of his hands there were remnants of a hard-working man.  Now though, those stains were completely washed away, my father’s hands were clean, soft and white. 

I asked my dad if he was scared of dying.  He said he was not.  I told him that it was ok for him to go, that we would all be alright.  I told him we would miss him, but that we would take comfort in knowing that he was free from his pains and discomfort beyond the veil of this mortal life.  He wondered how my mother would manage on her own living on a large property with a large garden.  I told him not to worry, that mum will be alright. 

I said my goodbyes to my father the next day.  I did not expect to see him again in this life. 

The weeks rolled on and my mum and I both felt like dad was holding on.  We felt like the past year dad had been holding on to see a few of those important milestones come to pass in his life.  Our little family was not expected to be home in Tasmania for Christmas.  Jim’s sister was getting married in early February so that was when we planned to go back down to Tassie.  Dad kept holding on.

Dad with his possum blossom

We arrived in Tasmania on Thursday the 2^nd of February.  We had a wonderful two weeks with the both sides of the family.  We gathered in mum and dad’s home often.  Dad got to tell stories and have a chat with Jim.  He got to cuddle with his young grandchildren especially his possum blossom (Nyah).  On Friday the 10^th of February I became quite sick.  I felt terrible with flu-like symptoms and a concern that I had mastitis.  I went to see my dad so that he could give me a father’s blessing.  I knew that I could seek this from my husband but saw it as an opportunity for dad to render service at a time when he was limited in what he could do.  That blessing was a blessing of healing and I give thanks that I had that opportunity.  The following day, after being counselled to see a doctor, I had virtually no signs of mastitis.

On Sunday the 12^th of February we all went to church in the morning.  All except mum.  She had called my sister early to tell her that dad was doing so poorly that he could not drink nor take his medication.  Jim and I slipped up with the kids to see dad before going to church.  I was shocked to see my father looking the way he did.  I was certain that his time was drawing nigh.  He could barely communicate.  I asked him if he would like for Jim to give him a blessing of comfort.  He agreed.  I don’t remember much of that blessing but the words I do remember were “I bless you that in the last few days of your mortal probation that you will be able to express your feelings to your loved ones”. 

On the same day in the afternoon, my brother’s twin boys Brad and Arron were to be ordained to the office of Priest within the Aaronic Priesthood.  The priesthood is the authority of God given to men to act in His name.  It is not something you take upon yourself, one having authority bestows that authority on another who has prepared themselves spiritually to be worthy of this ordination. 

My father had been in an in-home hospital bed for the last few months were he received in-home care from community nurses.  Brad and Arron wanted their grandfather (Opa) to be part of the ordination as he had been with his other grandsons.  Dad was a man who honoured his priesthood responsibilities.  I remember as a child and well into my youth my dad coming in from a long day at work all greasy, then jumping under the shower, changing into his slacks, shirt and tie and going out to assist in a blessing, to home teach or attend a church meeting.  It was never a problem and he always tried to represent the Saviour as best as an imperfect man could.

Brad's ordination

When we all came to dad’s bedside that Sunday afternoon after spending the morning in church, dad was barely conscious and unable to move.  Mum, my sister and Jim dressed dad in a shirt and tie so that he could be dressed to assist in the ordination of his grandsons.  My father lay in bed, Brad seated on a cushion on the floor at the side of dad’s bed, and together, my brother, husband, brother-in-law and my father placed their hands upon Brad’s head and ordained him.  Dad didn’t have the strength to hold his hands in place so my brother-in-law had to help him.  This was done a second time for Arron only this time his brothers Jake and Brad assisted.  It is a wonderful memory. 

That night after the children were all tucked away in bed I went up to sit with my dad.  Mum was scared.  She did not want to be a lone with him in the house if he was to pass in the night.  The community nurses came and washed dad.  When I walked them to the door I asked them if they thought my dad would make it through the night.  They said that he might, but giving his condition they didn’t think so.  Dad had developed what has been titled “the death rattles”.  I had never heard of this but a death rattle is a medical term that describes the sound produced by someone who is near death when saliva accumulates in the throat because it cannot be swallowed. 

When I went down to my sister’s place (where my little family were staying), I couldn’t sleep.  I crept into my sister’s room around midnight, she couldn’t sleep either.  At 3am after Tori had her early feed, by the light of the moon, I made my way through the field up to my parent’s place.  I just wanted to be with my dad.  When I walked in the sliding door to the house, I could hear dad breathing.  His breathing had changed and I felt that my dad would live to see another day.  I pulled a doona from my mother’s linen cupboard and took my place on the couch next to dad’s bed.

One thing I would like to make note of is of how lovely it had been to see my mother take care of my father the way that she did.  In the quiet moments I had with my father - leading up to what became his final days – my dad expressed to me on numerous occasions how wonderful mum was with him and how appreciative he was for everything she did as his carer.  He would say “I’m useless”.  For that is how he truly felt.  

Lazarus.  This photo is part of a series
that Nyah took without my knowing.

On Monday the 13^th, when mum awoke to check on dad, dad was oblivious to the fact that I was laying right by him on the couch, I watched as mum stroked his forehead and gave him a gentle kiss on the brow.  Dad was able to communicate.  He was hungry and thirsty and he had mum running around after him again.

This was the day dad had a second wind.  My sister-in-law Bonnie, who is a nurse, called him Lazarus.  We were all stunned at how alert dad was.  By the time Jim and I had gotten the kids ready for the day and Jim and Levi packed ready to board the boat, Dad was sitting up in bed after having quite a hearty breakfast.  Dad had no recollection of his condition the previous day.

Jim and Levi said their goodbyes and set off for Devonport to catch the boat back to the big smoke.

That night, when my girls were tucked away in bed, my sister and I ventured up the hill to be with mum and dad.  Tania (my sister) and I sat either side of dad on his bed, mum opposite us on the seat of dad’s walker.  Together we talked, reminisced, confessed and laughed.  Mum and dad both laughed, it was laughter that made their whole bodies jiggle. Later mum had said that dad mentioned what a wonderful time he had had.

The following day, my girls and I were headed back to Melbourne via plane.  Dad’s condition had worsened and we had to say our goodbyes.  I felt at peace.  I think we all knew that we would be back again really soon for dad’s farewell.  I call it a farewell because the word funeral seems to me to be a sad occasion.  A farewell feels more like a “see you again soon”. 

Thursday morning things were not sounding good from what mum was saying on the phone. According to mum, dad barely had the strength to communicate. I asked mum to hold the phone to dad's ear. I said "I love you my dad" to which he replied in a voice that was very weak, "love you too". They were the last words I heard my father utter. By Thursday afternoon, dad had not eaten in over 24 hours and was admitted to hospital.  That night I received a call from my sister-in-law to let me know that the family had all been by his bedside to say their goodbyes.  It was all a waiting game.

Early Friday morning I called mum who was headed to the hospital with my sister.  At 10am when I pulled into my garage after being at Chadstone, I received a call from mum.  Dad had gone.  He had already gone before mum got to him, but she was still able to feel his warmth.  How I wished I could have been there.

I sat in the car alone in my dark garage feeling quite numb for a few moments, watching through the glass door my children and Jim play in the courtyard.  My dad had gone.  Those fears I had as a child of being without a father had come to pass.  But oh how I was thankful for that time we had together.  Oh how I am thankful that I got to share some really intimate moments with him leading up to his passing.  Oh how I am thankful that he held on that little bit longer, so that I can hold onto these sweet and precious memories. 

  

What a blessing it was to have that time to say goodbye to my dad.

Something Chronic

Chronic Fatigue, that thing that general practitioners the world over just don’t seem to know how to treat.  “Just rest”, my husband was told.

For two and a half years now Jim has been battling with this debilitating illness.  This journey started for Jim back in the year 2000 (when we first met) when he got Glandular Fever (Mononucleosis) also known as ‘The Kissing Disease’.  Glandular Fever is a viral condition causing fever, sore throat and swollen lymph glands.  It feels much like having a really bad flu for an extended period of time.  To this day we do not know how I never caught Glandular Fever from Jim as our lips were locked on numerous occasions during the course of his illness.  Nevertheless, I am currently glandular-fever-free.  Up until what I will refer to as ‘the crash’ Jim had been unwell off and on with symptoms that he felt were similar to when he had Glandular Fever. 

A couple of years into my marriage to Jim, I realised that my husband was what I’d like to call an ‘over-achiever’.   He would go at 110% at anything he did.  He was a new father, establishing a new role in his profession, in the bishopric at church, on a local basketball team, and studying for his MBA, not to forget his ridiculous fitness regime.  I used to say to him “honey, you need to slow down”.  He would get sick and never take a day off.  Jim didn’t know how to take a day off.  His life was constantly filled with a plan of some description.  Jim’s downtime was a 20km run.  Everything he viewed or listened to had to be educational of some description (in both the secular and spiritual education).  He felt like his days were never long enough.  He tried hard to create a balance in his life and for the most part I think he was keeping it together all very well but I could see that he could not keep going at the pace he was going.  Something was going to have to give.  In October of 2009 Jim ‘crashed,’ this being right before the birth of our second child, Levi.  And right in the middle of training to run a Marathon. We were living in Melbourne but had decided to go down to Tasmania for the birth of Levi, he being due close to Christmas and me not feeling like I had a network of friends established in Melbourne at the time.  After our family arrived via boat back in Melbourne I noticed very quickly how little strength Jim had.  To hold his newborn son in his arms and gently rock him to sleep required all the energy he could muster.  Thus began a long journey of trying to find the cause for Jim’s lethargy.

It appears that when one goes through a number of tests all showing that everything is normal and healthy looking that the next thing to do is lump the unknown into a basket and title it “Chronic Fatigue”.  We now had a name for it.  Googling the illness confirmed that Jim had all the symptoms.  What we have learned in our research either via online resources and/or the differing health professionals, is that Chronic Fatigue is: 1) more common in those who have had Glandular Fever and have not allowed their bodies adequate time to heal from the illness and 2) it is common in high-achievers – those that push their mind and bodies to the limit, failing to slow down when necessary.  So here is a news flash for you, I will probably not get chronic fatigue.  Phew, there is an upside to being a plodder. 

What does one do when they have this diagnosis?  Well, Jim has tried everything.  He has been to naturopaths, chiropractors, wellness gurus, acupuncturists, had major diet changes, time off work, the list goes on. 

The hardest thing in all this is that you don’t know when it’s going to end.  When you have the flu you know that in a couple of weeks you’ll be as good as gold.  When you are pregnant you know that in nine months time, the sickness and discomfort will all be over, but with chronic fatigue it doesn’t have an expiry date.  You know you are not going to die from it but you feel like your spirit just might. 

Picture for a moment being a young man full of energy.  A fun-loving father, who likes to play ball with his children, run around at the park with them and wrestle on the floor with them.  Picture a young man whose employment challenges him in all the ways he loves – people leading, team building, counselling, education etc.  For Jim it was like being a pianist and losing an arm, or a singer who loses their voice.

Chronic fatigue has been debilitating.  There have been expectations set and when those haven’t been met, it has become hard.  For someone who expects so much of themselves, it has been hard not to become self critical.  The illness has not only sucked the life out of Jim but has worn the family down too.  Selfishly I have thought from time to time 'where has Jim gone?  This is not the man I married'. When something goes on for so long with no sign of improvement, one can begin to wonder if life will ever be the same again.

I have watched Jim’s face whilst watching a group of buddies play basketball.  I have seen in his eyes the disappointment, almost a failure, because he does not have the strength to join in.  I have watched in group situations when out with friends and everyone is having a good time, laughing at a few clean jokes, Jim being absolutely exhausted because the mere act of speaking and laughing requires so much of his energy.  He will come home with blood-shot eyes, not because it’s been an incredibly heavy day but because he has had to speak, think, direct and counsel.  Often the last thing he feels like doing is playing with three eager and excited children, all with a smile when he walks in the door from work. 

I remember a few days before my dad passed away he said as he watched my children and his great grandchild playing together “Pops (this is what he called me), I love seeing the kids but at the same time, I don’t like seeing them.  In my mind I have the energy to play with them, but in reality, I can’t”.  And this is how life has been for Jim over the past few years.

After trying so many natural remedies a local doctor referred Jim to a chronic fatigue specialist here in Melbourne.  We made the appointment straight away and to our horror Jim couldn’t be seen for nearly five months.  Jim had gotten a bit despondent realising that this illness was completely out of his control.  We realised that Heavenly Father was trying to teach him something, trying to teach our family something.  It is our belief that we are given trials in our lives to give us experience and to shape us.  This is part of life’s refining process.  Quentin L. Cook said that “the refiner’s fire is real, and qualities of character and righteousness that are forged in the furnace of affliction perfect and purify us and prepare us to meet God”.  Before, I thought that this was just a nice theory but I have actually come to believe this. 

About a month after making the appointment with the specialist I had had enough.  We’d been doing all the right things here, why was there no healing?  Jim had had countless priesthood blessings all of which I expected to hear the phrase “be thou healed”.  I heard none such phrase and had wondered why.  Even though I knew all about the theory of trails making us stronger and so forth, I still wondered why.

We have family prayers around the breakfast table every morning.  Jim had asked me to offer the family prayer on this particular morning.  Whilst I was giving thanks and praying for the things we needed help with throughout the day, I felt prompted to ask our Heavenly Father for a special blessing.  I pleaded that somehow, sometime, soon an appointment with that specialist would become available.  I prayed that there would be a cancellation and that Jim would be able to see the specialist sooner than expected.  It brings tears to my eyes just reflecting on what followed because indeed it was an answer to a heartfelt prayer… not two hours later I received a call from the chronic fatigue specialists’ secretary “Mrs Stancombe there has been a cancellation and we were wondering if your husband would be available to make the appointment”.  Before finding out when it was I agreed to the appointment, surely anything early than in four months time would be better.  “Mrs Stancombe we would like to see him at 6pm today”.  Before even checking with Jim I agreed.  I hung up the phone in awe.  Humbled that with all the big things that are going on in the world, an all powerful being -  God - heard and answered my little prayer. Jim made that appointment that night.

Jim still has chronic fatigue but something happened that night in that specialist’s office.  Jim was heard and understood and placed on a fitness program aimed at gradually increasing and building his strength.  Jim was given a sense of hope that night and again and again since.  At the time of “the crash”, Jim was unable to run the length of a cricket pitch without feeling exhausted, he is now running for half hour straight 3-4 times a week, which has taken him 7 months of work.

A companionship is stronger
when evenly yoked

Jim has learned the importance of listening to his body.  He has learned that it is ok to say ‘no’, that going 100% at everything all of the time is not sustainable.  Jim has learned to put his trust in a higher power which he has found quite humbling.  I have learned of the importance of a companionship being evenly yoked.  Some unfamiliar with this expression might require some explaining.  A yoke is a device used to join a pair of draught animals such as oxen, together.  When both animals are yoked together and pull together, the burden is lighter.  In scripture we are admonished to yoke ourselves with the Saviour, He making our burdens lighter.  In a marital relationship you can see how this would be important.

Because Jim is so organised and so capable, sometimes I have found it easy to let him take care of things.  I can trust that if Jim is in charge, things will get done.  I have learned that even though Jim is wonderful, he can’t do everything, nor should he.  We are in this relationship together and we need to share the load.

I believe that whilst the priesthood blessings Jim received did not completely take away his illness, he has be able to work and provide sufficiently for his family. We realise that there are many chronic fatigue suffers who are unable to arise from their beds to hold onto their employment. This has been a blessing in our family and a boost in Jim's spirit. We are grateful for these lessons.  We are grateful that together we are pulling through and we are starting to see the smoke clear and reveal wonderful things ahead.  

Depression + Gratitude = Healing

the happy family snap

Before having children did you ever find yourself in a public place observing other parents busy being parents and think to yourself “I am never going to be that kind of parent” or “I will never say that to my child”? I know I did.  As my children have reached that blessed age of two I have found myself becoming the very mother I never said I would become. 

There was a young mother who I knew just after Nyah had joined our family.  We didn’t have a whole lot to do with each other.  I found her to be quite unapproachable.  This woman did not bust a smile and barely spoke to anyone.  I felt like going up to this woman, shaking her, sitting her down and saying “do you realise what you have? You have a wonderful and loving husband and a beautiful child, wake up!”  Her nonresponse to things that were wonderful really bugged me.  It was later that I found out that this young mother suffered with Post Natal Depression.  That it not change how I felt though.  Surely this woman could get herself together and be grateful for all the blessings in her life.  Surely that would make her happy.

Herein lies the lesson.  I believe that when we have trouble understanding another, judging and/or showing a lack of empathy towards others that the good Lord will teach us. 

When I held my beautiful little Tori in my arms for the first time I did not feel that elation I did with my other two children.  I can’t even describe what it felt like.  It was like, “here’s another one to add to the list, may as well just keep going while I can”.  Now that I look back on it, it seems awful. 

Sweet little Tori, about 30 mins after birth

It was when I lay in a foetal position on my dining room floor - in a pile of sand that Nyah had scattered when she shook out the contents of the trackies she wore to school - that I knew something was terribly wrong.  I knew when I had that thought of how easy it would be to just disappear that this thought was out of character and not coming from a good place.  I want to make this perfectly clear that I would never harm myself, but at that moment, when I had that thought, I could empathise with those who feel like they have no other option than to end it all.  Thankfully I know I have other options.

It’s a vicious cycle really.  You know you have a wonderful husband who loves you and three beautiful children who are healthy and happy.  You have a supportive family (for the most part), friends and a church community.  You start to feel guilty for feeling the way you do.  I started to beat myself up thinking that I was undeserving of all these blessings.  Then there is the sudden outburst of frustration directed towards my children.  Sure asking your child fifteen times to stop hitting their sibling can get frustrating, but for it to end in mum being a scary loud mum, is not cool.  It does not build trusting and close relationships which is something I very much want as a mother.  So there we go again, failure.  The cycle continues.  Then there is always the comparing.  This is really damaging.  “She has four children and she’s the Relief Society President”. Or, "she has three children, runs a home business, blogs, can bake and sew and do all this other stuff that I can’t do”. Or, "she just lost her son a few months ago and now her husband has gone also so what on earth do I have to be so down about?”  “She is so talented, so organised, so…. perfect!”  And sometimes you just don’t feel like getting out of bed for fear of failure.

For those of you who know my husband, you know that he is a really good guy.  I know I am punching way above my own weight here.  He is handsome, clever, smart, spiritual, kind, loving, fun, friendly, non-judgmental, enthusiastic, organised, VERY organised – the list goes on.  For our entire married life I have gotten the comments “Jim is such a great guy”, “your husband is so lovely” or “I need to find someone like Jim”.  All comments I agree with and I am totally flattered by them but one can begin to feel a little under par in comparison to their mate, especially at a time when their spiritual cup is low.

I have often found it interesting in my observation of others over my 31 year existence that often when people feel in despair they turn away from the very things they need the most.  Some limit their church attendance, others stop praying, serving (thinking that if they focus more on themselves for a while and when things get better, then they can give to others), exercising, etc.  Some even turn away from their best mate.  This is the mate you had chosen and promised to remain with either for this life only or throughout all eternity (as what happens when we are married in the Lord’s temple).  Every thing we do affects our spirit – the way we feel about ourselves. 

Jim recently read a book titled ‘Life’s Lessons Learned’ by Dallin H. Oaks.  I have not read the book however Jim has shared some of it with me.  I have been thinking lately about the lessons I have learnt and are continuing to learn.  It was when I became a mother I realised how much my own mother loved me.  It suddenly dawned on me why she felt the need to control things, take away my freedom to choose by making every one of my unwise decisions such a drama.  It wasn’t because she wanted to be the fun police, it was because she loved me and wanted to protect me from making decisions that would affect my spirit.  Sure, the way mum went about things sometimes were not always right, but now that I know her motives behind those things I can understand and try and do things a little better my self as a mother.  One of my favourite mentors has said “learn from the past, live for today and prepare for the future” (Thomas S. Monson). 

So in all my learning from this PND experience now that I am on the other side of it, I have realised that it is not something that you can just brush off.  It is not as simple as putting a smile on your face.  It is not something that can be fixed by taking a few pills, excessive shopping or ‘gap-filing’ with other things/stuff.  One must tackle it head on.  Accept it, talk about it, and fill ones life with those things that the spirit craves.  What the spirit craves is not always what you feel like doing but this little person in Melbourne Australia has learnt that when we do those things (pray, read the scriptures, ponder, exercise, eat right, communicate with spouse (if you have one) – all forms of communication – and serve), our spiritual cup starts to fill and slowly the light enters our lives.  Slowly that mask of happiness turns into a reality.  I'm getting there.

 A friend of mine at church taught a lesson on gratitude recently.  Her expertise is in psychology.  She gave us some wonderful insights into a study where daily expressions of gratitude lessen the affects of depression and boost happiness, especially in self-critical people.  http://www.rodale.com/happiness-gratitude-and-depression

Nothing fancy, just a journal.

It is for this reason that our family has decided to keep a gratitude journal.  We have much to be grateful for and this helps us all to keep things in perspective and to appreciate many of those things that we so often take for granted.  And if you are ever thinking that you’ve got it tough living in the country of Australia, I invite you to watch the movie ‘The Whistle Blower’.  To my American friends, this movie is rated M+15 in Australia. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHnGktmT2Uc .
We have much to be grateful for.

'As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that
the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to
live by them' - JFK.

Want to feel good?
Do something for someone else.
Notice how Chirag's face is just as
cheeky looking as our own children's?
Perfect!

There's a Brain Underneath the Hair and a Heart Underneath the Boobs - Dolly Parton

The first time parents

I really loved the three years Jim and I have together before we became parents.  I feel we had adequate time to get to know each other and that we were prepared to embark on this thing called parenthood.  In December of 2007 I became a mother.  Once you have the title of mother pronounced upon you that is it.  There is no turning back.

The name Nyah was chosen after I watched the movie “Mission Impossible 2”.  Nyah was the name of the character played by the beautiful Thandie Newton.  I had always liked the name Mia but got a little turned off by the fact that Lleyton and Bec Hewitt named their daughter, Mia (Lleyton being an Australian tennis player and Bec, formerly Rebecca Cartwright whose claim to fame is/was the Australian TV series, Home and Away).  I was not a fan of Lleyton Hewitt at the time.  The name Nyah was just that little bit different without being too weird.  I was nineteen when I chose that name for a daughter I might never have.  It was years later that I discovered its origins.  It is Swahili and its meaning is ‘purpose’.  Given that our belief is that all are born into this world with a purpose, I like its meaning.  When you also know how planned this conception was, given that Nyah’s father is an extremely planned out and organised person, it gives more meaning.  It was Jim who had all the weeks and months mapped out of when we could start trying to conceive.  It needed to fit in with my university, his university and where we were living among other things.  I’m quite a spontaneous person and I don’t always think things through so for me, Jim is my reason, my calm in the storm and oft times my rock. 

March 2007 was, according to Jim, the most practical and fitting time to start trying for a baby.  Well, Nyah was conceived somewhere around the first week in March and arrived on her due date, the 1^st of December.  I actually went into labour at 12:15 on her due date.  It was a Saturday so Jim need not take an unexpected day off work (not that this would have been an issue, I just say it to illustrate how perfect the timing was to the very moment).  It was all very convenient.  So much so that a good friend of Jim’s jokingly said “you couldn’t have planned that any better”.  Jim also has issues with tardiness.  You can NEVER be late.  You can presume that Nyah got off on the right foot with her daddy from the very beginning.

Nyah was born after I completed my second year of university.  I attribute much of her brightness today not only as an inheritance from her father but also due to the amount of lectures she sat in during my pregnancy.  We know that there is great evidence suggesting that it is beneficial to speak to, read to and play classical music to your child whilst in the womb.  I believe that having them attend university in utero is also beneficial.  It might well explain why Nyah has the gift of the gab.  Second year had a lot to do with Language, Grammar and that dreaded subject titled Schools, Values and Reasoning.  A friend of mine whilst pregnant with her second child studied voice and amongst all her siblings, that child is the one with a stand out singing 

voice.

Nyah practising her nursing skills

I'm going to put it out there. Breastfeeding Nyah for the first two weeks was a nightmare.  I thought it was all going to be natural and beautiful, but for me it was terrible.  I was terrible.  It was toe-curling stuff.  Labour was a walk in the park compared to breastfeeding.  Finally, after a bit of blood, cracked nipples and a lot of tears, I learnt how to master the art of attachment and it became something I really enjoy.  So much so that I must confess today my 14 month old is still on the boob.  Neither one of us are about to give it up any time soon.
As a nursing mother, I find that whole skin on skin contact to be so beautiful.  It’s not all lovely.  I am sacrificing a little you know.  With each breastfeeding child, the little once plump little pillows get saggier.  It is just so worth it for that bonding.  I can have a day where I am just about ready to put all three of my children on eBay and then little Tori will tug at my leg, make the motion with her hands that she wants a cuddle, pull my top down a little, stick her little hand between my breasts and say “ooh ooh” (signalling to me what time it is), and that contact is really sweet.  That closeness and the gentle stroking I receive is not only a comfort for my little one but relaxation for me.

I love that part of motherhood and it's all over so quickly too.  Perhaps too it is something I feel I am in control of.  I fell needed.  Obviously there are women who legitimately can’t nurse their children or it’s not ideal due to varying personal or family circumstances.  Try as I may I just can’t understand why women would avoid it.  I’m sure there are people in this world who can’t understand why I have watched Days of Our Lives on and off since I first drew breath (thanks for that mum), just as I can’t understand why people would stand at a train station and drink coke and smoke a cigarette at seven in the morning (at all for that matter but in the morning more so - yuck).  I guess when you love something so much sometimes you can’t understand why others don’t.  When each of our children have reached the age of six months I have been able to look at their growth, with a heart full of thanksgiving that my body has been able to produce and provide them with nourishment, the sole nourishment for that growth to occur. Seriously, boobs and milk production, supply and demand and how it changes based on the needs of your baby are out of this world amazing.

So whether we like breastfeeding, don't, can't or won't I think Dolly Parton of all people has pointed this out to all women without mincing her words, "underneath those boobs is a heart".  Ah, the heart.  A willing heart and a loving heart.  Is that not the essence of true motherhood?

Great Expectations

Expectations, we all have them.  We Have expectations of both ourselves and others.  People who think they don’t have expectations of other people are either liars or they really haven’t thought about it deep enough. 

A few months ago I had a conversation with someone who said “I told them if they don’t expect anything from me, they won’t be disappointed”.  This person continued by saying “I don’t expect anything from others”.  Well that’s just plain nonsense if you ask me.  We ALL expect things.  If I was to purchase the latest gadget, I would expect it to do everything the book of instructions said it would do.  When I walk in to any Apple store, I expect to receive brilliant customer service.  At least fifteen young, eager sales people dressed in bright blue t-shirts would be there to pounce on me.  When I walk in to Spotlight however, I expect zero customer service. 

Nyah expects me to house her, feed her, clothe her and nurture her.  In return, I expect her to be help out in the home and give me snuggles once in a while.  My expectations of Nyah and her capabilities will increase as she grows and matures.  It’s like, you see that movie preview, and it all looks wonderful and you form an opinion of the movie based on the snippet you have seen.  You get this idea of what the movie is going to be like and in your mind is it going to be wonderful.  You see it.  Did it meet or exceed your expectations?  Or was it perhaps a little under par?

I expected to be the best mother.  The thing is I am learning that my best is different to your best.  What do I consider to be a good mother?  This might be very different to what you consider to be a good mother.  The important thing here for me is: am I magnifying my role as a mother, or at least what I consider to be a good one?

As a newlywed I expected that Jim and I would live in wedded bliss forever.  Our dating was uncomplicated, energetic, and fun.  We were so completely wrapped up in each other and all that magic of young love.  It truly was just like one of those old romance movies.  We never once had an argument of any description.  When we went on our travels overseas (as newlyweds) for the year of 2005 we were together 24/7. 

I’m sure most of you have seen an episode of the Amazing Race where couples enter this competition and in scavenger-hunt fashion, race around the world looking for clues to lead them to the next destination where there is another challenge to complete.  The ultimate goal is to be the winning couple at the end of the series.  This is much like what our first year of marriage was like only we were doing it all on a budget.  And the prize at the end was not monetary.  It was all about the experience.  In the Amazing Race you see couples’ relationships get pushed to the test as they try to overcome language barriers and other difficulties in foreign lands.  Sure Jim and I were not in any kind of competition, but we had not lived together before we married and this race-like environment where two people were getting used to having the other around them all the time, got a little tense at times.

My expectations of my marriage to Jim were that our lives would merge harmoniously and all would be sweet.  When Jim and I had our first disagreement I seriously thought it would end in divorce.  I was heartbroken.  Thankfully we were able to move past that disagreement and there have been a few more since then, all of which Jim will openly admit were his fault (of course).  That was another thing I never expected… to use the word ‘sorry’ as frequently as I do.

I’m at a crossroads as to whether or not having expectations are a good thing.  In the mind of my young friend who spoke of how she believed she didn’t have expectations of others, (as a barrier of protection I would presume) in theory it is perhaps ideal.  Or would we all just come off as unhappy customers?  When we set our expectations too high, and we come short, they have the potential to crush us.  Did you realise that God does not EXPECT us to to reach perfection on our own, here and now? So why do we often EXPECT that of ourselves? And then, to make matters worse, beat ourselves up about it.

My conclusions are:

"If you expect nothing, you can never be disappointed.  Apart from a few starry-eyed poets or monks living on a mountaintop somewhere, we all have expectations.  We not only have them, we need them.  They fuel our dreams, our hopes, and our lives like some super-caffeinated energy drink" (Tonya Hurley).  I do not endorse caffeinated beverages by the way, but Tonya makes a very good point.

So expectations of oneself are a good thing.  We need to expect things of ourselves otherwise we may never progress.  Even worse, we may never reach our potential.  It is the self condemning that we must avoid.  Just relax. ‘Life is a journey not a destination’ (I have heard that somewhere and I like it). 

Expectations of others are a good thing too.  Again, if we treat others in such a way that we would not expect more from them, they may perhaps never reach their true potential.  The comment "I expect more from you Nyah", is not a put-down, it is to remind her of her capabilities.  It’s the judgements and the criticism that really crush relationships.  If you give a gift and your expectation is to receive a thanks or at least some form of recognition and you receive neither… you can choose to pass a judgment (they were never taught properly, they are rude, they are ungrateful etc.), you can teach by example or give someone the benefit of the doubt (perhaps it just slipped their mind).  In reality this is hard, but I am learning it can make a huge difference in our relationships with others and the way we feel about ourselves.

I can’t tell you how many times I have gone into Coles Supermarket where the cashier has had a face on them like a thunderstorm.  My expectation has been that cashiers should always wear a friendly countenance.  Perhaps though, the expectations of me should change.  Perhaps I should expect to always brighten a sour-faced cashier’s day.  And if I don’t, I expect to have better luck tomorrow.

I apologise for my long-windedness (aka, fluff) with this piece.  I have been using this domain as a platform for getting it all out.  To sum up my thinking, I found this little gem by Bryan Tracy, a self-development author.  He says "an attitude of positive expectation is the mark of superior personality".  I like that word positive. I expect that will make all the difference.

The Dumb Blonde

I have never considered myself to be much good at anything really (please, I am not asking for pity here).  Not anything of real note at least.  For years I have admired in others the ability to draw and paint, take stunning photographs, quilt, cook, decorate cakes, sew, sing, act and dance.  I would love to be able to claim something as mine.  Not that I necessarily have to be the best at it, but I have that desire to find my niche. 

I wanted to be the best missionary when I was on Temple Square.  I had a blast, but upon reflection, I could have done so much more with that time.  I could have invited so many more people to hear the gospel message than what I did.  I’m not saying that I was a terrible missionary, it’s just my expectations of what I considered to be ‘the best’ missionary were not met, and thus, I come up wanting and perhaps regretting.

A Mission President is the father of the mission in whatever part of the world you do your volunteer service.  I had two Mission Presidents during my missionary service; one in the Temple Square mission, and another in the Pheonix mission.  It was my Mission President in Pheonix Arizona who said to me in my departing interview: “Sister Reeve, you have what I like to call ‘the dumb blonde syndrome’”.  Being the blonde that I am I was perplexed by this comment.  My expectation of this little parting interview was that it would be a feel-good moment where I would be given wonderful uplifting counsel that I would cherish for a lifetime.  Insults were something I felt would be left off the agenda.   President then went on to explain.  And here’s where it gets a little better.  He believed that for one reason or another I had told myself for a very long time that I was unintelligent and all that I had of worth was a good figure (at the time) and pretty long blonde hair.  Tie that all up in a ribbon of sass and you have Krissy Reeve right there.  This confidence that seemingly oozed from me was completely shot down by this American man in his fifties.  Here I had thought I’d had everyone fooled, but he saw right through it and had the gumption to tell me about it.  As a missionary I had all the confidence in the world.  The scripture found in D&C 121:45, reminds me of this kind of confidence: “…be full of charity towards all men… and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong”.

 As a missionary I had a charitable heart, my thoughts and actions were in harmony with what my Heavenly Father would have wanted and thus I was a confident and bold missionary.  I guess my mission president’s concern for me was, when I ventured home, took off the missionary tag and slipped into life after the bubble of missionary service (in particular Temple Square missionary service), I would not realise my potential and thus search in the wrong places to find happiness and fulfilment.  I’m not talking about hanging out in dark dingy places.  Just simply being blinded and deceived by the subtle craftiness of the world, thus getting caught up in the things that are of little worth and forgetting who I really am and the person I have the potential to become.

What does one do when they have this ‘dumb blonde syndrome?’  President Booth told me that I must get an education.  My Temple Square mission President said the same in my parting interview however his advice was a little different.  At that time I had always felt that when one referred to education they were talking about a degree of some description.  Whilst President Booth talked about the value of me having a qualification, - that framed certificate hanging on the wall - President Crouch opened my eyes to other forms of education such as: being aware of what is going on in your community, current events in your country and around the world, doing things that are of interest, taking small courses to hone in on hidden talents and so forth.  One thing he did mention that stands out in my mind now is the idea of furthering my education in the gospel.  President Crouch saw it of utmost importance for women to be scriptorians.  It was the first time I had heard such an expression. 

After pursuing an education at University in the field of elementary education (which is at this moment on hold), in 2010 the words of my wise Mission President were echoed in these messages:  become “scholars of the scriptures… [we] need an acquaintance of His eternal truths for [our] own well being, and for the purposes of teaching [our] own children and all others who come within [our] influence” (Kimball, S. March 2010 Ensign).  Furthermore, “our children are growing up today surrounded by voices urging them to abandon that which is right and true and to pursue, instead, the pleasures of the world.  Unless they have a firm foundation in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a testimony of the truth, and a determination to live righteously, they are susceptible to these influences.  It is our responsibility to protect them (Thomas S. Monson, 2010).”

I am not nearly of the scriptorian calibre, but I have been promised by good men of influence in my life that if I seek out this education and apply it, I can be a powerful influence for good in the lives of others.  From experience as a missionary, having felt that confidence, I know that this will assist me in my self-discovery and the finding of my niche.  Perhaps I will combat this ‘dumb blonde syndrome’ after all. That would be a fairly good feat. Well, at least for a blonde.

Please Sir, I want some More

Here I am sifting through reflections of my upbringing thinking of characteristics that I could do away with and others that I should keep.  My Parents were born in 1934 and 1940 (sorry mum to reveal this to the readers, but you are doing well for an ol’ girl so don’t feel too bad).  Mum has said that when she was young, she wouldn’t dare back-chat her parents.  It was part of the Ten Commandments “thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother” (I’d like to note here that to my knowledge, the Ten Commandments still exist today even though some have tried to change them and/or devalue them).  People back then actually knew the Ten Commandments and strived to live them and not just the big ones like “thou shalt not kill”.  I’m not saying that in my parents’ generation that everything was next to Godliness, but there did seem to be a general respect for God, King, country, self and fellowmen.  At least this is the feel I get from associating a lot with this age group. 

My parents were big on manners.  I was constantly reminded to say “please” and “thank you”. 

I grew up practically living on my ‘uncle and aunt’s’ farm.  I was a tom boy.  I loved to get filthy dirty.  I played with the chickens, picking them up like babies from when I was about 20 months old.  I would cuddle up to and bottle-feed the lambs and roll around in the hay with the calves.  Later as I got older, I would climb large trees, build cubby houses with raw materials and in the winter I would be found in the creek constructing small dams, waterfalls and bridges.  I could not tell you how many gumboots I lost in the creek.  I would walk home bootless, having my feet turned blue on the journey uphill through the slushy fields, all the while getting swooped by plovers.  My father was a Scout Leader for many years and it was common for me to attend Scout Camp with him when my mother would have to work every second weekend.  I fit right in with the boys on those Scout Camps. 

When I had finally outgrown the cubby constructing business I took up other things like skateboarding.  I wasn’t awesome at doing tricks but I would give it a go.  A friend gave me his skateboard and I used to ride it to school, through town, up the Gorge for a swim and back to school again.  I must confess that most of my 11^th year at school I was found skating to and from the Gorge.  My mother decided it would be to my benefit to sign me up for a modelling and deportment course.  This was my mother’s attempt at turning me into a lady I am sure. 

The course provided me with knowledge on how to walk with good posture, sit and stand nicely, get in and out of cars keeping your knees together and other forms of etiquette from speech with a focus on interviewing and dinner invitations etc.  I was taught the basics of photographic modelling and catwalk modelling.  It was a turning point for me in my adolescence.  I did not find myself to be anything special as far as looks goes, but I was aware I was blossoming into a woman and that I was getting a little attention.  This in part developed my confidence.  In later years however, I was to discover that it was all a façade.  Deep down, I felt really small.