Is Hindsight 20/20?
Hindsight involves looking back and seeing the things you did that you could have done differently. Now at 45, I have the luxury of looking back and seeing my life like a map I navigated poorly. Not always and not intentionally, but I’m willing to take my part in any blame.
There was already a strain on my marriage with Kirk when I was sent to the infertility specialist. Sure, I was being tested to find out what was wrong, but ultimately I was there to get pregnant. I moved to Vermont when I was six months pregnant. I had been very sick during the pregnancy. The health care in Hawaii wasn’t great, and we found out we were getting transferred but weren’t sure when or where. That’s when we decided I should leave. I feared I’d be stuck in Hawaii and Kirk would be stationed somewhere else. I don’t know if that separation hurt our marriage or not, but it seemed necessary at the time.
My Little Miracle
I gave birth to Brianna in New Hampshire without Kirk there. He was still in Hawaii, getting ready to move to Louisiana. We were told we would be stationed in Shreveport, Louisiana at Barksdale AFB, right before I had Brianna. My midwife intuitively felt something was wrong during the pregnancy and gave me two choices of hospitals to choose from for the delivery. I chose Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, New Hampshire. Her intuition proved to be spot-on. It was fortunate I had been transferred, although I had really wanted to deliver at her birth center.
Brianna had a lung disease when she was born. I was told she wouldn’t live through the weekend. Kirk flew out when she was three days old and stayed for a week. The fear was he would never see her or he would hold her only after she had passed away. It was an odd visit because I had just given birth, our daughter wasn’t supposed to live, we hadn’t seen each other in three months, and we were in the middle of a move. Without the neonatologist calling Kirk’s supervising officer, his trip would not have happened. I felt alone. I was scared. My husband felt like a stranger to me after three months of separation. We had been apart many times before, but I hadn’t been pregnant then, or given birth to a child. We hadn’t built a chasm out of infertility appointments before. He had been my best friend, the love of my life, and my everything. I missed him terribly, and I didn’t want to be strong all alone.
I was trying to wrap my head around holding my daughter for the first time after she had taken her last breath. Despite not being able to hold her, I wanted her to have my breast milk. I struggled with the breast pump. One of the nurses told the lactation consultant, so she found me and brought me to the pump room. There were couches, a chest freezer for breast milk, a sink, a rocking chair, and of course, pumps. I had my own plastic pieces for the main pump, but no real clue what I was doing. I tried every few hours to pump milk, with no real success. My breasts were huge and engorged.
The lactation consultant sat down across from me, showed me how all the pump plumbing worked, how to position everything. She turned it on. Then she looked at me, leaned towards me, and said, “Tell me about your birth experience.” I took a big breath and started to dump my story on her. All the details poured out of me from infertility to going back to Vermont, to being without my husband, to the birth experience, to my daughter clinging to life in the room next door to us, to seeing Kirk the next morning, and to feeling like somehow I had failed. My body had failed to create a healthy child. I couldn’t even pump breast milk.
She asked me how the delivery went. I told her that Kimmie and my mother had been there. My mother was a wreck through it, crying a lot, and that bothered me. She took notes throughout the 19-hour labor, though, which I was thankful for later. Kimmie was great. She rubbed my feet a lot, and I mean a lot. She was 18 then, and I was so glad to have her with me. Labor is difficult and scary, especially when you don’t know what to expect. Kirk called several times during my labor. When I had contractions, he said my breathing sounded like I was having sex. Far from it, I can assure you.
During the delivery, I wanted no medications, but my mother was crying and telling me to take something. I ended up having one dose of morphine, which I regretted. Towards the end, a nurse gave me an epidural. When he was inserting the needle, he noticed that my body started to push. He pulled back and said I was pushing, so, thankfully, I avoided getting an epidural. The nurse hit the hot button as we had already established Brianna was high risk. At this point, like I had been told would happen in a medical teaching facility, about 23 people filled my room in seconds. Eight minutes and four pushes later she was born. She was struggling to breathe but doing just well enough for them to begin life-saving procedures. I didn’t hear from the neonatologist for seven grueling hours after they whisked Brianna out of my room. And now I was sitting in a pump room waiting for her to die, so I could hold her and touch her for the first time.
The lactation consultant turned off the breast pump and pointed to the bottles I was holding to my breasts. While I verbally vomited my story, sobbing and releasing my pent up emotions, I had pumped almost eight ounces of breastmilk.I started to laugh. Finally, something was working right. She showed me the best way to bag my milk, label it, and freeze it for the staff to thaw and feed Brianna via an ng tube. We hugged hard and I thanked her. She did so much more than teach me how to use a pump. She listened. My breasts could move again and I felt relief, at least in this department. A year later I became a breastfeeding specialist for La Leche League, and a few years after that I got my international certification as a lactation consultant. I helped other women breastfeed for eleven years because of what my lactation consultant did for me.
Brianna turned the corner on day three and was in the hospital for a month. She was given two life- saving medications after she was born, including Surfactant. Having Kirk physically there helped bridge the gap between us. He was there long enough for both of us to hold her for the first time when she was 9 days old. Going through that experience – especially feeling so alone – was another time of growth for me. I had to learn a lot, not only about being a new mommy, but about having a child with health concerns, moving to a new place where I didn’t know anyone and trying to reconnect with my husband. It was hard, empowering, and emotional all at the same time.
When Brianna was three months old and cleared by the doctors, we took a train ride for 2 ½ days from Vermont to Louisiana. Her lung disease still prevented her from flying. Kirk rented a house and had everything unpacked and ready when we got there. Thankfully due to a friend’s help in Hawaii when Brianna was born, the move went smoothly. Kirk was so happy to have Brianna and me there, but our relationship continued to feel strained.
In 1993, Kirk and I officially split up when Brianna was one. We didn’t get divorced until a couple of years after because I was hopeful we’d work it out. He was all I wanted. We were only together for about 3 ½ years total. I can’t speak for him, but it’s my opinion he felt pressured into getting married, so he did something he would have done later much too soon. I know he loved me. I know I was what he wanted. But too much, too soon, all the pressures of being gone half of every year and working a lot, being young, experiencing infertility pressures and the emotions that go along with it, and not communicating took its toll. The life and family I had always wanted unraveled, but in its wake came more amazing and difficult adventures.
Brianna, who we call Bri, is 24 years old now. I never treated her like she was handicapped by her lung disease. I figured if she tried something and struggled with it, we could address it at that point. She was never limited by her lung disease. When she was 14, she wanted to run a 5K with me. Ironically the race was put on my the American Lung Association. I contacted them to let them know Bri was running and to share a little bit about her story. The president of the Reno area took us to lunch, intrigued by the fact that she was born with Hyaline Membrane Disease and was running. The thing is, Bri isn’t any different from any other kid, and she never knew she could have limitations because of her lungs. She doesn’t remember being born, being in the NICU, or being told she wouldn’t survive that first few days. She didn’t understand what all the fuss was about her, why the woman we met wanted to take her picture, and use her story as the poster board.
New Frontiers
While I was single with Brianna, we moved from Louisiana to Vermont to Idaho back to Louisiana and back to Vermont, with visits to Arizona. For two years we moved every few months. I would rent out space from friends and worked both at cleaning houses and as a nanny so Brianna never went to daycare. It’s a time in my life that I cherish more than most, and I lived on the least, financially. My car had a box of my clothes, a box of Brianna’s clothes, and one box of clothes she was growing into, a small box of her toys, a running stroller, our dog Spade, and, on the seat next to Bri, a 10-gallon fish tank with her pet rat Petito (who was awesome). I realized I’m probably part gypsy since I never really felt at home anywhere. I wanted to see everything, and traveling was a blast. This is also where the seed for minimalism was planted because we traveled with so little, and, really, we didn’t need anything else.
When I met my second husband, we moved to Alaska – a dream of his – and remained there a decade. Alaska was by far one of my favorite places to live. It has the best people and is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. It was also the most difficult, with harsh winters and a feeling of isolation similar to Hawaii. We eventually moved to Nevada, where I still live. I feel more at home here than anywhere. It’s probably because I forced myself more than before to build a community of people I love. I’ve put down roots here more than anywhere and opened myself up to being vulnerable to some amazing friends. I found my tribe. Running buddies, friends, and a support system where we were all equal. Letting myself be open to these tight knit friendships has been wonderful.
Love and Marriage(s)
The only thing I am embarrassed about in my life is being married and divorced three times. In my first marriage, I so wanted to be married and start a family. I thought we’d work hard at it and be together forever. I have high expectations in relationships because I’m willing to put in the work. After the divorce with Kirk and being completely broken hearted, I didn’t allow myself to be vulnerable, which is one thing I did to set myself up for failure in future relationships. Keeping myself at arm’s length meant I never let anyone in, which is not healthy in a marriage. I also chose two men who were emotionally unavailable. In some ways they were very different, but they were also very much the same. So I was never able to get really close to either of them.
They were simply good men who weren’t at all good for me. Each time I set myself up for failure without realizing what I was doing. Self-preservation is hard to combat, especially when you don’t realize it’s happening. The how and why of all three relationships isn’t what I want to discuss, as that is a two-way story. Suffice it to say I had decent relationships that were dysfunctional but not abusive. I feel failure in them falling apart. I spent so much time working hard just spinning my wheels in relationships that had nowhere to go. I went to therapy with two of my husbands, which taught me more about myself, but ultimately pointed out how beyond repair the relationships were. Sometimes good people make bad choices, even when trying hard to make things work. Half of me believes you should stay and stick it out no matter what. The other half believes it’s best to admit defeat, fly the white flag, and cut your losses.
My second marriage lasted a decade. My third marriage lasted seven years. I was torn at that point between just staying single, continuing to be the best mom I could be, or being in a relationship and actually being my most vulnerable. More so than with Kirk. I knew that without doing my part, I would continue my pattern. Loving enough to commit but keeping enough emotional distance to not get terribly hurt. I decided I wasn’t really interested in a relationship.
I have been interested in sex since my early days of dysfunction. I love sex. I am a serial monogamist, but between relationships, what worked best for me is finding “friends with benefits” that I could have a sexual relationship with without having a committed emotional relationship. I also learned that it doesn’t matter to me what people think about this. I had rules in these relationships. No man was allowed in my house, with my kids, or in any other part of my life. We were friends, nothing more, and we had sex. And it worked very well for me. It was my happy balance. Until it wasn’t.
Opening Up Our Hearts and Home to Foster Care and Eventually Adoption
After Brianna was born, I didn’t think I would ever be able to get pregnant again. Three different doctors saw my medical records and told me they would go straight to IVF. Since I wasn’t willing to go that route, when I met my second husband, I was clear that it probably wasn’t possible for me to get pregnant again. I wanted to do foster care and adopt, based on my past. We did foster care for nine years and adopted four children during that time. The surprise was that I got pregnant.
I was pregnant seven times total. I miscarried three pregnancies and (after Brianna) had three more deliveries – four total babies were born. The last three I gave birth to while living in Alaska, at home with a midwife, just like I had always wanted. The last two were water births and all three were difficult, but beautiful, experiences. That put the number of children we had in our home at eight. Of the four that were adopted in Alaska, one was two years old and three were newborns. Our first adopted son we picked up when he was three days old and just out of the hospital. With the other two, we were at the hospital for the deliveries. One was delivered via a Cesarean section, so we waited outside the surgery room. I was the labor coach for the fourth child. When the doctor walked in and asked who would cut the cord, I got to. I had always been the one delivering the baby, so this was an exceptional experience. The three that we adopted at birth, I breastfed. In the world of foster care and adoptions, that isn’t the norm, so I feel even more blessed for the experience.
There was no end number in sight, no master plan. The pregnancies were the surprise, not the adoptions, and I just took life as it happened. For anyone who has done foster care, you know you turn down more children than you take in. We had children that came and went, we dealt with situations where we hoped we made a difference. It was difficult and sometimes frustrating but, for the most part, very worth it.
I also did foster care in Nevada. My third husband had a daughter who was five years old. She is the fifth child in my collection of adoptions. Her mom always struggled, so I took in her older brother and younger sister for almost four years through social services. That was by far the most difficult of all foster care situations, and when the younger sister was reunited with her mother, I lost faith in the system. I knew then that I never wanted to be a foster parent again. Emotionally, I was done.
Her mom was an active drug user and gave birth to two boys, a year apart, both drug babies. They took their sister out of our home to be with her younger brothers – siblings she had never met who were one year old and one month old – in the hopes of reunification. She was torn from two of her biological siblings and the home she had known for her entire four years, to be with two siblings she didn’t know. I had guardianship paperwork in an envelope ready for her mom to sign, who was willing to do so, but it never happened. My heart was broken when I lost her.
A Lifetime of Experiences
I was 21 when Brianna was born. From that time to now when I’m 45, I’ve gone through some difficult things. I’ve been through a lot. Not only did I live with people who had depression and anxiety as a child, that trend continued in my adult relationships. I often wonder if I’m good at being with someone suffering from depression and/or anxiety or if I need to learn a lesson that has evaded me.
My stepmother Sue committed suicide in 2005 on the third anniversary of my father’s death. It was crushing because we had become so close and I didn’t see it coming. Several years ago, a neighbor I was close to also committed suicide. I found him in his backyard about two hours after he had shot himself in the head, which is an experience I can never undo. I’ve also been in a relationship with someone who was suicidal.
I did a total of over twelve years of foster care, with five adoptions including my now-17 year old son, who is autistic. I know the pain, physically and emotionally, of infertility and the joy of becoming pregnant. I’ve nearly lost a child, and I’ve experienced the beauty of home births. I’ve been a single parent, and I’ve blended families as well as transitioning several children into adulthood, with more getting close.
I’ve lived with people who suffer from addiction and have experienced toxic relationships as a child and as an adult. In relationships I’ve been cheated on, ignored, and verbally put down and had a husband who went to prison. I’ve felt betrayed, lost, frustrated and angry but I learned valuable lessons with every situation, and I take responsibility for my choices.
I’ve kept myself healthy with physical activity in the way of fitness competitions, triathlons, and, mostly, running but also learned about a healthy diet through nutrition courses. I’ve learned empowerment and saying “yes” to myself. I learned to thrive after abuse, and I have used faith visualization to get me there.
Religion
When I was divorcing the second time, I left the Mormon church. I had been an active member for 17 years, always struggling with not being able to be completely myself. I felt disappointed by the people who claimed to love God and each other, but had been the most judgmental group I had ever been around. I wasn’t looking for a different church that would be OK that I liked sex or that I actually wanted to drink coffee in the mornings or drink alcohol occasionally. I just wanted to be left alone with God more like I had felt before becoming Mormon. I had my name removed from the records of the Mormon church, and I have never looked back. That was twelve years ago. I knew I couldn’t completely be myself and be Mormon and, honestly, I liked myself more than the church.
Until about a year ago, I still wasn’t doing all the things I wanted to do. I got a small tattoo on my back but that was it. My children had been raised Mormon and their father still was. I thought by supporting his decision to stay in the church as much as I could, without attending myself, it would be less confusing for our kids. I don’t know if that’s true or not, and now that I’ve had twelve years of separation from the Mormon church as well as hindsight, if I went back I’d just be more myself as soon as I walked away from the church and strict rules. Fuck everyone else and me trying to accommodate them all. I’d just be me in all my scarred glory.
I’ve gone to different churches from time to time after leaving the Mormon Church. I miss attending. I never found a place I loved, but I didn’t look too hard because again I thought I would confuse my kids if I brought them somewhere different. I tried once and it seemed like more stress for them than it was worth, and they really only wanted to go because they got donuts. I don’t like some aspects of organized religion, but I love the connection to the people and the message on Sunday and the way it can elicit conversations and push me to be a better version of myself. Now that my kids are older, I feel the pull to go back to church more strongly. Maybe at some point I’ll find a church that feels right to me.
In my earliest childhood memories, I felt my faith as if it were part of the physical makeup of my body. It was an integral part of me and who I was. I am very quiet about my faith and strong belief in God. It’s incredibly personal to me. I talk to God all the time in my head and out loud in the shower or the car. I am thankful, grateful, every day not only for the great things in my life, but the struggles that continue to push the boundaries of who I am and allow me to grow. I don’t expect God to swoop in and take care of me, but I know He is there even when I’m stressed or nervous. It’s reassuring to me that not only is God there to lift me up, He is also there when I’m flailing to give me Grace. When things are hard, I repeat, “I know you’re there. I know you’re there. I’m going through this feeling alone and I need the lesson, but I know you’re there.”
There are religious practices that I miss. Going to church and feeling that community. Praying in front of my kids, which slowly ended without me realizing it and now I wish was there. Praying with my partner is something I’ve always wanted because I strongly believe it’s an intimacy that will bring us closer together. I miss reading scriptures because it’s been so long since I’ve done it and I learn something new every time. Having the speaker on Sunday initiate religious conversations that wouldn’t have happened otherwise, which can be a breath of fresh air in any relationship. When my desire to have all of that back in my life exceeds my discomfort of not having it, I will move forward.
Kids Can Teach Great Life Lessons
Just over a year ago my kids came to me and asked me about the topics of piercings, tattoos, and alcohol. They wanted to know how I felt about them. I was honest. I’ve always wanted to get my nose pierced. I have tattoos I want to get. I drink alcohol but never in my home, never if I’m driving, and never if they’re around. So rarely. Yes, I do swear, which my teenagers learn quickly when they begin swearing and get caught. There are things I like but haven’t done yet and a lot I don’t want done, but I don’t think are a big deal. It was a great conversation about what we like and don’t like and why. There are piercings I wouldn’t get, but I don’t think they are a big deal if the kids wanted them. We discussed how some things like tattoos and piercings are permanent or need to be altered surgically so they should wait, while others are less permanent and can be simply removed. We talked about how when drugs or alcohol are involved, it alters how they make decisions and that I can’t stop them from being experimental, but I can discourage it. I did let them know that I would always rather have them call me to get them if they decided to experiment with alcohol or drugs than to stay in a situation that’s scary or uncomfortable.
My most quiet, shy daughter, who questions everything, told me I should just be myself. Stop trying to do everything for them and be me. The rest of them chimed in offering the same support. “Mom, we know who you are. Do what you want,” they said. That week my nose was pierced. In the months ahead, I started getting the tattoos that were drawn in my head for years. If I want a drink and they’re at home, I have one. I am finally unafraid to be completely myself.
My kids know my past to some degree, and will know everything if they read this book. They know I’ve never smoked a cigarette, I’ve never been drunk, and I’ve never done any drugs. I’ve also been clear that it isn’t because I’m pious or strong. Although I’ve never been one to give into peer pressure, it isn’t that strength that kept me away from experimenting. It was 100 percent my fear of becoming like my parents. I was terrified of being an angry drunk. I was afraid that everything I was doing was to escape my life. That my relationship with food would control and consume me or that I would allow myself to be abused by the men in my life if I relinquished control to a substance. That terror, and my need to feel in control of my environment, is why I have chosen not to experiment. I understand the draw to want to check out of life for a bit, or to feel so consumed with horrors in life that you would do anything to escape. I was always more afraid of the escape than the life I was living, so I never went down that rabbit hole.
I wanted to put my energy into creating a life I didn’t want to escape from. All of us struggle and none of us can judge what another person is going through. My goal was to determine what happy people did to become and remain happy, healthy, and invested in their lives.
Moving Forward
Being divorced, single, working jobs that I fit into and being a mom, a runner, living a healthy lifestyle, having great friends, doing some triathlons, and loving life was my norm. After Kirk, as well as after my second divorce, I was single for two years. After my third divorce I was single a year. I was content. I had decided to stay single after going on a handful of dates after my third divorce, when Brianna and my fantasy football friend Lacey decided I should get out more. They wanted me to find new friends, meet people, and have someone to go to dinner or the movies with.
Lacey and Bri had in mind one guy in particular. They told me all about Dane. It was ridiculous. “He’s the one,” Lacey told me. “I’m sure he is – for someone,” I told her. He was four years younger than I. I said, “No.” “You told me you’d date up to five years younger,” she said. I replied, “I lied.” Dane played basketball which was great. He was 5’10” and I had a strict policy not to date anyone under 6’ tall. Preferably taller. So another strike. He had four kids, which I couldn’t say anything about since I had nine. But one was just about to turn four. Another one of my rules was no children younger than my youngest who was ten. “No, Lacey and Bri. No way. Four?? I don’t want to go back to that,” I said. You’ve got to be kidding me! He had been married once and divorced. He was married to his second wife for nine years before she died. “Fuck no. No dead wives. You shouldn’t even be considering us meeting,” I said. At this point Lacey was in tears – something very rare for her. So I humored them both.
Bri, at the age of 21, knew me pretty well, so set up (with input from Lacey) some dating guidelines for me to follow. When I met someone for the first time I was to give it my best shot. I needed to be my genuine self and not simply blow the date off. This is exactly what I wanted to do with Dane. I wanted to be disinterested and just not care. But instead, I followed the guidelines set out before me and gave it a shot. For Lacey and Bri.
Dane and I texted but couldn’t meet for a couple of weeks. He was going to Florida for a competitive golf tournament, and I had registered for a race in California and would be gone for three days. And then fate, God, or some Higher Power stepped in. Dane was t-boned in a car accident and broke his collarbone and couldn’t go to Florida. There were torrential rains in California and the group of us going decided not to go to the race. So after a week of texting, and a few days for Dane to get out of pain, we decided to meet. The texting and one phone call went great, and Dane had looked at my blog and learned about my family enough that I hoped it would discourage him, but at least he was prepared. We met on the day of my race and his tournament and also his deceased wife’s birthday (which fortunately I didn’t know until later).
I didn’t want to like him. I had a bad attitude when I arrived at the restaurant. I parked my car so I would see him walk into the restaurant hoping that the texts were two dimensional and the real life version would be lackluster. I saw him and started walking towards him, having the luxury of watching him. We were still texting. He was being sarcastic, telling me he was in a different place and I told him that I’d just have lunch with the guy I was watching. He looked up and we smiled, hugged, and I thought, “Holy shit I’m in trouble.” I put up some walls and wanted to be cautious, but he was one of the nicest, best people I had ever met, and those facades crumbled right away.
We’ve been together from that moment on. We’ve lived together for over two years, combining two big families. I have a now-six year old who calls me mom and a deceased wife living in my house. Not literally, but metaphorically, she is here living with us. Her memory and the discussions about her are alive and well. We now have thirteen children total, which includes lots of teenagers living in our house. And I love it. Dane runs with me and cheers me on at finish lines. Meanwhile, I love watching him play basketball while I pretend to know the rules. Our life is crazy with kids and their subsequent drama and exes that we struggle with, which is part of what we both took on. I still wrestle with my demons, baggage, and being more vulnerable. I struggle with my fear of being hurt. He is a rock and reminds me of how blessed we are, how we’re there for each other, and how things will work out because we both want them to.
We’re now winding down in the raising children portion of our lives. Two years ago we started off with twelve children living at home. We currently have five children out of the house, six in high school, one in middle school, and our six-year-old going into first grade. In two years, five of those children in high school will have graduated, and the middle school child will be in high school. In two years w