A Love Note for Your Wild Motherhood
Loads of triggers are up ahead in this post, dear ones. It seemed about time we shared, though. Because WHAT IF someone is in a similar place and space?
Possible triggers below include violent intrusive thoughts and our journey with autoimmune/neuroimmune disease, cancer, and OCD.
Love to you who must move on without reading this 💓 So, so much love.
In October 2017, I was diagnosed with #cancer. The absolutely absurd part of this was & is that I have taken excellent care of my precious bod since I turned 23 and found lumps in both breasts - and was a least temporarily diagnosed with Lupus. (Life with #cfsme keeps things interesting for sure.)
I was vegetarian and/or vegan for 12 years of my life. When my naturopath suggested eating animal products because of my lab results, I did. I took all the herbs. The homeopathic remedies. I sought regular chiropractic care. Acupuncture. Meditation and stress management (because special needs parenting can exhaust ones body as much as ones mind and soul). I walked, hiked, and practiced yoga regularly. I coached other women and some men on feeling good in the skin they are in and the life they are living.
Yet three years ago this coming month, I received the unexpected (and expected - which I'll share at a later time on why) call.
Time stops when you're told you have cancer.
What I found is that it doesn't just stop for you though.
It stopped for my husband.
And it wrecked my precious kids.
Bliss was already diagnosed with #OCD and sensory processing disorder long before I got sick(er). But the trauma of seeing mommy in bed day after day really stuck with her. OCD clung to the idea I was dying. And then it took things further. It took these intrusive thoughts and shape-shifted them.
First she was afraid I would die.
Then she was afraid she would contribute to my demise in some way.
Finally, OCD told her that she wanted to kill me.
Bliss would be up dozens of times each night to whisper in my ear, "Mom, OCD says that I want to kill you. But I don't want to." To which I would respond "Mommy knows you love her. Let's go back to bed. Okay?" I would give her a peck on her sweet 5-year-old rosebud lips and back to sleep(ish) we would go until the thought came back and we met one another for a repeat of that same conversation. Over and over again. Oftentimes that conversation bled into the daytime. She attempted kindergarten that year.
But the thoughts persisted.
And we got help.
The beautiful and wonderful thing is that she doesn't remember these thoughts.
The beautiful and wonderful thing is that all she remembers is how I help her through times like these.
She is beautiful and wonderful.
The other day we sat and I rubbed her down with lavender and coconut oil after her oatmeal bath (eczema and anxiety are both a beast every fall for my sensational girl) and she grabbed my hands in hers and said, "Mommy, thank you for always helping me." And I wept.
I wept because I'm alive.
I wept because I get to help her.
I wept because while she still has awful days - we've never gone back to the most awful of days.
And I wept because I'll do whatever it takes for both of us to thrive.
Which is often exhausting.
Sigh.
No one can prepare you for this place and space of pure and selfless love edged with a deep desire to meet your very own needs.
But maybe someone can at least throw out a caution flag. A signal to go slow. Into motherhood, chronic disease, cancer, mental health. If this is anything more than a journal entry today... Let it be this.
Let it be this.
I'll end with a poem today:
Go slow
into everything.
Let life unfold
as it will.
Accept and affirm
what you can
while stepping into your power.
If needed
you can
create change here.
You can.
Sending you so much love and cheering you on.
Welcome to our world. A new website. A new blog post. A new season. A life only worth living because Jesus asked me to stay - and so, I do… and find joy here, come what may.
Come what may.
