My parents taught me about a relationship of love and obedience to God…not a religious observance of a certain set of teachings.

I appreciate how unusual my childhood was.  Religious households often embrace empty spiritual rituals.  I have noticed kids of simply religious homes (regardless of what religion) tend to either fall in love with the structure and security of the belief system – continuing the tradition of a dead religion, or reject it as irrelevant – which it certainly is.

My home was not the dead religion kind of home.

First, the good.

The foundations of my life are solid!  I cannot even describe what a blessing it is to have so much wisdom poured into my life from infancy…to be taught the power of prayer, the love of God, and the knowledge of scripture . . . just awesome!

I am grateful for the legacy I was fortunate enough to receive.  People say I am a strong person, but whatever strength I have stems from my faith – demonstrated to me by my parents and grandparents, along with a bunch of aunts, uncles, and cousins in varying degrees.

But, there is some bad . . .

Since real faith is a personal rather than collective choice, a danger lurks in beautiful Christian homes; the danger of simply adopting the Christian lifestyle (because of your upbringing) without an actual relationship with God.  The Christian life can be very appealing to a person raised in a truly happy and sincere Christian home.

Though my faith was genuine, for many years I loved the gifts more than the giver; the lifestyle more than the author of life.  As strange as it may seem to some, I have always enjoyed church simply because I like other Christians (perfectly lovely when you fit in) and love to learn. I acted charitably toward people because it resulted in better communication and interactions.  Everything just goes more smoothly when following Godly principles.

Enjoying the blessings of a Godly life is not wrong. (Check out the book of Proverbs!) But, when the focus shifts from being in love with God to being in love with the life He gives…that is a problem.

Jason Gray’s song, More Like Falling in Love, captures this concept perfectly:

“Its gotta be more like falling in love, than something to believe in – more like losing my heart, than giving my allegiance….’cause all religion ever made of me was just a sinner with a stone tied to my feet.  It never set me free.”

And the ugly?

Well, for me I guess that would have to be God’s withdrawal to teach me to love Him more than His stuff.

With my idyllic upbringing, I embarked on adulthood fully expecting everything to be wonderful – with my hard work and dedication along with God in my corner – life would be awesome!

But, about three years into our marriage, my husband became addicted to drugs. (It might be a stretch to relate this period of time to being raised in a Christian home…but that is what happened, and we need an “ugly” to make the title work.)

Those next three years were a nightmare.  This was NOT supposed to happen to ME. I was angry with my husband and with God for most of the three years.  How could they do this to me? I did not deserve this! Etc., etc.

When I finally stopped telling God what He could and could not do, stopped crying and whining, and simply told God I was at the end of my rope…would he please do something for me…within one week God dramatically intervened in my husband’s life.

Even that did not look like I thought it would. (It started out with jail!) But I knew God was working and I began to discover a deeper relationship with God based on love, trust, and obedience…not following a formula to receive a prize.

The post Raised in a Christian Home: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

He had arrived home from military service about eight years before suffering from a bad case of PTSD.  The first few years were rocky, but he eventually managed to “suck it up and drive on” – complying with the expectation to quit drinking and using drugs and get on with life, as his dad did after Vietnam.  A few years later we got married and he began college.  Our first child arrived 16 months later.

On the surface, he was doing great…husband, father, full-time student, part-time university employee…but not far below the surface he was starting to splinter.  Stress overwhelmed him all day, every day.  People told him to relax.  He would say, “I’d LOVE to relax! How do you DO that?”

He went to a pastor… he went to a therapist…they both said to take a vacation and “relax”.  He went away frustrated that no one could tell him the magical secrets of relaxation.  He really needed treatment for PTSD, but they were still defining and naming the condition back then, and any help available was strictly for Vietnam veterans.

Then a friend gave him speed…just to get this one paper written…just this one time…

For the next three years my husband was a slave to his cruel mistress.  He threw away everything he had…and everything I had. I shared on another post some things I wish I had known – but here I want to talk about the question: to stay or not to stay?  When you love someone who treats you like garbage and throws you over for anything else (whether another woman or any kind of addiction)…do you “stand by your man”?  Or do you cut your losses and move on?

Well, those are unrealistic extremes, and I have learned good judgment is more often somewhere in-between.

While I don’t believe in an “answer-in-a-box” that fits all people in all situations, there are absolutes – and the supreme absolute is love.

When a marriage veers off track, love is easily thrown out the window.  We forget our actions (and reactions) should be motivated by love . . . and love does what is in the best interest of the beloved.  What is best won’t necessarily line up with what I want or what he wants.  It is not about one or the other “winning”, or even about saving the marriage.

Motive is key.

If I choose my actions based on what I think will save the marriage . . . that is not love.  If I get fed up and, in anger, kick my husband out….that is not love.  But, if I recognize that it is wrong and harmful for him to continue this selfish and destructive lifestyle and refuse  to continue supporting his behavior (by kicking him out) . . . that is an act of love.

Knowing that motive is key and love is required is a good start, but figuring out a course of action can still be tough.  We church-goers receive a lot of training on being a good spouse and what it takes to have a good marriage, but there’s not much instruction when your spouse abandons you (or abuses you, or turns into an enemy, etc – whatever the case may be).

I’ve found that listening to the experiences of others is a big help in sorting out the issues to make difficult decisions…motivated by love, rather than vindictiveness or anger.

That’s a tall order, but so is a marriage vow.

Many times in the middle of the insanity I just wanted to take our daughter and get off the crazy train!  Some of my reasons for sticking with him were not completely rational.  Since we had a child, he would always be involved in my life (that part is true), and I wanted to control the situation as much as possible (a reasonable desire, but). I believed I could put enough pressure on him to get him into treatment (ah, the unreasonable part).

Of course, I could NOT make him do anything, and the more I tried to fix him the more he focused on me as his problem.  I also worried how our daughter would react to losing her father, but I underestimated the negative impact he already had on her.

I never gained the objective perspective of true love, but I did finally kick Caleb out.

He went to a “recovery house” for a while.  He came home playing at recovery…talking a good game and doing the bare minimum to avoid being kicked out again. For instance, I required him to attend 12 step meetings. When he did go, it was just to appease me…and often he did not even go.  Having only one car and a toddler to care for, I could never prove it…so I felt trapped.

The last year of his addiction we lived like that.  I probably should have kicked him out again based on my gut instincts (or God’s promptings?), but I did not trust myself and was too fearful of making the wrong choice.

In the end, God took it out of my hands.  Caleb was arrested.

I considered this the final blow…the end to any hope of a normal life.  At that moment, did I care more about my husband’s welfare or about my “normal” life?  I honestly could not see the difference. I thought they were the same thing.

Though I still had so much to learn, God showed mercy to me.

As it turns out, Caleb’s arrest marked the beginning of his recovery from addiction.  The court offered an intensive, 12-month minimum, court-supervised program, with the threat of jail for non-compliance and/or non-completion.  Drug tests 5 days a week and random, unannounced house searches left no wiggle room for my very slippery husband!

Although the program was court supervised, it was not court mandated.  By this time Caleb was desperate for a way out. He wanted his life back.  Our second daughter was only a few days old and he was determined to be a father to his two girls…so he volunteered for the program.  You may ask, “Why didn’t he care about you and his oldest daughter enough to do whatever it takes?” The answer is unknown…even to him.  It was just time.

During that year, we both learned a great deal about the nature of addiction, principles of recovery, and perhaps most importantly, relapse prevention.  We realized Caleb had exhibited classic relapse warning signs at least 18 months before his buddy made the fateful offer.  One of which was associating with said friend!

Knowing the signs and the right ways to respond has made a huge difference for us.

I am glad I chose not to abandon him.  I always believed “he” was still in there somewhere…the man I loved and married.  It was not easy, and none of my doing, but God was gracious and brought him back to me…and I am grateful.

The post When Love Doesn’t Go the Way it Should appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

Well, maybe I should just say “people” don’t like to talk about their dark days.  There may be more pressure in the Christian community to “have it all together”, but I think it’s the norm for most people to put on a façade of success and happiness.  Except for the martyrs…then it’s darkness and despair 24/7!

The thing is, we experience the most growth during difficulty. . .and when others are going through similar circumstances, it can be encouraging to hear from someone who has already been there…and lived to tell about it!

Probably the most traumatic time for me was the three years that my husband was addicted to drugs.  It may not have been the most dreadful circumstance I’ve experienced, but I was so completely blindsided by it and I never developed coping skills.  It was just three horrific years and then it was over.  What I gained from that time was mostly in hindsight.

There are three things I wish I had known back then…maybe they can help someone else.

1.  You Can’t Fix Them:  Ironically, I only began to understand this when my husband (in recovery) insisted that HE was in charge of his own recovery…not ME.  He had been so out of control that I had become obsessed with controlling and fixing him. I took the “two shall become one” a bit too far and lost all perspective on his individual responsibility.  Be aware, you will never be able to understand the “why” of anything they do…you can’t figure it out and you can’t change it.  You can only change you.

That’s a nice saying, but when you need to know, “what do I do?” and “How do I handle this?”. . .well, move on to #2

2.  Get Support:  Find people who have walked in your shoes and can encourage you. Avoid anyone who says they have the answers or can solve your problems! I did not get support because I lived in a sea of well intentioned problem solvers.  I resented being viewed as a “person with a problem” and could not tolerate another lecture on how to fix my messed up life!  Why in the world would I willingly go to a “support” group? I had no use for a gang of angry women pushing their agenda on me.  The thing is, none of my well-intentioned-problem-solvers had any comparable experience and were not representative of the kind of support that was available to me.

As I struggled with my husband managing his own recovery, I began to attend an Al-Anon group.  To my amazement, there was not a word of advice given, they were not angry, they were not all women, and they did not have an agenda! They simply shared their stories and what they had learned (experience, strength, and hope, as they say).  I could relate to their circumstances and found a lot of truth and wisdom that could have been very helpful during the “years of desolation.”

3.  Ask For & Accept Help:  As a very self-reliant problem solver, this was a foreign concept to me. (Could be why I was surrounded by problems solvers?)  I was aware that I was drowning, but was so overwhelmed and inexperienced at seeking help that I didn’t even know what I needed.  One friend in particular asked many times what she could do for me . . . I absolutely never knew what to say.

Several years later when my brother’s wife passed away, a wonderful group of friends did NOT offer to help…they just showed up every other day with a meal, once a week to clean his house, every morning to pick up his kids (taking one to school and the others home to play with their own kids so my brother could go to work).  He probably could have managed all these things…but he had no experience at running a household, he was grieving and overwhelmed, and these ladies really helped him get through the next few years.

In the best of situations, you would have friends like these.  I however, had become very isolated over the three years and had very few friends (just problem solving acquaintances).  But if you have any friends or family who would be willing to lend a hand, ask them to babysit, vacuum, help with laundry and cooking, work on your car or do some yard-work.  Actually, make a list of the things you do or need to do that someone else could do.  When someone offers to help, let them choose!  I was capable of accomplishing everything myself, so I didn’t understand why I should ask for help…but it would have taken a bit of the load off me…and reducing stress is very helpful!

Most importantly, in the middle of the darkness, when you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, hold on to the truth that God is with you.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4

The post The Valley of the Shadow of Death: 3 Things I Wish I Knew When My Husband Was Hooked on Drugs appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

So many life events took place in May.  I have to admit, some were a tad scary . . . but there is just a sense that something is going to happen in May.

Today is the 30^th anniversary of my first date with my husband.  It was Spring Formal, our Christian school version of Prom.  That wasn’t one of the scary occasions . . . although it was Friday the 13^th  . . . maybe we should have been scared.

It was also May when I kicked him out . . .

. . . but his appendix burst before he even started packing.  He was in the hospital for two days before he had surgery.

I was so young and naïve and overwhelmed by it all, but looking back, I suspect the doctor may have intended to let him die because he was a drug addict.

An angelic nurse, alarmed and incensed by the situation, began calling the doctor continuously about his duties.  He seemed more than a little perturbed when he had to come in on Mother’s Day to do the appendectomy on my not-dead husband.  My mother-in-law and I were not sympathetic to his plight.  People in the medical field think I am exaggerating when I say he waited 48 hours for surgery (but I am not) . . . he really should have died.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that . . .

It was May when the AVM in my brain burst.  It was 48 hours before I was even hospitalized . . . and then another three days before surgery.  I should have died too.

You may be getting the impression that medical care is a bit “sketchy” in this town (as my 14-year old would say).  It sure is a good thing that God apparently has some more plans for the two of us!

A few years ago I wrote an account of my “brain event” in story form.  I am going to share that again here.

My husband and I settled into our seats along the third base line at the Modesto A’s stadium that warm, late-spring evening.  I stashed the coats and blankets as we chatted with my co-worker, Zoe, and her boyfriend. I scanned the program we received on entering the park after the Rotary Club’s tri-tip barbeque in the parking lot.

I anticipated getting out of the house with my husband for the first time since the birth of our third daughter eight weeks earlier.  It wasn’t wonderfully romantic, but it was a fun and welcome break.

“Oh, look!” I said.  “My uncle and cousins are singing the national anthem tonight.  I didn’t even know they did that.”

Zoe checked her program and chuckled, “Really?  That’s your family?” followed by her infectious belly laugh. “How cool.”

I searched the stadium.  “Hey, there they are!  Opposite us on the first base line.”

“You should go over and say ‘hi’,” my husband suggested.

“Sure, I’ve got time before the game.  Be back in a bit.”

Across the stadium, my aunt and I exchanged status updates on our families.  This was pre-facebook era.  When she asked about my husband, I said he was fine and turned to point him out.  Suddenly, the back of my head exploded with excruciating pain.

I tried to continue the conversation, but struggling I said, “I’m sorry.  It feels like my head just exploded.”  My aunt looked alarmed beyond all proportion and shouted, “Well sit down!  Sit down, right now!” and pushed on my shoulders.  It seemed inappropriate to sit down on the walkway and I didn’t want to cause a scene, but I finally complied and dropped to the pavement.

My husband was suddenly there. Medics were there.  I threw-up in a trash can.  I was lying on a cot, screaming in pain, embarrassed by the fuss.  I was in an ambulance and then the hospital.

Following my two previous child births, I experienced a severe “migraine” headache which lasted about twelve hours.  Believing this headache was simply my usual postpartum migraine, I assured everyone I would be fine. My husband continually maintained this was no migraine and my minimizing frustrated him.

The CT scan showed “a small cyst”, but nothing of concern.  The doctor sent me home with a prescription for pain medication and instructions to return if I experienced worsening symptoms and/or vomiting…both of which happened as a nurse wheeled me to our car.

My husband watched me through that night while his mother cared for the baby.  I was never able to keep any pain medication down and by morning my headache was screaming again.

On my return to the emergency room, the staff assigned a “med seeking” designation and shuffled me into a tiny cubicle (more like a closet, according to my husband) on a Morphine and anti-nausea drip.  My husband was furious and kept insisting there was a serious problem.  The doctor dismissed his appeal for another CT scan as unnecessary. I knew my husband was beyond upset, but I did not care about anything that day.  Eight hours later the doctor released me again with the same instructions.

The next day was Monday and my husband made a solemn oath that nothing could prevent him from getting me admitted to the hospital that day.  I still believed he was over-reacting, however my condition had so deteriorated that I did not know the day or where our children were.  There was a delay in processing what people said to me and my response.  People began shouting at me.

At one point I went into the restroom and almost immediately my husband was banging on the door demanding to know if I was o.k.  I thought he was completely insane and swore at him (something I don’t do).  It had actually been over thirty minutes and the string of profanities I screamed at him sent a sickening chill through his whole body.  During his military career he had seen a lot of head injuries and now his concerns became an all-out panic.

Our “work families” were now alerted. One of my husband’s co-workers, a former E.R. physician, suspected the truth . . . an AVM bleed.  He made this assumption based on my age and the fact that I had just had a baby.  He suggested my husband request my primary care physician admit me to the hospital.

Not the Actual Dumb Doctor

My husband drove to my doctor’s office and demanded he see me immediately.  My annoyed doctor made a preliminary diagnosis of post-partum depression and sent us back to the E.R. for admission and probable transfer to a mental health facility!

On our third arrival, I could no longer walk and my husband carried me into the E.R.  The physician from Saturday night was now on duty again.  Alarmed at my condition, she ordered another CT scan.  The “small cyst” was now a “massive bleed” caused by a burst AVM, or tangle of veins in my brain.  I was finally admitted to the hospital, but now with little hope of survival.

The initial plan was to keep watch and hope the bleed would resolve.  The neurosurgeon gave my husband the grim prognosis that I would most likely die, and if not, I would have the functioning of a small child. The size and location of the bleed made surgery to repair it unlikely to succeed.  The slim chance of mere survival as a “vegetable” was not considered a good enough outcome to warrant the cost of a risky surgery.

My husband’s physician friend knew surgical repair was strictly a last-ditch effort and the fifth day was the last chance to do it with any hope of survival.  However, he and my husband felt every possible effort should be made.  He helped bring enough pressure to bear on the neurosurgeon that he finally attempted to clip the veins . . . five days after the bleed began.

The surgery was a success!

Discharged ten days later, I began therapy to learn to walk and to think logically.  I had also lost some language and a lot of conversational ability.

(c) Can Stock Photo / Leaf

The rehabilitation experience gave me new empathy for people with mental illness.  Our brain tells us what is real and a malfunction causes a lot of difficulty!  Several times during my hospitalization I believed I heard people talking who were not there and believed that events occurred that did not.

According to medical types who know this stuff, I experienced a remarkably speedy recovery.  I returned to work part-time four months after the surgery.  Eight months after surgery I was about 99% recovered and returned to work full-time.

What a relief it is to me that God is orchestrating and sustaining life.  Regardless of how careful and responsible I am, I could not prevent the AVM bleed.  I was born with it.  I was also helpless to save myself.  God made it clear to me that He is actually the one accomplishing His will in my life as surely as He caused the walls of Jericho to fall by His own might, not by Joshua’s brilliant military strategy or the fighting skills of the bad-to-the-bone Israeli soldiers.  God put them in a ridiculous situation to show that they weren’t responsible for winning battles.  They were responsible for showing up and following orders.

(c) Can Stock Photo / ruskpp

If the medical community had handled my case correctly, they would have taken credit for the outcome.  Their mistakes allowed God’s power and command of the situation to clearly shine through.  God was not limited by circumstances or doctors or insurance companies.  What an opportunity to experience the awesome power of God!  How can I worry about what tomorrow will bring when the All Powerful, All Knowing, Everywhere Present God of the Universe has my days already numbered and perfectly in his hands?

As it turns out, this was only the beginning of a difficult era for my family, and God has continually brought me back to the same comforting truth of his plan, purpose, and power in my life; and then shown me something new.

The post May Flowers appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I feel just like I did that time in Tel-Aviv when I was beaten from head to toe and left for dead.  I’m serious.  That is EXACTLY how I feel right now.”

“Well, let’s get going to the doctor.”

Caleb groaned, “I don’t want to go to the doctor.”

“This is your third day missing work.  The County requires a doctor’s excuse.”

Over nine months, Caleb had lost almost 100 pounds and was battling severe anemia. He was seeing a G.I. specialist and a blood specialist (hematologist) but there was no diagnosis or improvement.

On this day, Caleb’s primary doctor said there was a flu going around, but considering Caleb’s overall status, he wanted some labs.  Caleb managed to endure the trip to the doctor and the lab and collapsed back into bed as soon as we were home.

That evening, his doctor called to say the labs showed nothing new and he ordered something for the nausea.  That was a Wednesday.

Thursday night (actually about 2:00 a.m. on Friday) while sleeping on the couch, I heard strange noises coming from our room.

I found Caleb lying sideways across the bed, on top of the covers, feet on the floor.  It looked like he had tried to get up and fell back.  I asked him if he was o.k. . . . he made some garbled noises.  He seemed to be sleeping so I chalked it up to nightmares and returned to sleep.

A few hours later I heard more noises.

This time it was like muffled screaming and I discovered Caleb thrashing around.  It was as if an invisible person was holding him down and he was desperately trying to overpower them to stand up.

Going to help him, I saw blood trickling from his mouth.  He was trying to talk but couldn’t.  I told him not to get up and called 9-1-1, followed by my mother-in-law.  It was not even 5:00 a.m. and the girls were all sleeping.  I needed her to stay with them while we went to the hospital.

The paramedics were the first to arrive (of course).  Some of their questions seemed absurd.

“Is this his normal state?”

What?  Is comatose his normal state?  Uh, no…

Grandma arrived next and then the ambulance (yep, a mom can get there faster than an ambulance!)  Our five year old had been wakened by the commotion and Grandma was holding her on the couch as Caleb exited on a stretcher.

In the sunlight one of the EMT’s commented that he looked see-through.  I pulled my van behind the ambulance and waited in the middle of the street for about 20 minutes.

An EMT finally ran around to my window and said, “We’ve been starting an I.V.  He’s going to be o.k. When I got the I.V. in he gave me a thumbs up and said ‘good job.’”  It was hard to take too much comfort in her words, but I held on to them as we headed for the hospital.

At the E.R., Caleb was completely surrounded and I had to stand way back.  After several minutes the doctor broke away to talk to me.  Those words are etched into my memory.

“I’m going to do everything I can for him, but you need to understand that he is in bad shape.” 

I nodded and understood, but it all seemed unreal.  I just stood there watching.

At one point I heard him yell, “I don’t want to die like this!”

The doctor yelled back, “We’re not going to let you die, Mr. Lane.”

Caleb’s mom joined me after dropping the kids at school and daycare.  I repeated the doctor’s words. Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped away, calling Caleb’s dad to come from work. A soft-spoken hospital employee touched my shoulder.

“Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

“I don’t know, I guess someone should call his work.”  I gave him the phone number.

“I’ll take care of this.  We also have a room set aside for you and your family.  Would you follow me?”

I didn’t really want to, but I followed him to a private room in the waiting area.  Some of Caleb’s relatives had already arrived.  I updated everyone. Caleb’s co-workers started to appear.

His apologetic boss needed some document faxed that day to set up a sick bank so other County employees could donate their sick time to Caleb.  I talked to my soft-spoken hospital guy who took care of it.

I was summoned for an update.  He was stable, on a breathing machine, and being moved to ICU.  He had been given three units of blood.

Caleb’s primary doctor arrived to take over his treatment and gave me a little more information.  Caleb seemed to have aspiration pneumonia (caused by inhaling vomit) and a pulmonologist (lung doctor) would be consulting.

Finally able to sit next to Caleb, I touched his arm, kissed his cheek, and told him I was there. A nurse placing monitors opposite me asked about the scar around his index finger.

I flatly replied, “It was caught in a machine gun clip. The tip was cut off and they re-attached it.  That probably won’t work very well on that finger.”

He looked at me for a few moments and finally answered, “That is not something I hear every day.”

Well, Desert Storm had just begun . . . by now he has probably heard a lot more explanations like that!

In our new ICU waiting area, one of Caleb’s co-workers handed me a sandwich from the cafeteria.  Even though it was mid-afternoon, I honestly did not feel hungry. But I appreciated his kindness and ate it anyway.

When I was allowed to see Caleb, he was still unconscious. He had tubes into his lungs breathing for him and other tubes pumping out the contents of his lungs, which was a lot of blood.

The G.I. doctor determined that the blood had never been in Caleb’s stomach (so it wasn’t true aspiration pneumonia) and felt it would be up to the hematologist to figure it out.

The plan was to be on the breathing machine in ICU for about five days and then moved to another floor to investigate his underlying condition (i.e. what is this?)

The intake nurse, I’ll call her “Jennifer”, was one of the most self-righteous, unprofessional people I have ever encountered.  She disparaged the medication he was taking (for pain and for mental health) and commented that they were doing such a huge favor taking care of him when he obviously was not taking care of himself.  Given the nine months of perplexed specialists and unproductive tests we’d been through, I just wanted to strangle that woman! (O.K. I was also tired and stressed)

Jennifer’s attempt to “get him off all that stuff” caused him to be without his regular medications for almost five days.  This, along with PTSD, caused him to go into a panic every time he started to regain consciousness (being tortured and in restraints in a strange environment…nightmare situation for him). The impatient and skittish nurses would knock him out again, usually in the middle of the night when I was not there.

I encountered some caring and compassionate nurses, but Jennifer’s disdainful attitude toward a person suffering from mental illness and chronic pain was the norm.  The hospital staff often made it clear to me that they did not like my husband and caring for him was a distasteful part of their job.  I hated leaving him alone in that place, and his mother and I were there as much as possible.  But I also had a job to attend to as well as a two, five, and ten year old who needed a parent.

On day thirteen of his ICU confinement, Caleb finally managed an escape attempt…I am sure it was fueled by the delusion that he was being held captive, but that’s o.k.  He gradually loosened the restraints by pretending they were already tight and faked sleep so they wouldn’t drug him again.  Once he pulled the tubes for the breathing machine, the staff took all the credit, everyone on the unit was happy, and he was finally moved to another floor.

Good to be out of ICU, but not out of the woods yet.

His medication routine had been so disrupted that he continued to be suspicious and paranoid.  Again, the hospital staff did not appreciate his behavior and treated him with disregard.  One nurse, annoyed at having to deal with him, handled his IV after cleaning his bedding.  She was openly contemptuous when Caleb complained about it.

As a result, on the eve of being released he was found to have sepsis.  According to the doctor, “the most dangerous strain” – and back to ICU we go!

As he was recovering from sepsis, he began to swell from his arm up to his neck…now there was a blood clot! I began to despair that he would make it out of the hospital alive.  I always knew there was a possibility that he would not live, but now it seemed that he just needed to get out of the quagmire of the hospital!

The idea of doing some investigation while hospitalized was abandoned. Caleb’s doctor was just as eager to get him out of that environment as we were.  As soon as it was medically feasible, Caleb was released to home under the care of a visiting nurse. (Who was awesome and super nice, by the way!)  He was still very ill and on IV treatment for another six weeks.

In the hospital he had received a total of five units of blood and after discharge he received another two units.  There was never a medical explanation of why all this had happened, but he very nearly died three times during his five weeks in the hospital!

He was off work for about six months, going back at part-time and gradually increasing to full time after a year. He struggled for another fifteen months to continue working, but could never get his feet back under him.  He had suffered some brain damage caused by the lack of oxygen and showed signs of dementia.  He continued to be in poor health and was hospitalized twice more before finally, reluctantly admitting the need to retire.

As a result of Caleb’s brain damage and retirement, our family has been in a constant state of adjusting and learning for the past eight years.  It’s been an education I didn’t really want, but it has definitely shaped us and I would not change a thing!

The post 5 Weeks in the Hospital: When a Person With Mental Illness Requires Medical Care appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

I don’t usually mention it – it’s not a primary issue.  Yet, it is a fact that affects us . . .  and not a fun fact.

We never actually had lots of money, but there was enough…and a little extra.  A bit more than mere survival . . . and we were content.

Between my husband’s retirement and disability pay and my full-time clerical salary, we could continue to make ends meet, but the strain of working full-time while caring for my husband and three children proved too overwhelming for me.

My blood pressure settled into the danger zone, which is risky for anyone, but the clip in my brain makes high blood pressure potentially deadly.  I could not get mine under control until I dropped to working part-time.

That’s when things got interesting.

I never considered myself a “materialistic” person.  My idea of a good house is one which has enough room for the family, preferably in good repair.  A good car is one that also has enough room and is reliable, preferably with good gas mileage.  I never desired a big “fancy” house or certain types of cars.  When people start talking about cars, I sort of glaze over . . . I just don’t get it.  It is transportation . . . it gets you from point A to point B . . .

In regard to possessions, my view is equally utilitarian.  Why do I want a 60” T.V.?  I can see the show on the 15”.  I like to have things that are useful . . . but I have no love of “stuff”.  My husband and I see eye to eye on this . . . although I would say he assigns a higher value to sweets, tools, and weaponry.  I probably assign a higher value to clothes, personal care items, and home décor than he does.  But overall we are right on the same page.

Still, when the budget no longer balanced and I knew I would have to truly trust God for our “daily bread” . . . I did not like it! I seriously wished we could go back to having our “monthly bread”.

It has certainly been an exercise in faith.

You know, the results of exercise are awesome!  But the actual exercise can be grueling and exhausting . . .  I usually spend my workouts counting down the seconds until it will be over!

And I feel the same about exercising my faith – except I don’t know when it will be over, if ever.  One day I am calm and peacefully counting on God’s provision; the next day I am distressed over something we can’t afford.  God has certainly never let us down, but I have felt let down a time or two . . . perspective.

My mom used to sing, “Oh be thankful for the good things that you’ve got.”  She only sang it when we complained.

I always hated that song.

As God provides month after month, I am reminded of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness.  Every day they depended on God to provide food and water just for that day . . . they could not save up.  Nowadays we need food, water, and gas . . . but same principle. I find I am a lot less critical of their flair for complaining and doubt.

Of course Mom was right; being thankful for God’s care is actually the only way to “let patience have its perfect work.”

James 1:2-4 “2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. 4 But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.”

What I found is that I can place too much importance on money, even if I don’t have a lot and even if I am not particularly materialistic.  The question is: Where do I put my trust? What is my source of security?

“Financial boot camp” has been interesting, challenging, and rewarding.  Although, I don’t think I will ever call it “fun”.

Our kids are also getting a work out that we probably would never have given them.  It is so easy to get carried away with giving kids everything they want/need . . . unintentionally spoiling them. Good thing we were not given that opportunity.  Instead we were given the opportunity to demonstrate faith along with a healthy view of money.

Matthew 6:25-34 “25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothes? 26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 28 “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29 Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30 If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31 So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’32 For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

As always, God already had a better plan . . .

He provided a way for me to support my family by working from home. Even when I can’t see the way, God always can.

The post The Root of All Evil? appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

“The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it. You either have to laugh or cry. I prefer to laugh. Crying gives me a headache.” ― Marjorie Pay Hinckley

My husband’s 5 weeks in the hospital marked the beginning of a four year slice of life I call The Tumultuous Years of Ambiguity.

What caused the deterioration which landed Caleb in the hospital was a mystery. After his discharge, he required one more infusion of blood. His weight finally stabilized and over the course of a year he slowly regained strength. We continued our hunt for answers, going from specialist to specialist – blood tests, EEG’s, EKG’s, scans, studies – all “negative”.

I hated the news that this illness or another was “ruled out” . . . even the scary ones. I just wanted to know so we could move on and start to deal with it.  Not knowing was the worst part.

Caleb’s short term memory was not good, so I needed to attend all his doctor visits. . . going to several visits per week and managing the investigation was like another job for me. I was working full time and our two, five, and ten year olds needed more attention than I was able to give them.

Caleb finally talked his doctor into allowing his return to work. He was going stir crazy at home, but within a few months of working his brain injury symptoms dramatically increased. He would get so absorbed in a project that he would forget to go to work.  He sometimes got lost. He became almost obsessed with taking things apart. Our house became littered with computer and flashlight parts, among other things. His thoughts were disorganized and his environment was chaotic.

In the sixteen months back at work before retirement, he was on disability leave for over two months (not consecutive) and he never managed to work a full 40 hour week. After about nine months, his boss and I began to suggest retirement. He refused to even consider the notion – until another blood in the lungs episode.

Caleb wanted to keep working – to support his family. That’s what any husband and father wants. But what if it was in his family’s best interest to retire?

His symptoms were worse when he was working . . . and that put a strain on the family.  And his health was not improving – there was not even a diagnosis – which put him in danger of losing his job anyway.  At least retirement would bring an income.

Even though it went against every fiber of his being – and he fully expected to be viewed as a social outcast – he chose what would be best for his family. It was one of the most painful and self-sacrificial things he has ever done!

The process of applying for and receiving disability retirement took about a year. I (mistakenly) believed that once he was approved for social security there would be resources available to us – assistance with housekeeping and going to appointments, etc – so that I could continue to work and not have a nervous breakdown.

When I found out that there would be no help I cried for a long time.

We were nearing the end of our investigative journey. A few months after his retirement was finalized, we finally saw the specialist who gave us the diagnosis . . . a neuropsychiatrist.

He said there had been numerous onslaughts to Caleb’s brain over the years, from multiple concussions in the army, to drug abuse and pain, and finally the period of time he went without oxygen before I discovered him drowning.

But he also said that Caleb had the highest level of stress that he had ever seen in a patient. He felt the stress was making the brain injury so debilitating and causing the physical symptoms of anemia, weight loss, and even the blood in his lungs.

Finally! A diagnosis! A prognosis! A course of treatment!

As great as that was, nothing really changed the next day, or even the day after that. We still had a long road of acceptance and adjustment to travel – but now at least we could begin!

The post The Tumultuous Years of Ambiguity (Part 1): In Search of a Diagnosis appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

We don’t talk much about “the neighbor”. It was terrible and seems like such a wild story . . . but it’s all true.

Of course, I am not a psychiatrist.  I can’t make an actual diagnosis of sociopath. But she definitely fits the description, so we’ll just go with that assumption.

She seemed sort of particular and demanding at first. She didn’t want the kids to touch her decorative rocks. She wanted the neighborhood dogs silenced. She wanted Caleb to help her shut down the drug dealers living at the corner.  Caleb always listened sympathetically to her goals and gave her suggestions (which she never took), but as her methods became more bizarre and aggressive he tried to distance himself and avoid her.

Then she turned her attention to the widow living on the other side of her. The widow worked nights and her four boys (aged 14 – 22) were left unsupervised. They mostly worked on cars in the driveway and played loud music, but that was unacceptable to the sociopath.  She came to us with her plan to force them to move. She was going to file multiple police reports in the hopes that they could be proved a “public nuisance”. Caleb explained that this type of tactic would not really work on a property owner in a residential neighborhood and besides, what our neighbor really needed was some kindness, assistance, and understanding.

Caleb was angry with the sociopath. She was picking on a widow and he was going to protect her. At that time he judged the sociopath to be just a bully – she simply needed someone to stand up to her. He flagrantly supported the widow and loudly opposed the sociopath’s bullying.

This was about the same time Caleb returned to work after his hospitalization.

After months of constant police visits, a small claims suit, and calls and letters to the widow’s employer – the widow had enough and moved.  Two other neighbors also moved to get away from her.  Although she was not directly harassing them, they became concerned about her demands to support her activities and did not want to become a target.

She now turned her full attention on Caleb.  This was during the final months he was attempting to continue working. His world was beginning to crumble as he held stubbornly to his job. He was not about to be pushed around by this bully!  After all, he was an Airborne Ranger!

She started off with high-powered spotlights and video cameras aimed in our children’s bedroom windows. These scared the kids and Caleb started off with a pleasant request that perhaps she could turn the lights a bit so they did not bother the kids so much. Her response was to increase the wattage.  Caleb’s next response was to go over and threaten bodily harm if she did not remove the lights and cameras. She wrote that down.

She told us to fix our fence. Caleb responded that we would pay for half of a replacement fence. She replied that she did not care if there was a fence and would not participate in replacing it.  Caleb took down every other board and informed her that our half of the fence was gone, she could do what she wanted with her half.

She nailed blue plastic tarps to the fence frame.

She began to accuse Caleb of vandalizing her property. The police were summoned several times a week. By now, Caleb was not working. He would yell at her that we were not moving, that she did not know who she was dealing with, and that he was not afraid of the police.

She added this to her notes – then filed for a restraining order.

Caleb did not challenge the restraining order – he didn’t want anything to do with her anyway . . . it seemed pointless. We probably should have talked to a lawyer, but at the time we were spending so much time and energy on doctors and the health investigation. This seemed like just another of her annoyance tactics.  We were wrong!

Once the restraining order was in place, things got really nasty. She was able to summon the police almost daily. They always arrived guns a-blazing and oozing aggression. They thought they were protecting a poor single woman from a dangerous, mentally ill veteran.

Needless to say, the lights and cameras aimed at our house along with daily, aggressive police visits did not help Caleb’s PTSD symptoms.  It may even account for his “off the charts” stress reading at the neuropsychiatrist’s.

While I was juggling the normal demands of work, kids, and housekeeping, I was also supervising the medical investigation and trying to help my husband and children feel safe in our home.

Once we received Caleb’s diagnosis, I filed my own restraining order against the neighbor. I thought I could legally make her stop the harassment. Oh boy, was I wrong!

I was granted the order, which stated that she could not point her lights or cameras into our windows. It proved unenforceable.  The police stated they could not prove where the cameras were pointed and refused to take any action.

As punishment for the restraining order, the neighbor put a sprinkler next to the fence remnant and aimed it at the eaves of our house.  She left it running for days and flooded our yard. Surely something could be done about this, right?

The first officer who came out was very sympathetic to our situation. When the neighbor refused to come to the door, he turned her house water off at the street.  I guess he got in big trouble for that. When I called again the next day I was told there was no law against what she was doing and they would not come out.

The police eventually told me that they would not come for any more of my calls and perhaps I should consider moving!

Caleb’s physical and mental health continued to deteriorate under the strain. All of our kids were showing signs of stress as well. I finally decided that enough was enough and we had to move.

It was the bottom of the housing crash and we could not sell the house for even a quarter of what we owed, and with our reduced income (not only had Caleb retired, but I had cut back to part-time to take care of him) we could not even afford the payments . . . a fact that finally persuaded Caleb to go with my plan.

As we walked away from our first house; Caleb disabled and retired, me working part-time, it seemed so tragic. We felt as though everything was lost.

But the story was not over.

Once we escaped that environment, we were able to rest and heal. We started to gain perspective on all that happened. We began to adjust and cope with our new reality. After a few years, Caleb was able to get some help with his PTSD and gain some stability. We eventually even bought a new house that fits our budget and is so much better than the one we were trying to hang on to.

God has brought restoration and blessing.

Isaiah 61:3 “To console those who mourn in Zion, To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning, The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; That they may be called trees of righteousness, The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.”

The post The Tumultuous Years of Ambiguity (Part 2): The Sociopath Next Door appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

“Cleanliness is Next to Godliness”

That’s in the Bible, right? Well, if it isn’t  – it should be.

I think it might be implied.

There are very few things that are more important to me than a clean and orderly home.

As a child, my room was always clean.  I tried to bring order to the rest of our home, but my four brothers thwarted me at every turn.  I assured anyone who would listen that when I moved out MY home would always be neat. I would never allow MY children to be as messy as my brothers were!

And I did not lie. When I moved into my first little apartment with my cute little dog, I kept that place tidy and spotless. I washed everything at least once a week, whether it needed it or not, including my car and the dog.

There was a place for everything and everything was always in its place. It was perfect!

Well, almost . . . it did get sort of lonely. So I went and got married.

I thought I could have it all. Caleb gave no indication that it would be a problem.  Neatness turned out to be a struggle for him, but I let him know how very important this was to me and he worked hard to accommodate my desires.

As the babies arrived, maintaining my standards became more and more difficult . . . especially since I was working full-time.

By the time we had a one-year old and a six-year old and Caleb was working nights, I had learned to relax some of my expectations. And we had a good system going.  He would sleep about 8am to 2pm – then get up and do laundry and start dinner. I would get home from work with the kids about 6pm and we spent our evening together; dinner – baths and bed for the kids – pick up toys – clean the kitchen – then off to work he’d go at 11pm.

After a year, he transferred to days. But we were still a team. Our niece once called us penguins because we shared parenting duties.

But when the tumultuous years arrived, it became impossible to maintain order in our home. Caleb was no longer assisting with any of the family responsibilities, I had to do more to help him, there were three kids instead of two, and I thought I might scream if one more person asked me to do one more thing . . . I was operating at full capacity, and more.

There were just not enough hours in a day. While I was working, Caleb was at home taking things apart.  I could not clean up his daily handiwork in an evening which would likely include cooking, laundry, paying bills, grocery shopping, and paperwork for an insurance appeal!  We might also receive a visit from the police… oh, and don’t forget homework. The kids would need help with their homework!

Besides, Caleb objected to me cleaning up his projects because he was “working on them”.

Letting go of my clean home was devastating for me. I died a little inside every day that I had to face the chaos in my house.  I knew I had to accept this reality . . . there was no real alternative. It was just do or die.

Even as I struggled to accept the clutter, I could not just allow our home to become completely overrun and dangerous for the family. I had a responsibility to keep things in check. I had to work for a goal that was realistic and necessary without allowing my real goal to creep in and take over . . . because that was not obtainable and would only lead to anger, despair, and dissatisfaction.

This was not a battle I fought once and then it was over. This was more like the Old Testament stories of the Philistines attacking Israel . . . . they were defeated over and over, but just kept coming back!  This neatness thing is so deeply ingrained in me. I constantly struggle with it. If I don’t give it up daily, there will surely be some ugliness!

Of course, there is nothing wrong with a clean and orderly home. But for me it was just too important and God used Caleb’s illness to open my eyes.

These days we have managed to keep the disarray contained in a few “allowed” areas. I still don’t like it, but it has been worse. I just remember, this world is not my home – I’m just passing through.

John 14:2 In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

I’m pretty sure my mansion is gonna be clean!

The post Cleanliness is Next to Godliness (“Tumultuous” Part 3) appeared first on Adventures in Loving.

I do not live in the past. Those years are behind. I look forward with anticipation to the next adventure. I do not fear what man can do . . . and that confidence is a product of my experience – not in spite of my experience.

Caleb and I “should” have died – for him multiple times. Our neighbor tried to destroy us, but God delivered us and then blessed us. The fact that we are still kicking around on earth means God obviously has something in mind for us . . . with that view, I am listening for His voice to obey.

Well, I guess I should say that is my goal. I actually listen and obey imperfectly – but hey, most of the “heroes of faith” were in the same boat, so I’m in good company.

I doubt anyone will experience the exact series of events that I have, but I certainly do not have a corner on overwhelming life situations. I meet people every day who are carrying heavy loads – sometimes more than they feel they can bear.

By taking some time to look at the Tumultuous Years, I am able to share some thoughts on how to survive and even overcome difficulty.

God’s Grace is Sufficient:

I was forced to let go of every desire, goal and expectation I had in life . . . even perfectly good ones.  I would never say that having desires, goals, and even expectations is inherently bad – just like money is not evil, but the love of it is – but for me, God had to tear away every thing I loved to get my complete devotion. They had become my “idols”.

If I could transport back in time to those “three years of peace” and ask myself these questions – the honest answers would be:

Q. Who/What do you rely on?

A. My ability to analyze a problem, research, and solve it

God’s response: Uncharted Waters

Q. Where do you find security?

A. Money

God’s response: Root of all Evil

Q. What is your heart’s desire?

A. I invest my time and energy into a clean and orderly home

God’s Response: Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

Q What is your source of joy?

A. Joy? What is that?

God’s Response: Life is Funny

Pray and take one day at a time.

These verses became my mantra.

Matthew 6:34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

 Philippians 4:6 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God;

To keep up this focus in the busyness of managing disorder, I made a CD with songs of faith and encouragement. I kept one in my car (I spent a lot of time in there), and one in the house.  This was a few years ago and this “old school” method would be replaced by a play list on my media storage.

Maintain my own emotional and physical health.

When I was completely overwhelmed I was often harsh and unreasonable with the kids (and probably complete strangers). I had no time or emotional energy to deal with any of their childishness.  Looking back I cringe at some of my behaviors. I was once embroiled in a showdown with one of the girls when Caleb came to her defense, telling me that I was out of line.  The irony and absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me. After all, I was the only “normal” one in the family!

I realized I was “losing it”.

I began to insist on at least ten minutes completely alone every day to unwind.  I also arranged for each set of grandparents to take all our kids overnight one weekend per month. So every two weeks I would get a break (and so would they).  I mostly just soaked in a hot tub, did some reading, and got caught up on sleep.  I did not try to catch up on cleaning (but it was tempting)!

 Boil things down to what really matters:

The book, The 36 Hour Day by Nancy Mace and Peter Rabins was extremely helpful to me. In it is a story of a woman caring for her mother (who had Alzheimer’s). The mother would put the silverware in the linen closet every day, and every day the daughter would move the silverware back to the kitchen drawer. One day the daughter realized that there was no reason the silverware could not be kept in the closet . . . and life became simpler.

There were many ways I applied this principle and it really helped reduce my stress.

I also had to evaluate all the things that were expected of me and decide what I needed to do, what things someone else could do, and what things were just not going to get done. These were usually things that are really great like volunteering in the kid’s classrooms or being “team mom” for soccer.  There are even some things that I really regret not doing, but I definitely did my best in the place God put me and I trust Him for the outcome.

Be content with progress.

This is a difficult concept for perfectionists, but critical for happiness.

For example, Caleb has been building a small fence in our backyard so we can put up a pool (the dog and the pool need protection from each other).  This project would normally take a weekend – maybe two weekends.  He has been at it for five months.

Bit by bit, he makes progress – sometimes slow, sometimes sporadic. I am optimistic he will finish soon – maybe even this week.  My natural response would be frustration and anger which communicates ingratitude and insults his efforts. And our gloomy boat would have bitterly arrived at the same destination.

Instead I have learned to be grateful for his efforts and encouraging of his progress.

These are the lessons that carried me through the Tumultuous Years and continue to give me strength in the ongoing imperfection of  life.

The post The Tumultuous Years of Ambiguity (Part 4): The Wrap Up appeared first on Adventures in Loving.