Wednesday, August 16, 2017

My Confession About Motherhood

Earlier this summer, I had to drive to Dallas to take my mom to the airport. I am not one to waste a trip to one of my favorite cities, so I planned a late morning museum trip with my two kids after the airport drop-off. It was a crazy busy day at the museum, with buses of summer camp kids unloading from every direction. There were swarms of kids in matching t-shirts and lanyard name tags. But I was fearless. I am a mom and a teacher. Not much scares me.

I had a diaper bag packed with everything a mom could need. We slowly wandered through the various museum floors, looking at dinosaurs and playing games with magnets. We waited in line for three-year-old Jude to try his hand at the remote control trucks. He played for a long while, and then we headed down to the first floor to the preschool play area. My son even got to push the elevator buttons. I fed Ella snacks along the way to keep her content. I was winning at motherhood.

Downstairs, Jude played in a pretend grocery store and filled his reusable bags with plastic produce. Little Ella crawled around the infant play area, staring at herself in plastic mirrors that were covered in baby fingerprints. We went outside for a few minutes so that Jude could dig in the sandbox. But it was creeping up to lunch time (and nap time), so I announced that it was time to go. I knew my announcement would be met with resistance. My son was having fun. He didn't want to leave. But I put on my best cheery voice, and I tried to bribe him with the promise of a snack and drink upon arrival at the van.

Once we were outside the doors of the museum, I made a huge mom mistake. Jude spotted a section of concrete that was covered with shallow water, perfect for splashing. There were shade trees and open spots for sitting. And I feel like I need to tell you that I long to be a yes mom. I want to say yes to Jude baking with me, even though it takes twice as long and I end up with extra mess. I want to say yes to stopping at parks, even though we had planned on going straight home. I want my kids to have wonderful memories of spontaneity and surprise. So I told him to take his shoes off and go run. And he did.

For the next 15 minutes, Ella and I sat in the shade while Jude ran and played. But my poor girl was spent, and I knew it was time to go. And that's when it started.

First, Jude wouldn't put his shoes on. I tried to put them on for him, but he just kicked and screamed and made a huge scene. So I decided we would walk to the parking lot without them. I warned him that the ground would be hot. I grabbed his hand, and dragged led him along. He cried the whole time, yelling "Nooooooo!" with every step. Before we crossed the street to get to the parking lot, I decided that my son needed to be wearing shoes. So we sat down on a bench, and I proceeded to fight all 35 pounds of him. He screamed and flailed and attracted the attention of every single person in our general vicinity. I was embarrassed but determined. I spoke calmly to him while he went wild.

Once I got his shoes on his feet, he would not walk. He literally fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. I knelt down, picked him up with one arm, and I hoisted him up onto my hip. At this point, he was still screaming and yelling his loudest no, as if he was being kidnapped. I carried him to the parking lot with one hand, pushing Ella in the stroller with the other, trying hard not to burst into tears. When the van was finally in sight (but still not close), I put him down. I told him he would have to walk, as I could not carry him anymore.

And then he sat down.

At this point, I was mad. Like raging mad. Everything inside me wanted to just walk away and leave this child to whatever natural consequences might come from sitting defiantly in the middle of a busy parking lot. It was irrational, and I didn't care. I was done.

I didn't leave him there. Not exactly. I did walk to the van and park the stroller, all the while keeping an eye on my son.  As I walked back toward him, he began to run the other direction. And honestly, it was one of the worst moments of my parenting life. I ran after him as fast as I could, and I picked him up like a football and marched him back to the van. He stopped crying. He stopped screaming. He stopped saying no. He knew he had pushed me too far.

I called my husband, and I cried. I don't remember everything I said, but I remember saying things I shouldn't have. Venting about my kids in front of my kids is something I try not to do. But I was just so exasperated. I felt so overwhelmed.

I am a good mom.

I work hard to be patient and loving with my kids.

I do not yell and scream at my children.

So how on earth did I end up with a child that does not listen?

Why did I not get a sweet, respectful child?

It is just so unfair.

I may not feel these things regularly with the same kind of intensity that I felt them that day, but I do feel them. Having a strong-willed child is hard. It requires so much more patience and love and grace than I have. And when I feel like I am not getting the respect, the obedience, and the performance that I deserve, I feel cheated. I hate that motherhood isn't easier. I despise being spoken to in a disrespectful way. I look back on my own behavior as a child - what parts of it I remember- and I wonder why my child treats me in a way I wouldn't have dreamed of treating my parents. I worry that other people will look at him and think "Why doesn't she discipline that child?". I worry about how his outbursts make him look to other people. I worry about how they make ME look.

My son is full of personality. He loves to sing and run and be tickled. He has an amazing memory. He loves music and has better rhythm at the age of three than most adults. He loves his sister fiercely. He thrives on routine, and he loves people. And sometimes, he shows his sinful self. And all of the parenting books in the world can't fix that.

So my confession about motherhood is this: I cannot control my son's behavior. Nor can I control my daughter's. And I don't think I was meant to. That's not my job. My job is to love and teach and correct. I pray for my kids. When we notice our kids struggling with obedience or anger, we quote Bible verses to them about these particular things because we believe that Psalm 119:11 is true. I work hard to respond to them with grace and love. It doesn't always work. I definitely fail. But my mistakes as a mother don't define me any more than my son's mistakes define him. And I don't have to own his mistakes. I don't have to carry them as my own failures. He is still young, and he is learning. And honestly, so am I.

His independent spirit is going to make him a fantastic adult. He is already filled with personality and leadership skills. As he grows and matures, these things that make me crazy on a daily basis will become the things I admire about him. But in the meantime, while I work to convince him that he is not the boss of everything, I have to let go of some things. I have to let go of my dreams for a perfect child. I have to let go of my expectations that fun outings will be fun from start to finish. I have to let go of the feeling that I deserve a certain kind of child.

So instead, I hold on to my faith, to the fact that I was never meant to parent him in my own strength. I can't do this without Christ. I hold onto the unconditional love that I have found in Christ, and because of that, I can love my kids even on their worst days. I hold onto the knowledge that God's word is true, and these verses that we quote to them are not just words but are life-giving. They will lead them to faith and obedience. These things will keep me going on the hard days.

Friday, July 14, 2017

Looking Back... just needing to stop and tell you how good God has been to us

I am a fan of looking back. One of my favorite parts of social media is being able to look back on each day in previous years and remembering the places and people that filled up my past. It's fun to see growth and change in that way. It is also sobering when I see comments from people who have passed away. Sweet messages from my dad and my aunt, who went to heaven without much warning, and long before I was ready for them to go. But mostly, I feel joy and gratitude when I see the way God's hand has moved in my life.

Three years ago I posted a note on Facebook about why we were leaving Delaware. We had only been there three short months. I felt confused and sad, and I had no idea why God was moving us. We had already done so much moving. But in that note, I listed the things we needed to be able to make our move back to Texas. I was very specific in laying out the areas in which our family needed prayer. I remember that the future felt so nebulous, so unknowable. But I knew that we had a list of needs, and God knew how we would answer. As I read those requests this morning, I was overcome with thankfulness. Because God had gone before us, preparing the way, preparing provision before we had need.

If I could sit down with you over a cup of coffee and tell you the story in person, I would. But the kids are napping, and leaving the house might mean makeup and changing out of yoga pants. So I'll just tell you here how He did it. Because houses and jobs may seem everyday and ordinary, but they are downright miraculous to the homeless and unemployed. And that's what we were. So here's what we prayed for, and here's how God came through for us.

We prayed for housing. Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary approved us for housing almost immediately. Despite our last minute move, they placed us a beautiful, two bedroom apartment with washer/dryer hookups, and y'all, it was on the first floor. Of course, we had crazy loud upstairs neighbors, but we recently moved to the second floor and we get to be the crazy loud upstairs neighbors. Hallelujah. This last apartment was our home for the last (almost) three years. This was a record setting residence for the Turner family. It was the longest we lived anywhere since our wedding in 2011.

We prayed for a job for Jake. He found a job almost immediately. He bought computers and tablets for an online technology company. He worked this job for his first semester, until God provided a ministry job for him.

We prayed for a job for me. Once we got back home to Texas, my dad welcomed us back to his church. He offered to let me step back into my previous position as Children's Minister, giving up part of his salary to make sure I would get paid. I served at Trinity Baptist Church for Jake's first semester. I got to spend valuable time with my dad during those months. I would walk into the church office with Jude, and we would look back into my dad's office. My dad's face would light up when he saw Jude us. Jude got lots of extra one-on-one time with Papa during that time. We had no idea how precious those memories would be. My second job was a teaching job at Science, Etc., a homeschool enrichment program in Fort Worth. They needed someone to teach History and Geography. The job was only two days a week, Tuesday and Thursday, so I would need someone to keep my son during that time. We quickly discovered that the seminary offered a Mom's Day Out program, and that classes were offered only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have no doubt that this was orchestrated by God himself.

We prayed for a church home. Going back to my dad's church for our first few months was like moving back home as a fully grown adult. It's good and beneficial and healing, even, to be around the familiarity of family. But it's not where you're meant to stay. Those months at Trinity Baptist Church were a breath of fresh air. We needed those months to regroup, to rethink what we wanted in a church home. And I'll admit, I was more than hesitant about walking into another new church situation, whether it was just for attending or for employment. It all made me nervous. But again, God knew what we needed. Five months after we arrived back in Texas, Jake took a position at Lane Prairie Baptist Church in Joshua, Texas. Everyone was so incredibly friendly and kind, but I had no idea how much I was about to need my church family. Through my dad's accident and passing and those hard days that followed, the people in our church showed us the love of Jesus in more ways than I can count. God knew that we would require extra care during that time. Two and a half years later, Lane Prairie is home for us. Jude walks into the church building like he owns the place, stopping to give high fives and to hug every senior citizen he sees. And there are lots to be hugged, y'all. I have made sweet friends that have celebrated and grieved with us. We are loving our time at Lane Prairie, and we look forward to however many more years of ministry God gives us there. We hope it's a long time.

In the past three years, there have been a thousand gifts that we didn't know to pray for back then. Like I mentioned already, we got the gift of time with my dad. I was home in Texas for six months before his accident. Through his coma, I was never more than a half hour away from him. I was able to visit him several days a week. I was able to spend time with my mom during those difficult, uncertain months. As a result of my dad's accident, I saw my Aunt Judy regularly. She lived in Houston, but she came up often to check on my dad. We didn't know then that she had cancer and would be taken from us just a few months after my dad's passing. We have been given the gift of people. So many people. God brought us back to previous friendships that we left behind in the DFW area. He gave us our church family and seminary family. God orchestrated a friendship for me with the campus nurse. Do you know what it's like for a worried mama to have the wisdom of a nurse just a text message away? I do. She has become one of my dearest friends, always ready to encourage and help problem solve. My teaching job is such a life-giving thing for me. It's the kind of thing I would want to do even if I didn't get paid to do it. That is how much fun I have teaching. (Don't get me wrong, the money helps us live, so I like getting paid.) I have so much freedom and I work in such a positive environment. Anyone who has ever tried to teach in a toxic environment knows the blessing in this. He gave us a baby girl to round out our family. We get to celebrate her birthday tomorrow, and we are so grateful for her.

I know I am kind of rambling.

But I needed to tell you.

I needed to stop and say "God did this, and I am acknowledging that it came from him."

I know that even if God hadn't done any of these things for us, He would still be good. He would still be faithful.

But these are all good gifts. And they did come from Him. And I want to spell it out because there will surely come a time when the future is hard and uncertain. And I might need to look back once again and remember how big and faithful our God is.

Friday, February 17, 2017

The Day We Lost Him

We lost him long before we lost him. And we didn't know that he was truly gone for a really long time. We kept waiting for him to come back to us. We waited for the feel-good movie ending where the coma patient opens his eyes, looks around, wondering where he is while his loving family cries and gathers around. And that's just not the way it went for us.

It was a Tuesday morning, and I was at school. I got a call from my sister that my dad was being rushed to the hospital after a fall off of a ladder. She said my mom was upset, but I still didn't understand exactly what was happening.

Do I need to come?

She said yes. And so I went downstairs to tell the office that I needed to leave. When my husband called a few minutes later, he was telling the same story, but he used the word "unconscious". My sister Kari hadn't said that. That's when I felt the urgency. I got into my car, and I rushed to the hospital in Arlington.

I relive that day in pieces.The scariest parts stick out the most. 7 or 8 of us crowded into a tiny room in the ER. Waiting for the doctor to come tell us what on earth was going on.

Bleeding on his brain. 

A blood clot. 

Emergency surgery. 

A waiting room filled with family and friends.

Before his surgery we went back to see him. He looked like himself. Or himself after a fall. A little bleeding. He was a little disheveled. He wasn't awake. But he was going to be fine. A little surgery was going to fix him right up. I just knew it. We were scared, but we held hands, and I prayed over him before he went into surgery. And then we waited.

Pastors came to visit. Friends and family came to sit with us. But before long, they told us that the surgery was done. It had gone well. We were able to go see him, and even though his blood pressure and heart rate seemed a little inconsistent, he seemed fine. We all kind of breathed a sigh of relief, even though we were unsure of what would come next.

My sister Ashlae and I decided to run a quick errand, since our babies were on their way to the hospital with their dads. We hadn't come prepared for an all-day hospital stay with kids. But just a few minutes out of the parking lot, we got a call to come back to the hospital. It looked like my dad might not make it. We turned the car around, and I panicked. I prayed out loud in the car.

Please, God, do not let him die. Do not let him die.

And I started to realize that this might not be so simple after all.

We had no idea what kind of damage was done as a result of my dad's fall. There was so much swelling in his brain. The neurologist said that we wouldn't know anything much until he woke up. We never considered that he might not wake up.

For several days, we waited for his heart rate and blood pressure to stabilize. There was a tangible burden lifted when the doctor finally told us that he thought my dad was "out of the woods". He said the recovery might be slow, but we would just have to wait and see. We expected that within a week or two, he would be fine. Even if he wasn't completely healed and back to himself, we never expected what would come next.

What came next was waiting.

Long days of uncertainty. Days turning into weeks. Weeks turning into months. Hospital visits. Short conversations with nurses about medical procedures and conditions that we didn't understand... until we did. Scary he-is-not-going-to-make-it moments... except he did. Songs sung by a hospital bedside. Scripture read. Prayers prayed. Conversations where we would talk and try hard not to notice that he wasn't talking back.

He woke up in the only ways his injured brain would let him. The occasional eye flutter. The slightest hand squeeze. The doctors said it was all nothing. I will never believe that it was nothing. But I also know that he was never fully aware. And I am thankful that he wasn't. It would have been a hard way to live life, unable but also aware.

We had him for eight months like this before he was gone. Like really gone. We had said the things we needed to say. We were tired. He was tired. With one illness, he was freed.

On the day of my dad's accident, we had so much hope. It was a hard day, but we believed that God would be faithful and that His will would be done.

Here we are, two long years later- and can I just tell you- we still have hope. We will see him again. And we still believe that God is faithful.


My faith has been shaken.

I don't understand why.

Some days prayer doesn't come easy.

I miss him terribly.

And it still doesn't feel fair.

And for now. This is just it. This is how it feels. This is what we have.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

The Obituary You Never Got

The Obituary

Tommy Jene O'Dell, 71, of Grand Prairie, Texas, passed away peacefully on October 22, 2015, at 12:11 a.m. at Baylor, Scott, and White Hospital in Irving, Texas. He suffered a traumatic brain injury in February of 2015, resulting in an eight month coma before his passing.

He was born on August 14, 1944, in Columbus, Mississippi, to James and Kathryn O'Dell. He was saved in March of 1960 and surrendered his life to ministry in September of that same year. He served in the United States Air Force from 1962 to 1966. After his time in the Air Force, he moved to Corpus Christi, Texas, where he met his wife Sandi. Bro. O'Dell was an old-fashioned preacher, singer, silly song writer, and musician. He loved his family, his preacher friends, missions and missionaries, thrift store shopping, Alabama football, Coca-cola with lots of ice, road trips, bargains, and telling jokes.

Tommy O'Dell is survived by his loving wife of 45 years, Sandra, and his children, Craig (Tammy) O'Dell, Kari (Clay) Hix, Julie (Jake) Turner, Jana (James) Beauleau, Ashlae (Florian) Kloes, and Adam (Stephanie) O'Dell. He had thirteen grandchildren that loved him and his silly songs and stories. He is also survived by his siblings Julia (Ron) Senechal, Michael (Deborah) O'Dell, along with his nephews and nieces.

Bro. O'Dell was a faith-filled pastor, evangelist, and missionary, dedicating his life to making Christ known. Through his life and ministry, churches were planted and lives were changed because of the gospel he shared. He was faithful until the very end. He will be missed.

The Rest of the Story

My dad was a fan of obituaries. He read them every morning over breakfast. If you ask him why he was reading the obituaries, he would say "To make sure I'm not dead yet".

I think his fascination with them came from his love of people in general. He liked to read about their lives and families. As a pastor, he liked he see what religion they were, and where their services would be held.

Over the last ten years, he had a handful of restaurants where he would go to read the newspaper, read his Bible, and have his breakfast. Sometimes he would come across something interesting in the obituaries and take a picture of it with his phone and text it to us. So it seems strange that he didn't get one. There was a death announcement in the local paper, containing the bare minimum of details. But no obituary. My brother was going to write it. Then I was going to write it. Then time passed, and I kept thinking that I would get to it. But it just felt too hard. How do you summarize the life of a person that meant so much in a few paragraphs? There will always be things that are left out. Stories that are untold. A man is more than his birth, education, jobs, and survivors. So this finishing of his obituary was hard but necessary. I needed to have it written.

But obviously, this isn't all there is. I could write all day and never quite get it right. But bear with me for a minute as I try to tell you who my dad was.

He was a servant of God. After church functions, he didn't wait for other people to start cleaning up or breaking down chairs and tables. He worked like he was the only one working, and sometimes he was. He was an early riser, heading out the door to head to the church before most people had gotten up. He studied God's Word in so much detail. His office was filled with books and resources. He put 2 Timothy 2:15 into practice. He was a teacher and a preacher and a shepherd.

He was creative. He was known for his "sermon songs", as he called them. He would take old country songs or other familiar tunes and put different words to them, telling Bible stories or talking about funny church situations. They were all humorous in nature, and people loved them. He would write poems that he used during his sermons or gave as gifts. When we were expecting our first baby, I returned the favor, writing him a silly poem to tell him that another grandbaby was on the way.

He loved his family. My dad wasn't the type to take his daughters on daddy-daughter dates. That just wasn't who he was. But he loved us in other ways. He poured into us his love of songs. He gave us the gift of music, a thing that has always brought us together. Many days after his accident, we stood beside his bedside, singing the hymns that he taught to us, giving back to him what he gave to us. As adults, he would give us AAA memberships for Christmas so that if we locked our keys in our cars, we would have someone to call. I was clearing out my email this week, and I came across numerous emails from my dad with moving quotes from trucking companies. When we were moving from Delaware back to Texas, he researched endlessly to get us the best prices. This wasn't something we asked him to do. He just did it because he cared. On the first Mother's Day after I had Jude, I went home for a visit, and he presented a mother and child diamond necklace to each of his daughters. I cried when I opened mine. My dad was generous in quiet ways, giving without recognition or announcement. Underneath a tough exterior, he was exceptionally compassionate. He didn't think twice about pulling large bills from his wallet when he came across someone with a need. He loved people in practical ways.

If you look at my dad's Facebook profile picture, he is standing with my brother and another church member, wearing a hazmat suit. He never publicly explained why he was wearing the suit, but let me tell you the story:

A elderly couple in my dad's church had bedbugs. They had been dealing with the bedbug infestation for years, but they had never been successful in getting rid of it. When my dad found out, he bounced into action. He made phone calls, sent emails, called local authorities, and spent weeks trying to figure out how to help this family. Eventually, he found a company in Houston, Texas that would help. He arranged to have the home covered with a tent and fumigated. He booked a hotel room for the couple so they would have a place to stay while their home was being taken care of. After the tenting, my 70-year-old dad went into the home and cleaned from top to bottom. Thus, the hazmat suit.

After he passed away, I was clearing files from his church computer, and I came across something that made me smile. He had actually typed out step-by-step instructions to give to the elderly couple, instructing them to take their potentially infested clothing and put it into a trash bag outside their hotel room door. He had given them new, bedbug-free clothing to change into. He then took their dirty clothing and washed it before returning it to them. So much effort for something that was not his responsibility. But he made it his. If you had a problem or a need, he would work to solve it or to meet it.

It has been a whole year since he passed away. It's still shocking and it still brings me to tears. Right after his death, his sister, my Aunt Judy, passed away. There was a big reunion in heaven that day.

I'm in no hurry for my life to be over. I like being a mommy to my babies and watching them grow. But I have to tell you that heaven sounds a little sweeter knowing my daddy is there. But until then, he lives on. In every family picture, in every "Roll Tide" we yell, and in every song we sing.

We love and miss you, Dad.

Saturday, May 21, 2016

The Taking and the Giving

The night my dad died my brakes went out on my car. I was driving home from being at the ER all day. I had left him peaceful and restful and very much alive, though still in a coma. But this was our normal, his silence, and it had been for eight months. There was traffic, and as I was driving across the ramp to transfer from one busy freeway to another, I pressed down onto my brake to slow down and nothing happened. Just my foot pressing the pedal all the way to the floor. I was not too far from home, so I managed to make it without incident by using my emergency brake.

I walked into my empty house, ran to the bathroom, and I took a pregnancy test. It may seem like an odd priority to a regular person, but to a woman who is desperate to have a baby, it is normal. When the test was negative, as it had been for several months in a row, I cried.

I don't usually kneel down when I pray. Maybe I should, but I just don't. But on this night, I fell onto my knees in desperation beside my couch. I cried and prayed and begged God to do something, to give us something. I was tired of months of what felt like nothing. My dad was still not awake, and I was still not pregnant. Both of these things felt equally heavy. Life is valuable, and I was feeling the heaviness of all of the life that was missing. My prayer wasn't pretty. Or even intelligible to the average person. Thinking about it now, it was probably a lot like Hannah praying in the temple for a son. I probably looked like I had too much to drink. But both Jake and Jude were still at church, and it was just me and God, so it didn't matter. I'm not sure how long I knelt there. I don't remember what I said exactly. I just needed God to move.

That night before I went to bed, I remembered to turn my phone ringer on. That morning I had given the ER staff my number as the primary contact person for my dad, and even though I was exhausted I had a moment of clarity in remembering that. I hadn't been asleep long when the hospital called. The nurse on the other end of the line thought the family should come back to the hospital. I have to admit that I wasn't really alarmed. We had done this before. I hoped that this night would have the same, that-was-a-close-call-but-ended-okay outcome as the other times had. I got up, got dressed, called as many family members as would answer the phone. No one was frantic. This was becoming a common thing.

But my sister called as I was getting off the interstate at the hospital exit. She had already arrived at the hospital, and my dad had already passed away. I had missed him by just a matter of minutes.

Exactly one month after my dad left this life, I got a positive pregnancy test. I had already taken several tests that were very, very negative. So this positive one left my head spinning. I couldn't believe that we were being given another baby. Not now. I was still deep in grief over my dad, and this? Well, this wasn't the way it was supposed to go. For several months before his accident, my dad had been asking us about another baby. We needed a girl, he said. Out of his thirteen grandkids, nine of them had been boys. That's a lot of testosterone. And the youngest of the four girl grandkids was already almost school age. He was waiting patiently for another grandbaby and hoping for a girl. He had already started scouring Craigslist for a suitable minivan for us. This is what he was good at, hunting down deals and bargains. This was one of the ways he loved us. So this happy pregnancy news was clouded by the sadness of the relationship between my dad and this baby that wouldn't be. Not in this world, anyway.

The night we found out that our girl was a girl, we had a family dinner. I opened up the box with a surprise pink outfit, revealing her girl-ness, and I cried. I loved the thought of another girl to balance out our family. I felt the generosity of God, giving us the thing we needed. But there was a tangible absence. There always is at family events now, and I really felt it that night. All of the sweet things are a little less sweet.

I don't know why God does things the way He does them. I mean, that's kind of an understatement. But when it comes to the life and death things, those feel hard to understand. We have moved and had weird job transitions and there have been uncomfortable times in life, but we have come back from those with a deeper faith, more confident of God's sovereignty and goodness. But death is a tough one to reason out. Even for those of us who firmly believe in heaven, death is still a huge loss, even if it's only for now. There is still grief. I don't know why my dad couldn't have had the miraculous recovery we all prayed for. There are people who get those kinds of stories, you know. But he didn't get the kind of healing we wanted. And with that, lots of future things have been taken from us. He won't get to meet her the day she comes into the world. He'll never put this baby on his knees and sing Shortening Bread, like he did with all of the other grandkids. So many things we have lost.

And I don't know why. But it's not really up to me to figure the why. God takes, and He gives. And all the things that He does are good. All are right, even when it doesn't feel like it. He is God, and I am not. And so I trust and trust and trust some more. I trust Him in the taking and the giving.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Don't We Have Fun?

My days are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those are the ones that are set in stone. I don't miss those days. Then on the weekends I add either Saturday or Sunday, depending on our schedule as a family. Either way, three times a week, I drive to Irving to visit my dad at the skilled nursing facility. Some days it is a struggle to get into my car and make the 40 minute drive. I miss out on tucking my son into bed, or I end up getting home way past time to start dinner, depending on the day and my visiting time. Sometimes I am just plain tired, and I don't feel like doing anything at all. But I am always glad once I go. I am always glad to get to spend time with my dad, even in this current situation. Some days I take my guitar. I play him songs that I have spent my life hearing him sing. I take my Bible, and I read to him. Occasionally, I take my worn copy of My Utmost for His Highest, given to me by Mr. Tant, my high school math and science teacher. I sometimes have to read those twice, just to be sure I am getting it. But I take advantage of the fact that my dad is still living. He is still with us. It may not look the way we want it to look, but he is still here. There is so much for which I am grateful.

Several months ago, I met Ms. Bonnie*. She regularly sits in a wheelchair in the lobby, and she always calls out to Jude, who promptly runs the other direction. I usually pick him up and walk over to her. He is good at high fives, and she is content with that, even though she always asks for hugs. So I started stopping by to visit Ms. Bonnie even on the days when she wasn't out in the lobby in her wheelchair. I found her room, and there is rarely a visit where I don't see her. 

But one day, last month, Ms. Bonnie was resting. So I peeked behind the roommate curtain to say hello to her neighbor, and I met Ms. Carla. Carla was holding a baby doll, patting its bottom the way a mother does when she is trying to soothe a baby to sleep. She was talking out loud. To no one. And about nothing, I soon realized. 

Carla has dementia. It didn't take long to realize that. Most of the time she is talkative, but most of the sentences she puts together make no sense at all. Sometimes she struggles to find the right words to use, and other times she is happily oblivious to the fact that she is not forming understandable sentences. But she is cheery, and she greets me with a smile, even though I am a stranger. I have a feeling that everyone is a stranger to her these days. So we pretend like we are old friends.

Now we make it a point to go see them both. Bonnie is quite the napper, a woman after my own heart, and so, most often, it is Carla we see. She can almost always be found in her bed, holding a baby. She squeals with delight when I bring Jude to see her. She asks for a kiss, but like Bonnie, she settles for handshakes. When we leave, she always calls out "I love you!". We always tell her we love her back. Because everyone deserves to hear that.

Last night I went to visit my dad, right on schedule. During a time when a nurse was tending to him, I slipped out of his room and headed down the hall to say hello to my two favorite ladies. Bonnie was sleeping, just as I figured she would be. But Carla was lying in bed, watching music videos on BET, patting her baby's bottom like a good mama should. 

Is this a channel that you like?

She responded with words that didn't make sense, but her tone and facial expressions communicated that she was just fine with BET. I have a feeling in her regular life, she was not a BET watcher.

I asked about her baby, as I always do, and she told me that baby Addie slept in the morning but not the rest of the day. I asked her how she herself was doing, and she told me stories. Long stories. Stories that I couldn't decipher the details of, but I knew when to act surprised and when to laugh. I am positive that she was a character before her mind betrayed her.

I picked up a framed picture from her dresser. It was a younger Carla, probably 20 years ago. She is dressed in black dress pants and a holiday sweater. Her gray hair is perfectly sprayed in place, and she looks very classy. She is sitting on the stairs of a house next to a blonde little boy, probably 8 years old. She looks really happy. I asked her about the picture, and she couldn't tell me who anyone was. I told her that she looked beautiful in the picture, and she understood. She looked kind of embarrassed and flicked her hand at me, as if to shoo away the compliment. 

She looked sad when I told her that I had to leave. I told her I was going home, and she wanted to know where home was. I told her I lived in Fort Worth, and she said "I knew it was somewhere in that vicinity," which was the most coherent thing she had said all night. 

"I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing", I said.

She picked up baby Addie, looked her straight in the eye, and said "Oh, we always have fun. Don't we have fun?" 

And she kissed that plastic baby on the forehead twice before laying her back down on her chest. 

And the way I see it, if sweet Ms. Carla can find that kind of joy in the middle of her hardship, then so can I.

As I walked out the door of her room, she called out one last "I love you". 

I love you, too, Carla. Love you, too.

*I have changed Bonnie and Carla's names to protect their privacy. Because that's the nice thing to do.

Monday, August 10, 2015

How the Affordable Care Act Failed Me

I am not a political person. I don't watch the news. When election time comes, I educate myself as much as is necessary to make an intelligent decision. I do vote. But overall, I don't have the energy to watch Fox News and CNN and then balance the two to try to come up with the truth of a situation.

Today, though, I will tell my story. And it sounds political. I will tell it because what happened to me is so incredibly unfair, and I feel like someone needs to know about it. Hopefully my voice will make a difference for someone else. It is a long story, but it is a story about life and it is a story that matters. It is also a story about death. But maybe it didn't have to be.

Several weeks ago, on a Saturday, I felt weird. I felt dizzy and nauseous. Something just felt off. I was at home sitting on the couch, and when I stood, I felt a strange tightening across my abdomen. I hadn't felt that since... well, I was pregnant with my son. I mumbled an excuse to my husband Jake for why I needed to make a trip to the grocery store, and I went. To buy pregnancy tests.

Positive. Two pink lines. I felt nervous and excited. I cried a little when I broke the news to Jake. We were going to have a baby. Such happy news after months of hard things.

I knew that I needed to see a doctor quickly, but it was Saturday, so that would have to wait until Monday. My first pregnancy ended in miscarriage at eleven weeks, so I knew I may need some intervention to sustain this pregnancy. My hope was that, come Monday, I would find a doctor, get some blood work done, and start taking progesterone supplements. The supplements had made a difference with my second pregnancy, so I was counting on them to help with this one.

Monday came, and I tried to find a doctor that took my Marketplace insurance. Obamacare. We had enrolled in March, but we had not had to use the insurance yet. The problem was, out of the 68 OB/GYNs in my area that were listed as providers, I could not find a doctor that actually was a provider. I called the insurance company. Everyone I spoke with seemed to know that their lists were not accurate, and each representative agreed to help me find a participating provider. I was told that someone would call me back when a provider was found. I called doctors. The insurance company called doctors. I called back to the insurance company on Tuesday. And Wednesday. Not one of the providers that had been called were still accepting my insurance. So I changed strategies. I called the Marketplace.

My purpose in calling was to see if I could change insurance plans. I needed a plan that was widely accepted. I needed to see a doctor. The longer I went without progesterone, the more nervous I became about the little life inside me. The Marketplace representative said I might qualify for special enrollment since I was pregnant. I might be able to change plans. She did a little bit of typing and checking on her end. What happened next is unbelievable to me, even still. She said that I qualified for Medicaid, and so she had to submit that application for me. She also said that she was terminating my insurance effective that day. I tried to tell her that I didn't want to apply for Medicaid. I wanted to keep my coverage, but I just needed a different plan. It didn't matter.

What if I need to go to the emergency room tomorrow?

Medicaid will cover it if you are eventually approved.

But what if I am not approved for Medicaid?

Basically, she said, I would be responsible for paying for it myself. She said that since I qualified for Medicaid, I could not keep my Marketplace plan. She had no choice but to drop my coverage, despite the fact that I had paid premiums for coverage through the end of month. By the end of that call, I had no insurance coverage, and I had been forced to apply for Medicaid.

I got in my car, and I drove to the Fort Worth Pregnancy Center. I needed care, and I needed someone to help me to get into a doctor quickly. I felt like time was running out. The people at the pregnancy center were kind and compassionate. They gave me a list of doctors who might take me as a self-pay patient since I no longer had insurance. I spent the afternoon making calls. Several doctors wouldn't see me because I was considered  a high risk patient. The last doctor I spoke to said that he would see me, but only with a $500 deposit, in addition to whatever charges I incurred from my first visit. He could not, however, see me that day. In the end, at the suggestion of a friend, I called and scheduled an appointment with a local midwife who agreed to run my blood work at cost. I scheduled another appointment with a nurse midwife, in case it turned out that I needed a prescription for the progesterone.

Friday's blood work looked good. Progesterone level needed to be a little higher. Monday's blood work showed the thing I had prayed against. My HCG levels had dropped. I was going to lose the pregnancy. By Tuesday evening, I was actively miscarrying. I was devastated. I am still devastated.

Wednesday I kept my appointment with the nurse midwife. She was compassionate and helpful. She listened to my story, and she performed an ultrasound to make sure that my body was handling the miscarriage like it should. She helped me put a plan in place in case I got another positive pregnancy test. The appointment cost me almost $200, and of course, I had no insurance or Medicaid to cover it. I scheduled another follow-up appointment that would cost another $100.

In the end, I was denied for Medicaid. Because I worked in the last 90 days, that income was used to determine eligibility. Apparently, the Medicaid qualifications that the Marketplace has are not the actual qualifications. I was dropped from my insurance and forced to apply for something for which I did not even qualify.

I know that it's possible that this pregnancy might have ended even if had the progesterone supplements that I needed. But at this point, I will never know. I needed medical care, and I did not have access to it, thanks to the lack of providers in my area. When I called to see if I could change plans, to increase my chances of receiving care for my baby, they took that coverage away from me. It just feels wrong that a plan that was supposed to ensure that all Americans have access to healthcare was the very thing that prevented me from getting the care that I needed in time.

I don't tell my story to start a fight. This isn't meant to fuel a conservative vs. liberal fire. Maybe there are thousands of Americans who have had wonderful success with Marketplace insurance. It's possible that there a hundreds of success stories, stories where Marketplace insurance saved the day and saved a life. If that's the case, good for them. But something has gone very wrong when a pregnant woman that needs urgent medical care can't get it.

This is my story. My situation. Marketplace insurance failed me. It failed my baby. And my baby matters.