Time Keeps Ticking Through Crisis

By: Kristi Tisor Ambriz

The hardest part of recovery is the time it takes to travel through.

My marriage of 18 years as we all knew it ended the day I discovered that my husband had been unfaithful.

The kids and I had been betrayed.  We felt rejected.  Abandoned.  Lost.

Getting through the pain, processing what everything would mean for us, for my marriage, and for our family, and then living with the fallout was the closest to impossible I've ever been.  My family spiraled into the darkest 4 years of our lives.  The result was divorce.  Broken children.  Broken relationships.  Tattered souls.

I had a list longer than my arm detailing each area within myself personally that needed to be worked on, and then another list of things I needed to tackle in my kids' lives before it would be too late.  They were still developing mentally, physically, spiritually.  Into what, or whom would they develop?  It was a critical race, the clock was ticking, and while running I had to capture each priority, tackle it, cross it off the list, and then go on to the next item on the list.

It was like trying to run a race in deep mud, with weights chained to my legs as I tried to advance--as I tried to set my family free.  Or, at least, this is how I saw things at the time.

I was so powerless.

It's hard to know which happened first.  Did it finally click that I needed to release the burden and let healing happen, or did healing begin to happen, enabling me to finally start to feel the burden lift?  It's hard to know.

But, I continued on my way toward recovery, through the mud, toward climbing out of our deep, dark pit and climbing upward, and upward still until we could see the other side, and then it seemed that at once we were able to soar freely.  The hard work paid off, and the darkness lifted.

It had so much to do with the things I had learned during that time.  I learned how to keep my eyes open and my head out of denial.  Likewise, I learned that every problem out there isn't mine to fix.  That I have to submit to something or Someone Higher who can take, carry, and correct the many wrongs in life.

But, I learned something else that rocked me to my core.  I learned that the journey itself is a huge part of life.  In the 4 years that were the darkest for my family and me, Lee went from a 1 year-old to a 5 year-old.  Abi went from a 2nd grader, to a 6th grader.  You can really see the hands of a clock move when you view it through the lens of a child's life.

So, to say that those years were our darkest is to say that a huge chunk of my kids' childhood is a blur.  And to be completely honest, I remember very little.  I don't remember Abi learning her multiplication tables, or what her favorite childhood television show was.  It seems she went from loving Clifford the Big Red Dog one day, to The Jonas Brothers the next.  What was in-between?  I have little to no memory.

One of the biggest reasons why I am so passionate about Crisis Recovery is because there are countless families who are so engulfed in the pain of their moment, that they can't see clearly through that moment to being able to see what's before them in the moment.

Pain numbs and if it doesn't numb, we oftentimes find ways to numb it.  It could be through chemical addiction.  Over eating.  Under eating.  Seeking romantic relationships.  Work.

In my case it was work...I had to work 6-7 days to stay afloat financially.  I used that need to work as an escape--to numb me from the overstimulating pain of my family crisis.  But, the downside of that plan is that now that I am on the Other Side, I look back on 4 years of my kids' lives with limited memories.  I missed a lot.  They missed a lot.

Our Wings Like Eagles team offers content for our readers to read in hopes that we might uplift, encourage, and show that there is life on the Other Side of Crisis.  Because if you know that there is life on the other side, you might find the strength to endure your current place of pain to the point of not missing out on any of the important stuff.

Because left on our own, it's too easy to stay numb, live in denial, and succumb to habits we are powerless to control on our own.

Sizing Up Complex Matters--One Size Doesn't Always Fit All

By Kristi Tisor Ambriz

Jeans shopping.

I gave those two words their own paragraph for dramatic appeal.  If they made you shiver, you get me.

Two of my daughters and I took advantage of the after-Christmas sales.  I was looking for new boots, a new purse...and jeans.  Suffice it to say, the boot and purse shopping part of this plan was beautiful, and wonderful, and pleasant, and very easy for me to dive into.  The jeans part, not so much.

There are few things I hate worse than looking for, and especially trying on, new jeans.  Just ask my closet, and the very old, very worn jeans limply draped over their hangers, needing replacement.

I just never know for sure what size to grab off the rack.  I know what size I wear...but that means little, when it comes to jeans, I find.

So, I don't shop in the Juniors Department--I don't have the body of a 14 year-old.  I shop in the department that houses sensible cuts.  Curvy cuts.  Cuts that work on bodies who have had babies--two of whom weighed over 10-pounds at birth.  So, seriously.  What's with the straight cut in my department?  Straight from the waist, down to the ankle?  I passed that rack, and all of the other racks holding that cut.  I was zeroing in on the jeans with the woven-in springy fabric that will bounce back to my suck in position when I stand up, after being stretched out in the exhale and let it out position when I'm sitting.

I get it that trying them on is necessary.  We have to make sure we enhance what we want enhanced, and hide what we want hidden.  Every pair of jeans is different that way.  But, what gets me is how the sizes are so inconsistent.  If I wear a size 4 (I don't), I should be able to grab several size 4s and try them on for size, or better said, for fit.  But it just isn't that easy.  I have to get 2s, 4s, and 6s.  And I could go home with any one of those sizes, or none of them.

In my mind, my size is my size.  I wear what I wear, and I categorize myself as that size.  My name is Kristi, and I'm (not) a size 4.  Simple, right?  If only.

Makes me think of real life.  I'm a dedicated mom, and am passionate about raising my children right, so a mom should look, and behave, and be a certain way to accomplish the mission of child rearing well.  But if in my mind being a good mom means that the mom stays home full-time and takes care of her home and family, how do I process the other moms out there who work outside the home?  Wonderful, capable moms who love their families and homes no less, and balance it all so well?  Women like my own mom.  Nobody is more efficient--the woman's a machine.  Or my friend Kelly--she is an attorney, and has 2 of the cutest, well-rounded and accomplished little boys on the planet, has a beautiful home, and a wonderful life.

What about being a divorcee?  Isn't that one size fits all?  Am I not I supposed to hate my ex-husband, talk to him through gritted teeth, and smh at everything he says and does?  If so, I blew that size out of the closet.  We get along great.  It's taken no small amount of working through past pain, huge amounts of willful forgiveness, and a legitimate effort in truly understanding him--and all of that hard work is paying off.  Imagine how cool it was for Lee, at his 8th birthday party, to have his dad in our house mingling with friends and family, and serving the cakes and cookies he specially prepared for the event.

What about faith?  Isn't the practice of Christianity a black and white affair?  Hardly.  We believe strongly in baptism by full immersion, or we believe strongly that it is to be accomplished by the sprinkling of water on the head.  We believe the pastor is to wear a long, stiff robe, or we believe the pastor should wear an untucked shirt, jeans and flip flops.  Hymns or praise songs, organ or drums.  Each side is sure that their side is right.

Life is sticky sometimes.  And it's in the middle of my own sticky life that I continue to redefine who I am, what my family looks like, and how I worship at church.  My personal life turned completely upside down, and fully inside out.  I once lived in a place where my neighbor introduced himself while on horseback as he checked his bulls that he kept in the corral on the 640 acres we lived on.  I now live in Los Angeles County, have a view of palm trees out of every window, and I get myself to Downtown LA every chance I get for theatre, art shows, or music.

Same me.  Different size.

No, different me.  My internal outlook is as different as my physical outlook.  On the outside I don't see the Nebraska Prairie anymore--I see the Downtown LA skyline.  And on the inside I experience grace, and compassion, and balance...all of which were challenged in my life before.  Especially when it came to my view of others who were different.  A different size, so to speak.  Not literally, of course, but sized differently from what I knew to be right.

My view before included stupid things like:  Drug Addicts are losers.  Alcoholics are losers.  Divorced couples are losers.  Kids who act out, have parents who are losers.  If they aren't like me, they're those people.  Losers.

I have spent so much of my life comparing myself to others and feeling self-righteous.  Likewise, I've spent a lot of my life comparing myself to others and hoping for something that they have--something better.  Thinking that I don't measure up because I don't have or do A, B or C, while looking at the lives of other people with X, Y or Z, shaking my head, and thinking that they just didn't get it right.

It took dramatic courses of events to shake me out of my mindset.  To open my eyes, and give me a real view of people, and life.  For this reason alone, I am forever grateful for every bad thing I endured in my heartbreak, if it brought me to a better place.  I get it now, and I am so thankful.

Our lives are as individually sized as those jeans in my fitting room.  Confusing?  Of course.  But accepting it, paying attention to it, and making the effort to really get it, is worth the work.  The result is peace.  Peace within myself, and peace with others.  True peace I can comfortably ease into, like a good pair of well-fitting jeans.

So which jeans did I end up with?  None.  I got a purse.  One size fits all.  Sometimes I have to balance simplicity with all of the complexities of life.  But, I won't shy away from the hard work forever.  I need new jeans, badly.  But, maybe after I work off the See's Candy.

Tragedy in CT: Grieving Together

Joelle Deyo holds a degree in Fine Arts from Cal Poly, Pomona and is an artist residing in Glendora, California.

Joelle knows the pain of marital infidelity, betrayal and divorce, and she is a survivor of addiction, childhood sexual abuse, and Anorexia.

She brings a wealth of experience to Wings Like Eagles, and is willing to be transparent and real so that our readers who have traveled similar paths will have someone with whom they can relate.

She is an advocate for the recovery process, and is a firm believer that there is hope, and a fulfilling life on the other side of Crisis.

It is Joelle's hope is that her experiences, past and present, will bring perspective and encouragement to those who are in the middle of their own life battles and who have been stuck in the pit, just like her.

By:  Joelle Deyo

I am deeply grieved by the events that transpired in Connecticut this morning. Twenty-seven precious lives taken in yet another mass shooting this year.  I just don't know how to wrap my head around that.

To be honest, I am angry that I live in a world where I even have to try to make sense of such a thing.  Sadness, outrage, disgust.  I know I'm not the only one cycling through these emotions.  I grieve with millions today. 

It is not just the families of the slain who must now pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and try to find a path forward in the wake of terrible losses.  As a nation, we are once again left searching for comfort and hope, wondering if we will ever see peace in our time.

Those of us who have children are burdened with the difficult task of trying to explain an act of violence to which we would not have them exposed. We feel a loss of surety in the safety of our little ones as we send them out into the world to learn and grow. We cannot imagine losing one of our own. 

Those of us who do not have children are left to question the state of affairs in our nation and ask, “What has happened?”  We wonder if the cruelty will ever end and fear that it may only be the beginning of a trend of increasingly brutal acts against the innocent.  I look at what I see around me and all I can say is, yes, this is just the beginning, unless... Unless, we open our eyes, wake up, stand up, and move toward transformation as a body. 

In times like these, in our grief, we often cry out to our leaders, “How are you going to fix this?  How are you going to stop this from happening again, and again, and again?”  But, I wonder…what are we going to do?

I've read a lot of things in the news today. I've listened to the voices of pundits speaking from their national platforms on everything from gun control to increased security in schools.  But, I’ve heard absolutely nothing about individuals and families stepping up and taking on the role as healers of their own communities.  No one talked about looking for a cure that heals the disease holistically and from the inside out.

I do not feel equipped to give voice to the political issues at hand.  I do feel highly equipped, however, being a trauma survivor, a victim of violence, and a human of good conscience, to speak to the very real need for proactive grieving. 

It is not enough that we feel sorrow. It is imperative that we go to the source of the violence we see growing around us and get honest about it. 

We live in a society permeated with aggression and fear.  Our youth are more exposed to their effects, and exhibit more anti-social behaviors than at any other point in our history. Our rates of divorce, addiction, crime, unemployment, debt, and mental illness are at all-time highs. Far too many of us are enraged, depressed, afraid, and hopeless.  In spite of all of this, we are encouraged to remain in a constant state of consumerism, distraction, denial, and desensitization -- to turn a blind eye to the very real threat we are becoming to ourselves.

There has NEVER been a more crucial moment for us to step into the light, and admit the truth. There is too much at stake.

Something has to change. It is time for mothers and fathers to pay attention.  It is time for classmates and friends to look around them.  It is time for families to acknowledge the seeds of violence and despair taking root in their homes, and it is time for individuals at every level of social standing to reach up and reach out.

We are not alone, nor are we islands unto ourselves.  We cannot live as though our behavior does not touch others.

We cannot continue forward, hoping for peace without reconstructing certain values from the ground up.

No law will take every gun out of every hand. That's a hard reality. Just as hard, is the reality that not every individual, if given the choices, opportunities and resources, will choose The Good.

We grieve, in part, because we know this to be true. Bad things will happen to good people sometimes.  But, I firmly believe that stanching the flow of violence is within our grasp, and as we feel our sadness and anger, we also need to consider together what we can do to bring harmony into our homes, our schools, and our cities. 

Is it time to turn off the violent images and games? Is it time to learn to communicate as a family? Is it time to get help for an illness or addiction? Is it time to stop the cycle of rage and abuse in your life? Is it time to be a friend instead of a bully? Or to offer support to someone who seems to be hurting? Is it time to become an advocate for peace?  

Only you know how to answer those questions for yourself. What I know is that that you and I have more power to effect change than we realize.

As we grieve with the families in Connecticut on this awful day, we need to take hold of that power, to take responsibility, and haul our lives and the lives of our loved ones back from the brink. That is the heart of all crisis recovery, no matter the scale or the degree of tragedy. Healing starts in the heart, and in the home.

Whoever you are, wherever you are; if you have been hurt, if you are angry, if you are broken hearted, if you can’t understand, if you’ve had enough, and seen too much… step into the light.

I encourage those of you struggling with the news today to reach out for support. Have conversations. Say I love yous, give hugs, and cry if you need to. Consider whether it is time to change negative patterns in your life or that of your family. Find out how you can show care and support to those who lost children today. We need one another.

An Interview With Our Staff Counselor Regarding the Sandy Hook Elementary Newtown, Connecticut Tragedy

John Deyo is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in San Dimas, California.  He brings wisdom and insight to Wings Like Eagles that has been gained through his professional work, as well as personal experience.

John has a heart for helping people find themselves through their pain, and he works hard to see Life restored to an individual, couple, or family who come to him from a place of hopelessness and despair.

John writes a blog called Metaphoria that is linked to his professional Website.

For more information on John's private practice, and to see other Metaphoria blog entries,click here.

By:  Kristi Tisor Ambriz

I had Dr. Oz on this afternoon while I worked at my computer, and my 8 year-old son was in the room.  

During the commercial break a news promo came on with images of Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy in Newtown, CT, and my son was transfixed.  It was one of those slow motion moments when I couldn't get to him quickly enough, distracting him as well as I could while I escorted him out of the room.  

He saw.  Nothing graphic, but he saw that something horrible had happened at a school.

He asked me about it, and I simply told him that a "bad guy," hurt some kids at a school far, far away.  He went on to a different room, and played.

I frantically texted John Deyo, LMTF.

The following is our text conversation:

KTA:     I wanted to spare Lee from knowing what had happened, since he's so little.  When he asked me, I simply told him that a "bad guy," hurt some kids at a school.  

JD:     Well, you know they will find out sooner or later. 

KTA:     What do we do, John?  How do we help our kids?

JD:     In no particular order, consider the following guidelines:

• Manage your own feelings about it. If you are falling apart your kids will follow suit. 
• Kids will need to talk about it. Talk to them in simple, age appropriate terms. 
• They need reassurance (not guarantees) that they are safe and that these kinds of things are very unusual (like one grain of sugar in a whole bag or sugar, or some such comparison.) 
• They might express feelings thru drawing, or maybe making a card for other kids at that school.
• Limit exposure to news coverage of all kinds!  
• Maintain regular routines and don't be afraid to distract them--without denying their fears or sadness.
• Finally, and this goes without saying, keep praying. Hope that helps.

KTA:     It really does, thank you.

Limiting Lee to news coverage is exactly what I had in mind, and yes, I should have anticipated that there would have been a news promo, or even a news update that could break in at any time.  Actually, when a Breaking News report happens, they do break in with a lot of music and fanfare--time to get little ones away.  But, the news promo surprised me, and it was sudden and without warning.

I asked John if I could share our text conversation with our readers.  With this in mind, he texted me a little bit later with yet another nugget of wisdom to add and share:
JD:     An afterthought, but important. Have older kids limit their interchanges about the tragedy with younger siblings. Seek professional help if your kids develop anxiety, depression, nightmares or other somatic symptoms in the days that follow.

If you need an outlet, or place to share your feelings about this horrific massacre, please feel free to Message us on our Wings Like Eagles Crisis Recovery Facebook page.

For our California readers, John Deyo offers counseling in San Dimas.  You can contact his office through his Website found here.

Avoid the Soul Robbers

Yesterday, I had coffee with Joelle Deyo.  We were talking about the shame we sometimes feel over the mistakes we have made as we have lived life in Crisis.

We were also talking about how, in a paradoxical sort of way, we embrace our mistakes.  They allow us to understand the mistakes of others.  Particularly, as we work closely with people in Crisis Recovery.

It is rewarding to visit with a woman who is in a compromising relationship after suffering through an abusive marriage, and know that she doesn't feel judged by me when I share my story, and the things I've learned through the mistakes I've made.  Seeing the perspective my life lessons provide?  Priceless.

For eighteen years I was in a marriage that was anything but conducive to my healthy self esteem.

As a young bride with a pre-baby body, I was regularly criticized by my husband for wearing clothing that revealed too much of my figure.  I was similarly criticized for wearing make-up.  For wanting to spend any amount of time primping, or shining.  I was conditioned that doing so wasn't godly.  That it was vain.  Wrong.

As the babies came along, and even a shower was a luxury, I fell into the t-shirt and sweats routine, wearing only what was easy to slip on, and run with in my day.

If I felt particularly needful of femininity, I would wear a jumper-style dress over a t-shirt or turtleneck (it was the 90s...don't judge me).  It's easy to "hide" growing booties under a dress.

I kept my hair very long, and wore French braids a lot.

I had a minor vision issue, but yet wore my glasses 100% of the time, in spite of the fact that my eye doctor said I didn't have to.

So, in my mid-thirties, I was a 165 pound frumpy woman in a 5'3" frame, wearing sweats, a t-shirt, a French braid, and glasses I didn't need.  I was plain, and to my husband plain was equal to being a good, and godly woman.  My conditioning was such that I had to be plain to get the very approval from my husband I so desperately craved.

In the meantime however, he had an addiction to pornography.  He kept his addiction a heavily guarded secret for the whole of our marriage.  Passwords.  Not teaching me how to operate a computer beyond using the Internet, because it would be too hard for me to learn.  He did whatever he could to keep me away from his secret.

All the way down to making sure that the mother of his children looked nothing like the women he watched in the pornographic movies and still images.

I now know that when a man is caught in a sex addiction that is contrary to his own moral compass, it is very important for him to keep a clear line of distinction between the sexual objects he lusts after and fantasizes about, and the woman he has at home, raising the children.

His behavior was very common.

Within a year of separating, I lost weight and was down from a size 14 to a size 6.  I stopped wearing my glasses.  I wore pants with a waist band, and blouses with buttons.

I worked at a country club, then a restaurant.  For the first time in years I had men around, giving me lots of attention.  Flattering attention.  Attention I was hungry for.  Starving for.  For the first time in years, I felt like a sexual creature, and although I'd like to think that I was giving off a virtuous vibe, I had to have been at least giving off a scent, or something known only to forward men on the prowl.

Sad thing is, I took the attention seriously.  Well, not all of it.  I have a girlfriend I used to work with at one of the restaurants, and all these years later, we still call each other dollface after a mutual venting session about men who insist on demeaning women with little object tags like that.  Little Lady, my friends and I would like another round.  Thanks a lot, Sweetheart.  Makes my skin crawl.

My heart was wanting love.  My self esteem was wanting a defibrillator.  But, my soul needed rest.

When I look back at those years, I wish I would have allowed myself the pain of loneliness.  I wish that on the weekends that my ex-husband had the kids, I would have simply stayed true to my worth, my commitment to my family, and even my morals, and simply stayed home.  Because, rather than keeping my head in the game of Crisis, I ran from it allowing the high and exhilaration of romance, or at least what I perceived to be romance, sway me away and lull me into a state that dulled my senses.

My ex-husband's behavior as a sex addict was just as predictable as my behavior post-separation.  Both behaviors came from a place of brokenness within each of us, and it's only after I have personally experienced such things, that I have been able to truly understand the reactions in pain so many people fall victim to.  Yes, we must take responsibility for our actions and do whatever we can to guard ourselves from falling prey to destructive behaviors, but likewise, those of us with people in our lives who are recovering from Crisis have a responsibility as well.  A responsibility to understand those who are hurting, and when needed, lovingly guide them back to a healthy way of living that won't leave them with a robbed soul.

I take this responsibility seriously, as do Joelle, Mike, John, Tracey, and Rossy.  We are here for our readers, happy to share our mistakes and our triumphs, if doing so will help you climb out of Crisis, to Life on the other side.  From here, the view is sweet.  And we want you to join us.  With your soul in tact.

Lee's Mysterious Head Pain

It's been a while since I've posted anything about some of the medical challenges Lee faces.

He had seizures before he was born. Toward the end of my pregnancy, there were times when the slow, rolling movement of a baby growing too big for his Mama's tummy were interrupted by rapid periods of shaking. It felt like Bambi's friend Thumper was in there, thumpin'. I told my doctor, but it never happened when I was hooked up to a monitor.

He had his first recorded seizure in the presence of the RN assigned to us during his second night after being born. We were due to go home the next morning. Instead, we were flown by helicopter to a bigger hospital with a NICU, where he stayed for 6 days.  Nothing significant was found to cause the seizure.

He didn't have another seizure until he was 5.  He was sitting up in bed watching Phineas and Ferb, and then suddenly grabbed the side of his head and started crying.  Then he fell unconscious.  When he came to, he was clammy, his pulse was rapid, he was dazed, and very disoriented.  He was taken by ambulance to the ER.

For about 4 hours he was emotionally flat, still, and lethargic.  Sleepy.

The hospital ordered an MRI and CT Scan.  They discovered that Lee has a Chiari Malformation.  His Neurologist explained that we would need to limit his activity from anything that might jar his neck.  Roller coaster rides.  Flips on the trampoline.  This has brought no small amount of angst to Hugo and me.  Lee is a typical 7 year-old boy.  Active.

I have written about all of this before.

The Chiari Malformation, and the seizure activity are completely separate, according to most of the Neurologists Lee has seen.  But, the pain he has had in his head has been explained as being caused by the Chiari, and some of the painful episodes have brought on seizure activity.  So, though they're not related, they do play against each other.  They're both affecting his brain.

Last winter, Lee had a new barrage of tests, and the results came back saying that no Chiari Malformation was seen.  You don't grow out of these.  So either Test #1 was wrong, or Test #2 was wrong.  So, I asked for a Test #3.  The Neurologist didn't want to do it.  So we switched Neurologists.

Now, this is where is gets, well, we'll call it funny.  Please note that I'm not in a good mood right now, so I'm not laughing.  But, on a different day, I can see that there might be some humor here.

Lee's last name happens to be a popular girls' first name, and the name "Lee," is more commonly a last name.  The result is that he is always mistaken as being a girl with the last name Lee.

I always.  Always.  Have to correct this.

We have an HMO.  We're assigned the doctors we see by the insurance company.  When I requested a switch of doctors, some clerk saw Lee's name and since they naturally assumed his last name was Lee, they further assumed he is Asian, and is an immigrant from another country.

We walked into the new Neurologist's office, and were the only Caucasians in the building.  Their sign-in forms weren't even in English.

Dr. Kim entered the room, took one look at us, and you could see the look of surprise.  He does speak English, kind of, but we have to use our hands a lot, and I have to speak slowly.  Very slowly.  And I have to repeat myself a lot.  A lot.  And I have to ask him to repeat himself.  He doesn't hesitate to show his frustration.

So, we pushed forward, and I explained my concerns.  That there was a Chiari Malformation.  With lots of physical restrictions.  Then, there wasn't a Chiari Malformation.  And as badly as we want Test #2 to be the correct test, we can't be sure that it is.  What if it is the wrong one?  What if we lift all of Lee's restrictions, only to discover tragically that we shouldn't have?

So, he told me that Lee needs to go to a specialist.  Ummm.  But, isn't a Neurologist a specialist?  He said he'd rather a Neurosurgeon look at the case and decide whether another CT Scan or MRI needs to be ordered.  That he didn't feel qualified.  Oh.  OK.

My faith in modern medicine lies somewhere between total awe at all that we have accomplished and can do, and a belief that far too many doctors are kin to the Banana Brothers Outfit.  That day, I was leaning toward the Banana Brothers theory.

Lee has been quiet.  No seizure activity, no strange pain episodes, and nothing abnormal at all for months.

Last night at 11:30 he woke up crying.  His teeth hurt.

His last dentist visit was about 4 months ago.  No cavities.  I looked inside his mouth.  No redness in the gums, no visible problems with his tooth.  I gave him Motrin and put Anbesol on his tooth.  A half hour later, he awoke again.  And again a half hour after that.  I brought him to my room to sleep the rest of the night.  He woke up whimpering, or crying every 30-40 minutes.

At around 4:15, he woke up again, crying a little more.  I got up and held him.  He was in intense pain, and there was nothing I could do to make it better.  I needed to go to the bathroom excuse myself, and while I stepped away, he grabbed his head, crying even harder, saying his head hurt.  I looked at Hugo and we decided he needed to go to the ER.

As I dressed, Hugo helped Lee get dressed, and Lee noticed that I had laid out soft basketball shorts, and a home t-shirt.  He said, "These aren't the clothes I'm supposed to wear."  It encouraged me that he caught that.  We told him that we wanted him to wear comfortable clothes.

Unfortunately, our local ER doctor also belongs to the Banana Brother Family.  He did what so many ER doctors do.  He processed the patient through.  I decided that at this point in my life, I need to just realize that the ER doctor isn't there to diagnose, or really treat a condition.   They're there to assess whether there is an emergency that needs emergency attention.  In this case, all Lee needed was pain medication, and a recommendation to follow up with his own doctor.

The doctor did see a pink left ear, but without a fever, was reluctant to prescribe an antibiotic.  I'm fine with that, actually.

The moral of this story here is that Mom can't take any time off.  I was tired from pushing for answers on Lee's condition, and since he's been quiet for all these months, I didn't continue to push to get him in to see the Neuro-Surgeon sooner.  And as a result, when this happened today, I assumed the worst.

It's looking more and more like it's a simple ear issue.  Six hours after his pain medicine dose in the ER, the pain returned.  Tessa, Adam, and I were able to get him to describe the location of his pain.  It hurts in his upper molars.  His lower molars.  His jaw.  His cheek.  And his ear.  Since the ER doctor saw a pink ear, I'm leaning on that as being the culprit.

In the meantime, I've contacted the Neurosurgeon's office to schedule an appointment.  They don't have Lee's Authorization Approval Letter, in spite of the fact that the new Neurologist's office faxed it to them 6 weeks ago.

And the former Neurologist hasn't sent Lee's records over to the new Neurologist.  So I called.  The receptionist told me that they need a new signed release from me.  That I can't fax it to them.  Or send it to them. That I have to physically take it to them.  I challenged this.

They asked for my son's name.  I told them.  First name, Lee, and then I gave them his last name.  They said his name back to me, with his first and last names switched.  I said, "No, his first name is Lee."  She put me on hold.  A new lady got on the phone.  She said his name backwards.  I said, "No, his first name is Lee."

She asked for his date of birth.  I gave it.  She put me on hold.  Came back.  Said she found his file.  And then asked for the fax number.  They're faxing it to the new Neurologist.  Without my signed release.  Whatevs.  If it gets the job done, right?  I can only hope that the doctor's assessment of me as being "INTENSE," was written on his chart, and that was what made them decide to get both Lee, and his intense Mom, the heck out of there.  Give us over to the new guy.

I'm remembering now why I needed a break from all of this.

But, then I see my little one in pain, and I remember why it is that a Mom's job is never done.  That there is never any clocking out, so to speak.  It's time to get busy.  And unleash my intensity on a new batch of medical professionals.

Crisis Gypsies

When we moved back to California after living in Nebraska for 12 years, the kids and I moved in with my parents for 10 months.

In anticipation of our move, my mom and sisters bought beds and dressers, and as though they were putting a puzzle together, they somehow set up my parents' guest room to accommodate the kids and me.

I remember how excited they were to be able to have it all ready for us.  The room was so pretty.  So sweet, with so much love poured into it.

I was so grateful.  Overwhelmed with gratitude, really.  So I was left somewhat bewildered when my feelings at the time didn't reflect the thankfulness in my soul.  Instead, I felt numb.  Like I had to work to make my face smile in response to the joy their faces all showed.

It was one of the first of many moments where I would catch myself stuck.  Stuck somewhere between happiness and sorrow.  A paradox of emotions.

I had left my husband  A separation for the sake of reconciliation.  My hope being that with a separation, counseling, and restructuring of how our lives had been before, we could later reconcile and raise a happy, healthy family.

We lived separated in Nebraska for a few months.  I needed to move the kids and me out of our country home, and into a house of my own in town.  I feared the seclusion of the country, paired with my husband's behavior.

I had always been an at-home mom, but I had to get a part-time job at the hospital in town, so that I could support the kids and myself.  I worked as a cook's assistant.

The older kids were too aware of our circumstances, and too hurt and broken to properly care for the younger ones while I worked.  The balancing act I had to perform by working outside the home with a hurting14 year-old,  12 year-old, 8 year-old, and 20 month-old left my side of the family here in California feeling that the kids and I would be better off closer to them, so that we could heal, and benefit from the support of family.

So we left Nebraska, the only home my children knew.  The state Adam, Abi, and Lee were born in.

The kids were excited about the move to California.  About being with their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  It was nice to see them excited.  So when we went to bed that first night, my conflicting emotions melted as I cuddled my baby Lee, resting in my parents' house.  We were safe.  We were going to be OK.

Maybe it's because I'm a firstborn, maybe it is my genetic make-up, but whatever it is, I am very independent.  The sense of being a burden nagged at me as time passed.  It got more intense with each passing month.  Though I enjoyed the time with my parents and my kids, working on their emotional hurts while I worked on mine, I knew I needed to find a way to support the kids and myself, so that we could move out of my parents' home, and on with our life.  This was my obsession.  All I thought about.

And I think, as I look back with a clear head and that it was my feeble attempt at establishing a deep need of normalcy, or to at least create a new normal for us.  With hindsight, I see that what we needed was more time to heal.  But in the midst of it, with all of the Topsy-turvey ranges of emotions, I was left short-sighted.  All I could see was that need to support my children, and give them a home of our own.

After living with my parents for ten months, we moved to a beautiful little townhouse a few miles away that I was able to rent.  I had gotten a job at a local country club working as a server.  I was getting great hours, and doing very well with tips.  It was enough to cover our monthly expenses.

At that point, we had lived in California for almost a year.  My husband decided to join us in California,  so he moved from Nebraska.  At first he stayed with his relatives, but our year apart, as well as extensive counseling, proved fruitful for my husband.  He was different from before.  More nice.  More happy.  To make life as close to normal as we could for the kids, I asked him to move in with us.  We lived in separate bedrooms like roommates, but the kids had both parents under one roof.  It was looking like we would be able to reconcile.

But, as time passed, his anger started to show itself again.

He wanted for us to move back to Nebraska.  Many of our family and friends advised us against it, or at least they advised us to continue to pursue a more complete recovery from our old habits before we moved away.  My husband had extreme control and anger issues, and I had been very codependent.  He had betrayed us by being unfaithful, and I still needed to know that I could trust him.  The advice of those who loved us was that we continue to grow before moving away, so that we wouldn't revert back to how we had been before.

This advice brought a level of anger and resentment from my husband that was so great, it started affecting the children.  I had one of the kids cry to me and say that Daddy was angry again.  She was afraid of it, but at the same time was also afraid that we would have to leave him again, and she didn't want to face what that would inevitably mean.  The dysfunction of codependency and enabling behaviors were rearing their ugly head in the behaviors of my daughter.

I would not raise my children in this kind of dysfunction and fear.  I told my husband that I was going to file for divorce.

We had been living in the beautiful townhouse for only one year.  But, my hours had been cut at the country club, and I wasn't making enough to cover the $2,050 per month rent.  Even with my second job as a server at a Hawaiian restaurant.

So, we moved.   We moved into a 4 bedroom house around the corner from my parents' house.  My husband and Adam moved out a few months later.

I got a new job as an office manager for an engineering firm.  With this job, I would make enough to support my children and myself.  I quit my job at the country club, but kept the second job so that I could make extra money to pay off debt.

After 2 months at the engineering firm, I was laid off.  My boss couldn't make payroll.  It was the Friday before Christmas.

I picked-up as many hours as I could at the Hawaiian restaurant.  I got another part-time job working as a promotional model a weekend or two a month.  It still wasn't enough.

After a year in the house around the corner from my parents, I found a tiny 2-bedroom condo I could afford.  Rent was just over $1,000 per month.  Our next door neighbor was an L.A. gang leader.

LET'S RECAP, SHALL WE?

We moved from our country house in Nebraska, to a house in town in early 2006, to my parents' guest room in California in the summer of 2006.  We moved to the beautiful townhouse in the spring of 2007.  We moved to the 4-bedroom house around the corner from my parents in the spring of 2008.  And we moved to the tiny 2-bedroom condo in the spring of 2009.

That's 5 different homes in 3 years.

Hugo and I started dating in the fall of 2009.  We married on Valentine's Day in 2010.  It was a fast courtship, and a quick engagement.  Not what the professionals would advise, but it worked for us.  Yes, we have had to put in some extra work on the already-married end as the result of our speedy pre-married relationship, but it has been work that has been well worth the effort, leaving us strong and healthy.

Challenges aren't always all bad.

Lee is very insecure about moving.  To him, it is normal to move every year.  We moved to my parents' house when he was 1, to the beautiful townhouse when he was 2, to the house around the corner from my parents' when he was 3, to the tiny condo in the ghetto when he was 4, and to Glendora when he was 5.

He will be 8 in December.  We're still here.

But, he asks if we will have to move, even still.  He asked this last weekend while we were driving.  Wanted to make Hugo and me promise that we will live in this house until we die.  When we're old.

He then asked when we will be done paying for our house.  We told him that we would be done when he is thirty-five.  He stared blankly out the car window.  So did we, I think.  Yikes.

Hugo and I can't seriously promise Lee that we will stay in our house until we are old.  Who can say for sure where life is going to lead?  But when I remember that drive I had to give my kids security, a home, and a healthy life, I realize just how far God has brought us.

He brought me back home to my family in California.  My children to their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  He brought us Hugo.  And more grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a soon-to-be cousin.

He brought us to Glendora.  And He brought us to this house we won't have paid off until 2040, but we are so very happy we have.

Hugo and I are raising a happy, healthy family.  The hope I had from the start.  At the time I didn't realize that it would take divorce and the remarriage to a man up for the job to bring it, but since when do I have to know exactly how God will bring a prayer and hope to reality?  He saw my deepest desires for my family met, and He did it His way.  His perfect way.

I Can't Remember What I was Going to Title This

Remember Aunt Bethany in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation?

Sometimes I worry about myself.

It's a good thing that I'm a writer.  I keep a notebook in my purse.  I write down everything.  Names of people, information about whatever I am experiencing, details of what I am supposed to do, when, and even why.

I input information into the calendar on my phone, with the alert set up to remind me the day before, an hour before, or a few minutes before depending on what it is, and how much time I'd need to scramble in case the reminder really reminds me of something I would have otherwise completely forgotten.

There was an incident last week when I awoke to the reminder on my phone of the PTA event I was supposed to participate in.  In 1 hour.  With an egg casserole in hand.  Oops.

As a young wife and mother, I discovered, along with my group of girlfriends, a organization/home making guru, Emilie Barnes.  We read every book, attended every seminar, and spoke Emilie Barnesenees fluently amongst ourselves.  She taught us how to be organized, stay organized, and get more hours in our day, all while wearing a lacy apron, a lipsticked smile, and a bouquet of flowers on the table.  We devoured her.  We were proud disciples.

Then life happened.

Sometimes I wonder whether it's the Crisis my family and I endured that fried my brain, whether it's age, or whether it's just me, and how I was predisposed to be.  Either way, it's become my very own thorn in my very own side.

I do acknowledge that the Crisis years have taken a toll.  Case in point, I have a very hard time remembering dates, facts, and details of the years between, I have to stop and think about this, 2005-2010.

In fact, it was 7 years ago today that our life as we knew it was shattered.  The only reason why I know that so solidly, is because we've been reminded all over the news that today is the 7 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina hitting land.  

The kids and I were in California on vacation from our home on Nebraska.  While we were here visiting family for a few weeks, we camped with my parents, siblings, and family friends in Carlsbad for the weekend.  My husband urged me to not worry about calling home while we camped.  Thought it would be nice for the kids and me to just let our hair down, and enjoy being with my side of the family.  It was so refreshing.  He had never said that before.  Had always insisted on me checking in, or being available when he checked in with me.  I was usually so nervous about that need of his.  He'd be so mad if he couldn't reach me, or if I didn't try to reach him.  So, when he urged me to relax, have a great time, and not try and call, I was happy and actually proud of the growth in our marriage.  I thought, after 18 years of marriage, he is relaxing. Calming down.  Not as rigid.  But, what I didn't know at the time was this:  He had other plans for the weekend, too.  He wasn't going to be home, either.  And he wasn't spending the weekend alone.

So while we happily camped, New Orleans was being devastated, and my family was being ripped apart.

His relationship became public in our small Nebraska town, and before I knew it, the kids and I were back in California.  This time, for good.

The trauma did something to my brain.  The trust I had in him, and the trust I believed we shared for our family, was violently betrayed by his act of deception and betrayal, and something inside me broke.

Those years are a blur, and had it not been for the journaling I did during that time I wouldn't remember any of it, or at least, very little.  

I don't remember Lee as a toddler.  He asks for stories of his first words.  Funny things he said, or did when he was little.  Thankfully, his siblings can fill in blanks for me, which satisfies him, and helps me to remember.  Thankfully, I have notes I can reflect upon.  But still, I don't remember his 1st birthday, his second birthday, his third birthday, or his fourth birthday.  Likewise, I don't remember the other kids' birthdays during those years, either.  I vaguely remember Chuck E. Cheese one year for Lee, a Red Carpet birthday party for Abi, as well as a sleepover birthday party for Abi once, but I can't remember for which ages.  And I remember Danielle's 17th birthday--her first birthday with us, and her first birthday party ever.

Birthdays are huge for me, which is why this is so painful.  I remember every birthday my kids had before Crisis.  I'm grateful for that, and am even more grateful that I remember their special days now.  

This is one reason why I love Facebook so much.  It's a visual journal.  And as people comment, it only solidifies the memory and etches it more permanently into my poor, challenged brain.

I'd be a raving lunatic if I told myself that all of my memory challenges are caused from Crisis, though.  Hugo hasn't suffered Crisis, yet when we park in parking lots, we wander the whole lot in search of the car.  It sucks, too, when we get a great parking space, and then wander out to the south 40 looking for the car, only to find it up by the door.  

In parking structures, we take pictures of where we parked.  Sometimes, I even take pictures of our walk from the parking structure, to the elevator, to the floor we're going to, etc.  It's pathetic, I know, but what's even more pathetic is that we utilize my visual map to get ourselves back to the car.  Works like a charm.  Otherwise, we'd be wandering through the whole thing, carrying a goldfish in a plastic bag.  (Seinfeld reference.)

So, our life is a little chaotic at times, and I really think that this has A LOT to do with my memory melt-downs.

THIS MORNING:  

Hugo and I wake up at 6:15.  Abi wakes up at 6:15.  Hugo gets into our shower.  Abi gets into their shower.  Danielle wakes up at 6:30.  Abi's in the shower.  Abi's usually in the shower at 5:30.  Wednesday is late start at Abi's school.  Hugo finished his shower.  Reroute Danielle.  She gets into our shower.  I get dressed into exercise clothes.  Put the load from last night into the dryer.  Put 4 English muffins into the toaster oven.  Make Hugo's turkey sandwich.  Make Lee's PB&J sandwich.  Give Abi wardrobe suggestions.  Listen to Abi tell me about her dream last night.  Hear that Lee is up.  Find him dressed and brushing his teeth while Hugo's doing his hair.  Give props to the Papi for rocking it.  Give Lee his meds.  Make our bed.  Pack sandwiches and lunch stuff into Hugo and Lee's lunch pails.  Tell Danielle and Abi that they need to revamp our Wednesday morning schedule so that they don't stumble over shower times.  Abi needs to make her bed, so Hugo gently reminds her, saying we need to leave in 10 minutes.  Abi freaks out.  She isn't ready.  She's always ready.  She thought we were leaving later.  We had decided that we needed to leave earlier than she had been originally informed.  Oops.  I might have forgotten to tell her.  Develop Plan B.  Hugo drops Lee and me off at his school so that he can log in another day of education, and so that I can log in another day of torture walking with my torture walking buddies.  Hugo goes back home.  Grabs the now-ready Abi.  Drops her off at school.  Drops Danielle off at school.  Commutes with a million other people on the 210, to the 134, to Glendale.  Gets to his office.  Thinks about lunch, so he takes a peek to see what he has.  He finds a PB&J with the crusts cut off.  Lee's PB&J.  He's not a fan of the peanut butter.  (Another Seinfeld reference.)

It could be worse, I tell him over text.  It could have been Aunt Bethany's Jell-O with the crunchy cat food folded in.  Or, I could have packed the cat.

I need to break out Emilie Barnes' books again.  Revamp my M.O.  Trouble is, I can't remember where I put them.

the things i learned this week, when i discovered i'm far more like a 2 year-old than i would have ever thought before

Starting back to school hasn't been anywhere nearly as treacherous as I'd built up in my head.  When we discovered that Summer Vacation was going to be cut short, I feared that its end would be brutal, and abrupt.  So much so, in fact, that I nearly made it so.  But, now that the worst has happened, and Summer Vacation went and ended on us, I've been struck with what, if I didn't know any better, seems to be...dare I say, relief?

OK.  So, I need to break that one down and do some analyzing, here.  What, exactly, am I relieved about?

I think I'm mostly enjoying that annual rush I get once school starts, where I revel in the enjoyment of being back on a schedule again.  Because, when it's all said and done, I'm really no better than a toddler on this one.  I cry, and cry, and cry about not getting my way, and being forced into an established sense of order that is in contrast to my need to be free!  And play!  And enjoy!

But, once the establishment takes over, I find that things aren't all that bad, after all.  Like the toddler, I blink my wet eyes, look around, and realize I'm OK.  In fact, I find that I enjoy my time that much more.  I feel a satisfying sense of accomplishment at the end of each day, that I didn't feel when we'd spend a day at the beach.  Sure, I'd go to bed fulfilled, because how could I not after relaxing all day to the melodic sounds of crashing waves.  But now, after a day has been spent accomplishing so many weighty things on my school-year to do list, I really think I go to bed smiling more deeply.

So, what I think I prove to myself is this:  As much as I love taking a break, and as much as I love abandoning the pressure of juggling tight schedules, homework demands, AR tests, carpools, and classroom volunteer work, it is in the midst of all that hard work that I end up gaining the most fulfillment.  It's in the hard work that I see us grow.  It is in the hard work that we glow in the reward of accomplishment.

I can so apply this to Crisis, when it enters my life.  I don't like it, but from it and through it, I grow.  And so does the rest of my family.

So gone is my need to shy away from the hard stuff starting back up again.  Gone is my need to groan, and complain, and wish that we were back at the beach.  We are back doing what we do, and after the wonderful Summer Break we enjoyed, we are all rested, and ready to tackle the things that are set before us.

We can at least make it to Labor Day.

What Kind of a Childhood are You Giving Your Kids?

Yesterday was my dad's 75th birthday.

As a surprise, we thought it would be fun to take him to The Greek Theatre to see his all-time favorite showman and singer, Neil Diamond.  The fact that he was playing locally on my dad's birthday was unbelievable.  We planned the night for months, excited.

Hugo, Kristi, Misti, Mom, Dad, Lori, Aunt Liz, Uncle Tom and Not Pictured, But With Us in Spirit: Gregg, Uncle Ernie, and Aunt Donna

It wouldn't be the first time he would get to see The Solitary Man in concert.  Last night was his 3rd time to see him at The Greek, and there have been at least 2 other times at other venues.

In my childhood home, we all grew up listening to Neil Diamond.  I can remember when the Hot August Night album came out forty years ago, and my dad played it on our stereo.  I can remember sitting on the living room floor holding the album sleeve, looking at the cover picture, and back at my dad, in total disbelief that this is what Neil Diamond really looked like.  And that my dad liked someone who liked like that.

My dad was more of a Rat Pack kind of guy.  Very short haircut, ties, polished shoes, suave attitude.  Crisp.  A defiantly proud non-member of the hippie-revolution.

The music of Neil Diamond spoke to his soul.  In spite of Mr. Diamond's long hair, rivets, and fringe.

Whenever my sisters, brother, or I hear a Neil Diamond song, we're transported in time to our childhood.  Camping on the Kern River.  Cleaning out the garage, or washing the cars.  Going fishing in the mountains.  Christmas, especially if a new album had been released.  Neil Diamond was there, and every one of us kids knew the songs, just as well as our dad.

Neil Diamond started promptly at 8:15, with no headliner.  His band of 35 years started playing, he appeared on stage, and I cried like a baby.

It was no wonder.  I tear-up when I hear a Neil Diamond song come on at the grocery store.  I'm taken back to my childhood.  My happy, happy childhood.

It was surreal.

I took in the music, the moment, and my spirit was flooded with appreciation for the beautiful childhood our parents gave us.

OK.  So, with Family Crisis Recovery dwelling so prominently in the doorway of my soul, I find that lately, I can't let anything in, without measuring it against the things I now know in life.

Let me explain.

How about the many families who suffer by accepting various forms of dysfunction as normal?  Physical abuse.  Alcoholism.  Drug abuse.  Neglect.  Sexual abuse.  Infidelity.

And what about the dysfunctions that aren't as obvious, but are just as damaging?  Control.  Anger.  Verbal abuse.  Mental abuse.  Spiritual abuse.  Co-dependency.  Selfishness.

So, with tears streaming, and gratitude over having had such a beautiful childhood, I caught myself thinking about my own children.  And then I got a little sad.  Would they ever have such a moment as this when they're forty-five?  Would they ever look back on their childhood with reflective joy?

When I first separated from my ex-husband, I had a lot of support.  But, I also endured sharp criticism from some for taking a stand against my ex-husband's behavior by actually leaving him.  I was told that as a Christian wife, it was my duty to stand by my man, even though he was hurting the kids and me.  Even though his dad hurt his wife and kids.  And his grandfather hurt his wife and kids.

All I could do was look at my kids, and want more for them.  I didn't want them to continue to be subjected to his control and abuse, but even more, I didn't want the pattern to continue.  So I left.

Now that I know more clearly about the things my denial didn't allow me to fully get when I was still with him, I know that had we stayed, my children would have had more pain to process in their adulthood.  And gauging by the amount of time it has taken them to work through the stuff they did endure, I know that my decision to leave was the right one, in spite of the difficulty, challenge, and even the criticism.

My childhood, as great as it was, wasn't perfect.  Theirs hasn't been either, obviously.  But I do hope that as they reflect upon the sad or difficult memories, they can also reflect upon the happy ones, as well.  And I hope that as they're reflecting, they will dwell on the empowering confidence we all have knowing that we, as a family, took a stand against things that weren't right, for the better of not only our lives, but for future generations as well.  I hope that they can look back and see that, as they look forward to a positive future for our family.

We don't have to accept and live with dysfunction.  We don't have to stick with it for the sake of the children.  Because, in truth, the children end up not only hurt from it, but as they grow, they tend to repeat it.  There is no sense I can make from that.

It's hard to be faced with the decision of whether or not you should demand change, or even leave your spouse if he or she is bringing Crisis to your family.  I know.  But your child's childhood will only be lived once, and in that one shot, they will learn what they learn from you, and they will take the things you teach them into their adulthood, and straight to their own family.  As their parent, what would you like for them to take?

I thank my parents.  Because, truth be told, this is what they did for us.  Both my mom and my dad had challenging childhoods.  They took stands against what they had been subjected to, and as a result, my brother, sisters and I benefited greatly.  Our parents sacrificed tremendously, so that we could have what they couldn't have.

Are you in a relationship you know deep down isn't right?  Is your spouse or partner engaging in behaviors that jeopardize healthy living?  Are you scared?  I know the fear.  I lived it.  I'm here for you, and I will be more than happy to guide you.  If you act now, there is a greater chance of your relationship surviving with help.  A greater chance of your children having less pain to have to process.

Call me.  Message me.  Friend Request me on Facebook, and I will accept.  We can communicate privately.  Kristi Tisor Ambriz.  I will hold our conversation in confidence.  I give you my word.

I wish you well.  I wish your children well.  I wish their memories well.