Wayfinding

I credit my Dad with teaching me to travel confidently. To read maps and a compass. To drive safely on interstates. To haul trailers. To change a tire and the engine oil. To pay attention to landmarks and passersby. To navigate my world. I credit my Mom with teaching me to travel wisely with small children in tow. The tricks of the trade from backseat entertainment to coffee can pit stops. Those roots were planted early and tended often in my childhood. We were a family who traveled by road and saw much of the United States in the eighteen years I lived in Mississippi. My sister and I launched international exploration after college graduation; finding our way through Europe. I continued these endeavors with my fellow nursing friends and roommates; spending every spare penny on the next adventure. Travel wise and penny foolish, you might say.

Then I married into a family well traveled; my husband grew up internationally and spent very little time in the United States as a child. He has what I call itchy feet. In the last 16 years, we have moved nine times and lived in four major cities. He checks the travel box many times over on my list of life partner must haves. My father-in-law spoke six languages fluently. A diplomat, intelligent, confident, and charismatic until frontotemporal dementia robbed us all from his thoughts. We lost him in January this year. Aphasia is especially cruel when your life was dedicated to international diplomacy. My mother-in-law exudes courage, having raised her children behind the iron curtain in Romania, awaiting food drops from the military to feed her family. In Istanbul amidst the Gulf War, with bombs being tossed over garden walls. In Norway with long, dark winters that can whittle away the mind’s edge. In Budapest with imposters attempting to gain access to the family home. In Moscow, being trailed through groceries stores. Returning state-side was a notable event throughout her motherhood; my word she deserves a good long rest now.

I crave and have sought opportunities to expand my world beyond the little hometown that gave me the backbone of my life. With my oldest boy, I began traveling early and often. Strapping a babbling breastfeeding baby to my chest and boarding a plane was a frequent occurrence. Have boobs, will travel. We most often flew home to my parents. And road tripped to my sister’s small Blue Ridge Mountain town. Easy destinations that are teaching him to travel confidently and wisely; planting a few of those small town roots along the way. I began again with my second son; his first flight at 2 months old in February 2020. I do not need to tell any of you about the subsequent shrinking in our physical world. We all have felt that loss and mourn together what the pandemic has done in each of our lives. No, that isn’t the wayfinding I am referring to this morning. The pandemic changed my ability to travel, but post partum depression and anxiety affected my will to explore.

The birth of my second son was very different from my first. Charlie came easy; as easy as babies come to first time parents anyhow. He is six-and-three-quarters now and we still do not sleep through the night. Spirited children are just more. That is a thought for another day. What I mean is that he came without strings attached. Sam, on the other hand, did not. A rainbow baby, he was my fourth pregnancy. Finding oneself newly pregnant three times in a span of thirteen months causes an enormous amount of turmoil. I felt the loss of my two babes deeply; they remain unforgettable and continue to return to me in unexpected moments of grief. I did my best to normalize my miscarriages; speaking to dear friends and strangers alike when the opportunity arose. I discovered the frequency with which women are suffering silently under the same losses. Grieving without outlet and doing their best to “cry pretty,” as Carrie Underwood so eloquently put it following her own losses. I thought that was all I needed, to cry pretty. Until the pandemic became the straw that broke me.

I was awash. Both trapped and adrift inside my own mind. I found, at least, the courage to admit it. To take a sabbatical from my professional self. To seek counseling. To find better living through chemistry. To share my journey with my trusted circle. To return to catacombs of grief; unpacking professional and personal experiences of pain. To understand anxiety and what it truly wants; certainty. To understand depression and what it truly wants; hopeful purpose. To try mothering in isolation with the rest of the world while drowning in my own mind. I just needed a breath. One breath without an elephant on my chest. One touch that did not cause my skin to burn. One thought of joy that did not have ten anxious thoughts following it. Just one that I could build upon. Don’t we all need something like that?

I found it in front of me. These tiny humans I created are reflections of self. They see the rawest parts of you, no matter how you try to disguise it. And they want to share their rawest selves too. In their sphere, unfettered by troubles beyond our backyard for the first time ever, we played. We played. I allowed my boys to pull me back to life in the sand box, the climbing trees, the creek, and their imaginative invitations to other worlds. I found myself breathing while building dribble sand castles, grabbing crawfish from their burrows, and planting tiny seeds of green. I found footing through the very part that sent me adrift; mothering. Although my physical world remained small along side all of you; my emotional world slowly began to expand beyond anxiety and depression again. I was able to “begin the begin.”

Two years hence, I have returned to self. Like greeting an old friend, I traveled for spring break this year. Not far. To my sister’s in the Blue Ridge and into the city. But just with my boys and me. Alone. Braving the unknown and retrieving my ability to travel confidently and wisely. This time, however, I appreciate those roots in a way I have not before. I know what it is to live in a small world now, both physically and emotionally, and I am ever so grateful to be able to expand it once again.

Know someone who is suffering or you suspect is suffering from post partum depression or anxiety? The hardest part is admitting it to yourself and your loved ones. Ask her. Give her the opportunity to share her fears and help her navigate through the obstacles of finding a therapist and a physician for treatment.

https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/postpartum-depression/symptoms-causes/syc-20376617

https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/9312-postpartum-depression

https://womensmentalhealth.org/posts/is-it-postpartum-depression-or-postpartum-anxiety-whats-the-difference/

My father-in-law, Scott Bozek, was an extraordinary person. Beyond being an excellent husband and father, he was an olympian, a diplomat, and one of the kindest people I have ever known. We all suffered a long good bye. Frontotemporal dementia is rare, but dementia is not. Chances are you know or have known someone who suffers from it too. Consider supporting research to help us all understand the undoing of our loved ones’ minds.

https://adamsgreen.com/tribute/details/12478/Edward-Bozek/obituary.html#content-start

https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/frontotemporal-dementia/symptoms-causes/syc-20354737