Controversy?

I've tried to stay away from it my whole life. But it follows me like a droopy-eyed puppy dog and I just can't seem to kick it to the curb. Today I'm joining in and sharing my most controversial blog posts from January and December at Elizabeth Esther's witty I Use My Words.

In January, I blogged about the numbing pain of that soul-draining process of healing from old wounds in a post titled The Wound That Blinds. In December, I wrote about weaning my now 4 1/2 year old daughter for the second time in To My Youngest Daughter on Her Weaning Day. Nursing her was a beautiful (and often socially awkward) experience even for a seasoned attachment parent. I never would have done so had she not had significant special needs at the time. I had a few laughs this past week when watching "Back-Up Plan". There is a scene where a "baby" turns away from her mother's breast to inform the observer that she is "NOT a baby." She is four. I laughed. Hard.

Hop on over to Elizabeth Esther to see the whole list of controversial posts from other bloggers.

So what do you think? Are these two posts controversial? Is it weird to bare your soul, do your soul audit in "public" on the internet? Would you ever do it? Is nursing a 4-year-old in public appropriate?

To my youngest daughter on her weaning day

I remember the day you were born, when you nursed so hard and long that your tiny stomach was hard as a rock and you couldn't even breathe. I remember the day you weaned yourself at 13 months when I put you off once too many and you decided your pacifier was more reliable than your mother for comfort. 

I remember the day I started giving you a bottle because I had to wean your brother so he wouldn't drink my poisonous milk during cancer treatment. I remember the day I took your bottle away and you begged me to nurse you and I couldn't do it because my milk was still poisonous. I remember the day you quit talking and walking and couldn't even hug me back, and I gave you a bottle because for some reason, on that horrible day, the one thing you could remember was how to suck.

I remember the day my milk came in 6 months after I lost my baby, and I cried in the shower, and I cried all around the house, and you licked the milk off my shirt and asked me if you could nurse again. I remember three days later when I decided I would say yes, and I nursed you, a tall 3 year old, and wondered if it was the right thing to do. I remember your next doctor's appointment when the doctor said that you had finally started growing again after not growing for almost 10 months. I remember his sweet smile when I told him I had started nursing you again, and all the things he told me about fatty acids and protein chains and DHA and GLA that you couldn't get from anywhere else, and how that was healing your brain.

I remember a month ago when my oncologist told me I couldn't put off my cancer scan any longer. I remember my eyes squeezing shut, and the vision of that poisonous blue pill, and the memory of how I would feel when I nursed....again...for the very last time. I remember the taste of the sage tea that dries up my milk so I don't get breast cancer from the radiation.

And now the day has come. I nursed you for the last time...again. We giggled together and it just felt perfectly right, like it has all this time, to be nursing you. And totally wrong as the sage tea burns my throat and my heart aches for not nursing you anymore.

But you are taller now - 3 inches taller than you were when I started nursing you. You are learning not to cry when your brain fritzes out, and you are learning to chew and chew even when you hate the texture of the solid food we feed you. You are learning your alphabet again, and sometimes you can count all the way to 8, and you love babies and are potty trained all over again. You are talking, walking, jumping, hopping, squealing, loving, all day long.

I think you are ready. And I know I am not.

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.


What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him.


Whatever is has already been,
and what will be has been before;
and God will call the past to account.
~ from Ecclesiastes 3 ~


I am thankful for all of it.
Learning not to lose you by making something else my treasure.
Getting to keep you when you walked to death's door...and turned back to us.
Nursing you, despite all the looks askance, with milk for the baby we won't meet till heaven.
Watching you grow up and away.
Memories.

Everything beautiful in it's time.
Love,
Mama
December 26th, 2010

Hollowness

In a slushy crush of afternoon traffic on a dirty city street, it struck me: this is the longest I have gone without being pregnant since my wedding day. Caleb is a chubby, jabbering baby-toddler, crawling about, into everything, eating everything, content in new freedom. Some mornings I still feel dry and abandoned as he "nurses" on his bottle. I am blessed by little things - I can still feel the flutter of his suck "calling down the milk" as the cool glass of the bottle warms in my palm; his eyes still roll back in baby bliss with the first gulps of his afternoon bottle of breastmilk, guarded like liquid gold and rationed out once per day. The babyishness of his cowlicks, the chubby chin where it meets his neck, the folds behind his ears. I am surrounded by babies, toddlers, small children. But something inside feels empty.

I remember peering into the empty shell of a cottonwood tree deep in the woods when I was about eight. I tipped my head back to peer around into the top of the cavern in the center of the tree trunk. Shafts of light caught the rising dust of leaves that had crushed under my feet. I could see through the cracks in the bark, watch the trees arms, covered in leaves, dancing toward the sun at the top of the forest canopy. She was a happy woman, this tree...a hole in her middle, yet the tough sinews of her wood bit wetly into my palm as I leaned against her inside the hole, craning my neck to see better the view from this unexpected hiding place. What was once full of life was empty and hollowed out. But she wasn't finished living.

Babies won't grow inside me anymore. My poor health during pregnancy and a general sense of fulfillment with our four children meant we made that decision before cancer. I am thankful now that it happened that way - that God didn't allow me to blame cancer with yet another loss during my young motherhood. Another small blessing. My middle is empty, there is a dark tumor growing in my throat...but my sinews are tough and fecund, my arms are covered in leaves and dancing toward the sunlight.

She who was barren has borne seven children, but she who has had many sons pines away. The Lord brings death and makes alive; he brings down to the grave and raises up. ~ Hannah's Song, I Samuel 2:5-6

nearly November

Happy moments, PRAISE GOD.
Difficult moments, SEEK GOD.
Quiet moments, WORSHIP GOD.
Painful moments, TRUST GOD.
Every moment, THANK GOD.
~ author unknown

I remember when I was a child - and an avid reader beyond my years - I thought for many months that "Anon" was the greatest poet I had ever read! This little quote is profound but there is no one to credit.

Today has been a bleak day, one of those near-November days when the winds of change are cold and distinct, hinting at driving snow and skeletal trees and gray furrows in the field across the street. The sun came in long streaks of pale yellow through clouds racing across the horizon. My heart felt exactly like that - my children popping like little bursts of joy in a day that included much pain and processing of what is to come in the next few weeks. I had delightful times with my friend who is here to help. Even her sometimes-silent companionship felt like sliding into a warm bath of comfort. I also had aching breasts, literally a physical longing to comfort and love my little son, who spent the day beating at my chest, pulling my shirt, and crying to nurse. He is asleep now and I am left with no solution to my immediate problem.

I feel like I am stepping forward into an abyss of unknown - how will Caleb be fed? Will the children bear emotional scars from this long time spent apart? What will I do and think while I am away? What will my scans bring to light - an end in sight, or more suffering to come? The sense of the Everlasting Arms beneath me was faint today...sometimes I can literally feel the pulse in those wings, feel them bearing me up and their strength and power so close I can almost touch it. At other times, I wonder if I imagine them after all, struggling with disbelief and the cascade of temporal sorrows that abound wherever I turn. Today I felt just a flicker of the Comforter in the very peripheral vision of my day. I pray for renewed closeness and joy tomorrow.

"Rejoice in the Lord always [delight, gladden yourselves in Him]; again I say, Rejoice! Let all men know and perceive and recognize your unselfishness (your considerateness, your forbearing spirit). The Lord is near [He is coming soon]. Do not fret or have any anxiety about anything, but in every circumstance and in everything, by prayer and petition (definite requests), with thanksgiving, continue to make your wants known to God. And God's peace shall be yours, that tranquil state of a soul assured of its salvation through Christ, and so fearing nothing from God and being content with its earthly lot of whatever sort that is, that peace which transcends all understanding shall garrison and mount guard over your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 4:4-7 (Amp)

Time in a bottle (or breast)

Incline my heart unto thy testimonies, and not to covetousness. Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; and quicken thou me in thy way. Stablish thy word unto thy servant, who is devoted to thy fear. ~ Psalm 119:36-38

How quickly the human heart turns something created for God's glory into an idol! "Beholding vanity", such a beautiful phrase of Old English found in the King James Bible, is substituted by most modern translators with the term "worthless things". What is worthy, and what is worthless? Breastfeeding is certainly held up as worthy in our society at this stage of history, the gold standard in infant nutrition and perfectly designed to promote both physical and psychosocial development. It is a beautiful, precious act that at times has seemed sacred to me...never more so than in the past six weeks as I prepared to give it up. While it is worthy - God gave me these children to feed, clothe, protect, nurture and teach, after all - it is not sacred by any definition of the word ("set apart for worship", "dedicated for one purpose or service", or "entitled to reverence").

I tend to think of idol worship as bowing down physically before an altar. What would I be willing to humiliate myself for, in other words? I would certainly never bow down to my breasts (oh, horrid thought)! Yet was I, in a more subtle sense? Do I really believe that my ability to give and receive love with my child is bound in such a finite, limited act, the ability to perform which is bound quite certainly in the present and would shortly pass, whatever my situation? What I am really mourning, if I mourn this loss, is time. I am experiencing that inevitable marching on of days that God Himself put in motion at the creation of the world (Genesis 1). In a few short months, my sweet, happily breastfed son would have been done with that need, and would be gleefully independent of me and I of him. Would I have shed as many tears if weaning had taken place in the way I planned it?

As always, I wind up at the end of a long string of questions with many new ones left unanswered. How much is it appropriate to mourn such a loss? Mortality - that grim truth we are all facing when we speak of time and our days being numbered - still reigns, and in it Satan. That I can mourn. Even then I must guard myself...am I crying tears of sorrow or righteous anger toward the enemy, or am I crying tears of pity for my own self? Do I believe that God will turn this - and every sorrow - into dancing in the end? Yes, I do believe that. On that I must act: a smile for my children, a hug for my husband in greeting at the close of each day, a sigh of relief to my Savior who has borne me through yet another storm. Let my tears be something God can heal and answer, not an unanswerable state of bitterness and settled depression.

Lord, still my waves, the waves of my sea
That keep me tossed and full of fear
Open my eyes to see my Jesus, my Friend,
Over all, and yet so near.
~ Debra Holmen, Eat and Drink

What's that smell??

Ah yes, the delightful odor of wilted cabbage!

Weaning is going well. In the past 24 hours, I nursed Caleb once. He was very fussy throughout the night, but finally fell asleep in my arms and slept from 5-7 a.m. He is acting very tired today (thank goodness!) and I think both mom and babe will lay down for a nap shortly, putting a much-coveted Thumbelina DVD in for the girls!

Miraculously, the constant consumption of sage tea and application of cabbage leaves seems to be working. My milk is drying up very well as I have suffered no engorgement yet. My dear husband has permission to call me his frau now - any woman who walks around smelling constantly of cabbage must certainly be a frau, don't you think??

In honor of the cabbage, here is a frau in fine art for your appreciation!
Die Frau ohne Schatten by Strauss, performed by De Nederlandse Opera in 1996

Changing our craving

Nursing is on my mind today. I am trying hard to dry up my milk while still nursing Caleb 2-4 times per day. The theory is that this will allow him to become frustrated with nursing and quit of his own volition, rather than being denied something he revels in. I am hoping it is less traumatic for him this way; however, if my milk isn't significantly diminished in the next few days of herbal remedies, I will have to stop nursing him altogether to ensure that my milk has a chance to dry up before my scan dose of the I-131 less than 2 weeks from now.

Nursing is a theme that is surprisingly common in God's word. I find this process of early weaning so illustrative of the larger spiritual truths that are being revealed to me through my battle with cancer. New Christians are compared to babes, and told "like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation" (I Peter 2:2). Yet, as we grow as Christians and become more mature, we are "weaned" from that process of feeding on the "milk" of Scripture...the basic tenets of the faith. We wrestle with the big problems of humanity, and ultimately must choose whether to trust God to sort out the unaswerable questions or to let our own doubt and worry limit or weaken our faith in Him. David describes the process of handing anxiety over the future over to the God He continually trusted more each day: "I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me." (Psalm 131:1b-2) Caleb, comforted at my breast for 8 months, finds it almost a sole source of love, affection, sustenance, and joy in certain circumstances; he hasn't yet learned to trust me or his world enough to feel safe in a world that doesn't include his mother's milk and skin-to-skin contact. In many ways, this correlates with my faith pre-cancer: I felt like I had a lot of answers; I could provide an answer to so many questions, at least theoretically. Weaning is putting Caleb's faith to the test: will Mama still love me? How will I eat? How will I fall to sleep? Cancer is doing the same for my faith: does God still love me? Will I live? How will I rest or find joy in the midst of physical and emotional calamity?

I long for a "quiet and still" child at the end of this weaning process...a child that can lay at my breast without tears or struggles, and find comfort in my songs, my cuddles, my conversation. I long to be like a weaned child snuggled up to God's chest...I don't want to "fight cancer", as the world would have me do. I want to "still and quiet my soul", so that I lay peacefully against the heart of my Savior, completely trusting He careth for me! (I Peter 5:7)


Oh Lord, you've searched me,
You know my way,
Even when I fail you,
I know You love me.

Your holy presence
Surrounding me,
In every season,
I know You love me.

You go before me,
You shield my way,
Your hand upholds me
I know You love me

~ Hillsong, At the Cross

Not dispensed from thought

I know when the stress has grown too strong,
Thou wilt be there.
Thou hearest prayer.
I know that in the crash of falling worlds,
Thou holdest me.
I know that life and death and all are Thine
Eternally.

The work is God's, not ours. We are not dispensed from labour and thought, but from trouble of mind. If we understand God's meaning we shall keep our peace of mind all through. God has never found fault with anyone for trusting too much and expecting too much of Him.

~Janet Erskine Stuart

I want to read the book In Search of a Confident Faith: Overcoming Barriers to Trusting in God, by J.P. Moreland and Klaus Issler. Has anyone read it? I am thinking of getting it for my two-week sabbatical. I started a "countdown" to my first round of treatment on my Facebook account today: 20 days left. 6 days to nurse my son. It is urgent: I am going to bed to nurse him right now! Pray for strength for me as I walk into this next breaker of sorrow; pray for physical strength as I weather the storm within sans thyroid replacement. Just like my doctor said, it is, in fact, essential.