Why is asking for help so hard?

I was recently asked this by someone else, and in answer to her question, I had no trouble coming up with lots of reasons. When it is me - well, that's different! Asking for help is tricky, I think because it is partly a pride issue and partly a misplaced humility issue.

Pride - we don't want to seem "the weakest link", we don't want to look like we aren't coping, we don't want to be a drain on others, we like to see ourselves as coping and helping others, not needing help to cope ourselves.

Misplaced Humility - we don't want to "bother" people, we don't feel we are "worth" troubling others about, so many other people's problems are worse than our little woes, surely we don't want to be seen to be making a fuss and feeling sorry for ourselves?

Both of these are wrong, I know it. I enjoy being able to help someone who needs it, whether it is with some medical information, a meal after being sick or having a baby, babysitting so people can get out. Yet, I feel embarrassed when I need to ask for information, need help after being sick or having a baby. I am reluctant to ask for baby-sitting "just so I can get out".

An odd double-standard is at work here in my subconscious.

Proof that doctoring your own children doesn't work...

Zoe can now roll over (most of the time) but sometimes gets stuck, so Evie often "helps" her turn over. (Aren't they funny when they "help" with things?) Anyway, Zoe was crying on her tummy so Evie went to turn her over and flipped her onto her back. I didn't think anything of it, as she does this nearly every day. But she was having trouble getting Zoe over, and I realized that Zoe's right arm was trapped under her body - just as Evie finally *forced* her over onto her back with her arm underneath! Zoe was still crying through this whole procedure, so I picked her up and tried to comfort her.

Two hours later she was still crying intermittently. She would settle, then move around and start crying again. Then I noticed she wasn't using her right arm (which is the thumb she normally sucks). I picked her up again and her arm flopped down and she started crying again - then I really panicked, thinking it was a dislocated shoulder or broken arm! So I packed her up and took her to Cabrini Emergency Dept (dragging Evie along as well of course). We got there, went through registration, triage, etc. The nurse said it wouldn't be long to wait, so I sent Evie to look at the fish-tank and started undressing Zoe.

While we were sitting there the nurse came back out to check on Zoe, and obviously I was looking really stressed out. She said "Don't worry, it might be something as simple as a dislocated elbow which the doctors can just pop back in."

Then I realized - of course it is! I'm an idiot! I pop pulled elbows back in every day at work, and even teach parents to do it themselves! It isn't very hard and it works brilliantly and quickly. So I manipulated Zoe's arm, popped the elbow back in and felt it "click" back into the socket! I was so relieved!

Sure enough, about five minutes later Zoe was waving both arms around, sucking her preferred thumb and behaving totally normally again! So I said to the nurse "she's fine, we're leaving." The nurse looked a bit concerned, but I bounced Zoe up and down for her and she waved her arms around, so they agreed she was fine to go.

We got home just in time to meet Dean, who had rushed home - to hear Evie tell him all about how we went to see fish! ;)

Still, all this was a reminder to me that I really can't doctor my own children. I totally lost my perspective and needed a triage nurse to remind me of something I diagnose and treat every day! The girls are both in bed now, and I've had two cups of tea to calm my nerves. I'm sure Zoe and Evie won't remember today - and I'm equally sure that I will never forget!

The legal case is over.

Sigh. After all that preparation, anxiety, making babysitting arrangements and planning to go to court - the case is off, and not in a good way.

This is the child abuse case that I saw more than four years ago. The girl was only four years old at the time. The alleged abuser fled interstate, twice, and had to be brought back for trial, plus numerous legal delays. All in all, it has taken over four years to bring this case to trial, so she is now eight years old. The plan was for a closed court - so at least none of her school friends would hear about it.

I was a junior doctor at the time, and this would have been my first time testifying in a jury trial, so I was little anxious. Still, I was keen to try to help this girl get some resolution and justice, if at all possible. I did my preparation, had copies of all my notes and planned what to wear. I had babysitters lined up and was all ready to go - then the afternoon before I got a call from the police officer involved that the case was off.

Apparently under cross-examination, four years later, regarding events which happened to her when she was four years old, the girl was unable to give sufficient evidence to bring a conviction. Apparently, when lead along a line of questioning, she agreed that it was possible that she dreamed it all. The case collapsed on the spot, as there was never any physical evidence - the case swung entirely on her testimony, both direct and indirect (via what she said to me that night when she came to hospital).

So this is the justice system. Four years after the fact she is unable to say "beyond reasonable doubt" that when she was four she was assaulted, and despite his prior convictions there is no other proof. So he walks free. His delaying tactics have won the case for him. She has been waiting for four years to hear that her evidence isn't good enough to be believed.

I feel sick.

Fat girls can dance!

I went to a new dance class at the gym today, and I was very impressed and inspired by the teacher. She is one of those people with lots of energy and enthusiasm, who was still shouting "let's go!" and "yeah, push it!" into the microphone after one hour of very intense aerobic activity. She is also not the classical dancer type, being more strongly built than petite and elegant - I tend to think of ballet dancers as having the ideal dance physique. But this girl is muscular and stocky in overall build.

And she's fat. Significantly overweight. BMI greater than 25, most likely (for what that's worth). When she shakes it, it really does shake. She's got rolls of fat around her tummy, muffin tops, thunder thighs, wobbly upper arms and bosoms that require at least three layers of lycra to hold in place. Not a bone in sight.

And that makes her an inspiration to many of us. I've been feeling too old to dance, too flabby in the tummy, too maternal and post-2-babies to feel comfortable dancing. But this girl is not self-conscious at all! She gets up in front of a whole class and dances us until we drop - she's super-fit, super-stylish and she's got the moves.

Standing next to her, I feel like a poster-girl for "white girls can't dance". I feel stiff and very unco-ordinated. But unlike being too old and post-partum, I am inspired to dance *more* and change these things. Thanks S____! You go, girl!

Dance, dance revisited

In the interests of trying to get back into the swing of life, I went to a gym dance class today. So I went and shook my tail feathers for almost an hour and enjoyed the hell out of it! It has been literally years (three years, I think) since I last danced. I gave it up with the nausea of my first pregnancy, and always kept meaning to get back to it...

So now, as a mid-thirties mother of two, I felt a little self-conscious and ridiculous to be shaking it all about like I did as a teenager. But it was great fun, and from the amount I sweated I'm sure it was good for me too! Whether I still think so tomorrow remains to be seen. Besides, I was about the middle of the class demographic. I suppose I have to realize that "suburban housewife" now means me. Odd thought - I still think of myself as "professional woman" not "stay at home mother of two".

I have to admit that my goal was not simply enjoyment and fitness. I am very aware that my body is not what it was prior to having two children. I am probably in denial about this, but I aim to get back into my pre-baby work clothes. It only makes me more determined that I've been told it can't be done. (Stubborn much?) I'm giving myself six months, and then we will see who is right!

For those of you not familiar with the dance craze phenomenon, the title here is a riff on DDR (Dance Dance Revolution).

Lent journey: embracing failure, rediscovering grace

Lent 2010, my first attempt at a Lent fast while breastfeeding. The year I had Evie I chickened out, so this year I decided to do it properly. I set myself a moderately difficult fasting discipline, but not as difficult as some years. Something that should stretch me and make me suffer a bit, sacrifice a bit, but be achievable. Seven weeks isn't so long, really.

Over the first week of Lent it became evident that the fast was going to be more difficult than I had realized. I revised my targets downward, allowing myself more leeway in how I performed the fast. Maybe I was expecting too much and motherhood of a 2yo and a 3mo was going to make a rigorous regimen of fasting impractical.

By the end of the third week of Lent it was not going well. I wasn't meeting my targets for most days and I was ending up breaking the fast on more days than I was keeping it. In addition, I was becoming irritable and guilt-ridden, but I was determined to persevere. Paul writes in Romans that perseverance produces character and character produces hope. Lent had always been about hope and character development for me before - what was going wrong? I must not be doing it well enough - try harder!

By the end of the fourth week of Lent it was all falling apart, and I was falling apart with it. At my appointment with the maternal and child health nurse she did a post-natal depression screening test and I checked out in the "borderline, possible clinical depression" range. I was shocked. I had no idea what was the matter with me. Depression runs in my family, but I had a much harder time in Evie's newborn period and I never had any symptoms of depression then?

It just *couldn't* be my fasting regimen. Spiritual disciplines are supposed to build strength, and OK, maybe I had got a bit out of training since having Evie, a bit "spiritually flabby" but surely the solution would be to train harder, try more? If you want to build strength, you have to stress your body a bit. Besides, it would be ridiculous to be so dependent on food as an emotional crutch that a simple partial fast for seven weeks should cause me to be an emotional mess? That can't be right. Christians should not be dependent on anything but God - surely praying more would be the solution?

By the end of the fifth week of Lent I was so out of sorts I decided that not only was this hurting myself it was also hurting my family. I don't want to be the kind of mother who screams at her children and husband because she is having issues of her own. It felt like failure, like giving in and giving up, but so be it. I decided to embrace failure.

So what does it feel like, being a failure?

Strange. This is not an experience I have had very often. Sure, I've had plenty of times I haven't done as well as I would like, times when I haven't exactly "won" but very few times that I've actually given up and not completed the task. I'm one of those people who hangs on to the bitter end and reads every last word, even when the book is torture. Offhand I can think of three books I've started and not finished, in my whole life. Stubborn, much?

Being a failure made me hypersensitive to criticism for a while - I know I've failed, now just leave me alone! People pointing out that I'd not met expectations just made it worse. But then I relaxed into it. OK, admit it, failure means letting go of those expectations, that idea of myself as someone who doesn't do that kind of thing. It is a very different feeling to going down fighting. I suppose I am being stripped of a kind of pride in losing the ability to say "I would never do *that*!"

Reorientation. Now I can see things slightly differently. I'm down - I tried and failed. Is this how the disciples felt when they fell asleep in the Garden of Gethsemene? I always thought before that they just didn't try hard enough, but now I'm on the other side, on their side. And Peter, my favourite disciple, what is it that I like so much about him? That he failed and then came back again. It wasn't a single lapse for him either, it was a conscious decision repeated three times over and yet, he experienced forgiveness and reconciliation to a degree that made him stronger and a better example than ever.

Could it be that there is more for me to learn about God and grace in this experience of failure? During the last two weeks of Lent I decided to live in this space - having failed to meet expectations and forgiving myself for that. Allowing God to speak to me of being humbled in my own strength, and yet still lifted up by God's grace. Seeing myself fallen and realizing again that I can *not* help myself, can not do it myself, that I rely on God's grace completely and utterly.

This has brought me to a new place this Easter, and infused a whole new meaning into Good Friday - or perhaps it is the same old meaning made new again. Truly, I feel more grateful and reconciled to God, and more in need of God's reconciliation than I can ever remember feeling since I first became a Christian. Humbled and brought low, rolled over in surrender, here I am. Yet while lying on my back on the ground, I can see the stars and the glory of God better than ever before.

It has been a strange Lent journey. I haven't come out of it with the spiritual "muscle" I had hoped to develop. But I think I have found something else instead. I haven't trained, I haven't worked out, I haven't sweated for it this Easter - but I've been given a precious gift. I have rediscovered my first love - the love that God had for me before I knew anything about faith or holy living, when I came with open and empty hands, knowing my own poverty and begging to be filled. How did I ever forget how that felt? That was the love that took me from being who I was before, to being a Christian who wants to follow God and learn more about that amazing love. Once again, I am renewed by the transforming power of God, made over, forgiven and lifted up in a way that I could never do myself merely by applying more effort. Once again I am a child coming hurt and in tears to the One who can, who will, make it all better. Letting go, relaxing into God's hands - I am held close.


I originally called this reflection "embracing failure" but I have gone back and added the second and more important part - rediscovering grace.

Motherhood and positive reinforcement

My 2yr old is currently at a stage where she will do just about anything to earn praise and attention from me. So I spend a large proportion of my day saying things like: thank you for waiting, good job helping Mama, well done with your drawing, very nice cleaning up, excellent use of your words... etc, etc, and ad-really-truly-nauseam.

Which has led me to realize that motherhood itself involves very little positive reinforcement for the mother. All the little sacrifices, triumphs, times you bite your tongue and *don't* say what you are really thinking, all the times you grit your teeth and smile patiently and ask *one more time* for sweetie-to-please-do-whatever, or even more importantly to *not* do something... All of these go essentially unnoticed.

The chid doesn't notice, naturally, because they are children. I don't want or expect them to notice. At the end of the day the co-parent doesn't notice, except the bits that didn't get done, and there are no other adults around during the day *to* notice. And the same thing goes on day after day, week after week, until Mother's Day. Then there is a sudden shower of flowers/chocolates/I don't know how you do it comments, and the next day it starts all over again.

I think this is why motherhood feels very lonely and isolating. All these experiences are being lived, lessons being learned, and there isn't anyone on the spot to share it with. Motherhood is a very challenging and dynamic time, but there isn't anyone to see or appreciate your personal growth. Even when mothers talk to each other about their experiences to the extent that drives non-parents up the wall, there are often significant parts which are not shared.

It has been a big change for me, going from working in a close team environment to being at home alone. Working in a busy Emergency Department there was always someone around to say "Guess what I just saw!" or to bounce ideas off, or to say "I'm not sure that went very well, how could I have handled that better?" In a house, or a park, or a shopping centre this just doesn't happen. I think this is one of the reasons mothers often say that motherhood has taught them to appreciate their own mothers.

More on why mothers don't fully disclose to one another to follow...

Tiredness and Acopia

Funny how being tired can affect everything else in my life. The little events, comments and accidents that I would usually be able to cope with, ignore or fix up, suddenly seem overwhelming. My ability to make decisions is reduced and my usual function (which I flatter myself is average most of the time) is well below par. I mean, there is no other way to explain the paralysis I experience when having to decide whether to use a comma or not. Suddenly the ability to find the spell-checker goes out the window, and the number of letters in the word is just, well, embarrassing.

So, in my considered medical opinion "acopia" (the condition of lacking coping) is significantly more likely in the absence of sufficient sleep. Then again, I think any mother of any baby is on to that diagnosis pretty quickly without the need for seven years at university. In the interests of full disclosure of my new insights into motherhood, I will also reveal that I have learned exactly why parents let their toddlers eat or not eat whatever they like, spend all day in front of the TV and have no discipline whatsoever...

Lent and fasting

My Lent fast is not going so well. This year I decided to go sugar-free for Lent, and break my usual (bad) habit of indulging my sweet tooth. I've discovered that I really am sugar addicted. People talk about being a chocoholic like it is something funny, but I'm beginning to think that this really is the female equivalent of alcoholism. Alcoholics drink to feel better, to avoid pain or escape problems and to get an artificial "kick" which life isn't providing. Sugar/chocolate does all that for me.

The worst part is that I *chose* this Lent discipline because I wanted to break the habit of being dependent on sugar and get back to being dependent on God. The fact that I now am not able to keep this discipline says what exactly? That I really am addicted? Yes, probably. That I am too lacking in willpower to see through a discipline for even 40 bloody days? Yes, that too. That I am so short-sighted that I would rather have the instant gratification of something that is bad for me than invest in the relationship which is supposed to sustain my life? Sadly, yes.

I find myself making excuses to myself: I'm tired, I have a new baby, the toddler isn't sleeping, I really *need* this, it is a birthday cake so it doesn't count, if D were here to help it would be better, etc. But none of that is the point. I chose this Lent discipline in order to fast, and part of fasting is missing out, suffering and identifying with the suffering of Jesus. I should *need* that as well. I should *need* God - and isn't a very pleasant reflection that I would rather have chocolate. That sugar is my major emotional crutch at the moment, and I need it so much that I become irritable and anxious at the knowledge that I can't have it. If I were seeing a patient with these symptoms, I would definitely diagnose a chemical dependence/withdrawal state. I really feel like I belong in a group when the introductions start with "I'm here because I know that I have a problem..."

Jealous

Ok, I admit it. This is somewhat insane, but I am jealous of the attention my husband is paying to the situation of the my friend's husband. I told you, it is insane!

Let me explain: my friend is the breadwinner for her family, and her husband (K) is the full-time stay-at-home father and primary carer for their son. When we went to their place for dinner, of course I chatted with my friend and the two fathers exchanged views on life, the universe and everything.

Ever since that night, D has gone on and on about how hard it must be for K, how he has given up his career and made such a sacrifice, how isolating it must be alone in the house all day with only a child to talk to, how relentless and grinding the demands of housework, how unappreciated all the work seems to be, how understandable it would be if K were to become depressed.

And I want to slap him and say: sound familiar? Or is it only admirable when a *man* does it? When a woman does it, this is just normal "wife work"??

Just tired tonight...

It is that irony which all parents are probably familiar with: what have I accomplished today? Well, I put out a load of laundry. That's about it, really. I read three toddler books in excruciating detail. I made an omlette which Evie refused to eat. I made lasagna which Evie refused to eat. I got tired of cooking and reheated some fish from the other day, and Evie refused to eat that as well. So I gave her bread and water and put her to bed. For an hour and a half.

My other major achievement for the day was to miss the appointment to see a house that I was really hoping would be the right one for us. Evie was having such a good time at the park I didn't want to leave until the very last moment. Then, at the said very last moment, she fell off a head-height platform and cried for the fifteen minutes that I had allocated to drive to the house. She wasn't hurt, just scared, and I suppose I could have put her in the car and gone anyway - but that's the stuff of motherhood. After the grapes and the cuddles and the comforting I got to the house and it was closed.

Then when I got home I found a letter from the bank saying that my credit card payment was late. A check of my email showed that a reference I promised to write for an ex-resident of mine is now overdue.

Just one thing after another. Well, at least I got a load of laundry done. That's one thing better than yesterday...

Justice and the court system

Justice is not, in my opinion, readily available through the court system if you are a child. The case I am currently involved in is not something you want to read the details about, unless you are a rabid SVU fan or a sick pervert. In any case, I am not going to share the details here. Suffice it to say that the perpetrator (yes, the use of that term means I think he's guilty) would be at the bottom of the pile in any jailhouse brawl.

The victim was four years old at the time of the incident. She was five by the time charges were laid and statements drawn up from all and sundry. The perp broke bail and she was six by the time he was brought back for trial. He was bailed a second time (where's the justice in that?) and broke bail again. She's now nine, and her case is still to be heard in court. Even if her case is expedited and the perp sent to jail tomorrow to serve twenty years (which is unlikely) the damage is already done. Now she has school friends who will hear about it. Now she is old enough to understand the emotional impact of what happened to her, which she wasn't at age four. For five years she has been waiting for closure, for five years her mother and brother have been waiting for closure. For five years this has been an open wound, perhaps sometimes forgotten, but never actually closed.

Not to mention the fact that he will probably not go to jail for twenty years. She had disturbed sleep before this event anyway, so the nightmares she has now cannot be blamed on this one incident. She was only four anyway, so her recall will not be complete. She functions normally now at school and at home with no apparent ill effects - so far. Let me just say that I would not be looking forward to the wedding night flashbacks, if I were her.

As for the fact that he has prior convictions, let us not hold that against him. He is probably a victim of society, suffers from low self-esteem and maybe was even abused himself as a child. He probably has been unable to build a sense of self-worth due to his lack of skills which mean that he has been unable to find steady work. Probably it is his social worker's fault that he has been unable to keep any of the jobs he has been given for longer than a few months. Since we, as a society, have created him the way he is, it would be unfair and unreasonable of us to punish him for acting out of his psychological pain. He will probably get a suspended sentence, if enough evidence is even found to get a conviction.

And here is the real hell of it. The conviction which I sincerely believe he deserves, depends on the word of a four year old child. There was no physical evidence to support her claims and when it comes to the word of a four year old girl against the word of a grown man, I find it hard to believe that the court will take her claim of "he did it" over his "no I didn't".

Bitter much? Hell, yeah.

In the beginning...

In the beginning of my writing career I was reminded that the way to learn to write is to sit down and do it. So here I am, doing it. Writing, learning.

Also, some time after the beginning (ten years after, to be precise) I started to think. Too much. So having a head full of shit that I need to download, this blog serves two purposes. Writing and thinking.

Oh yeah, this is what I *really* think, so warning for language. This blog will be rated R - quite different from my other blogs and from my real-life speech. I probably would not associate with anyone who talks the way I plan to in this blog - so you've been warned. I don't swear, but I'm a hypocrite because I certainly *think* bad language.

Let the good times roll...