Spotlight Series

2012 - what a year.

For some of us, it was a year of dreams fulfilled, questions answered and our way, at long last, found.

For some of us, it was a year of loss, sadness and longing for what we once had.

For all of us, it was a year in which we learned, loved, and grew.

What did 2012 mean to you?

December is certainly a time to be retrospective. There's something about the ending of one year, a new one on the horizon, that triggers the need in me to look back and see how things have changed. Or stayed the same.

2011 was a wicked hard year for us so I had high hopes for 2012. Those hopes flew out the window when five days into the new year I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis.

However, I'm not one to regret things. Had that not happened, I would not have found The Band. Had I not found this wonderfully safe place, I wouldn't have made some of the best friends I've ever known. Sometimes, there must be pain before there can be change for the better.

March marked a milestone: my boyfriend and I moved into our first official home together. It may be just an apartment and my neighbors may make me want to scream on more occasions than I'd like, but it's OURS. These walls have our photos, our memories. Whether it's dirty or clean, it's my kitchen. You might not think it's much, but it's my home.

We lost my aunt in the spring of this year, and I learned a bit more about my family. People I had always felt apart from took my boyfriend in and made him feel welcome, and me with him. An odd homecoming, I suppose, but it was a much needed change in family dynamics.

This summer I got to watch my boyfriend bond with my son. A fondue party while watching Young Frankenstein. Two of the most important guys in my life smiling and laughing over video games while I held their tickets - there's not much better than that.

I also got to meet a few Bandmates and got to see The Bloggess. Pasta, books, laughter, and lifelong friends.

I started blogging again this year, and found a new audience as I chronicle my life as a spoonie. I've met an amazing support group of fellow RA warriors via Twitter. Just like The Band says, we are none of us alone. Sometimes it's completely awesome how not alone I am. They may be hundreds or thousands of miles away, but there are people out there that understand my pain and can help me get through it.

Friends I thought would always be by my side fell away; new ones have taken their place. I'm far from lonely, but their departure hurts, as it should.

I've spent the fall of 2012 learning about myself. I'm trying to focus more on the postivity in life and all of my blessings in an effort to dispel the negativity that breeds depression. Some days are certainly easier than others, but it's a path I'm happy to walk.

As I suppose it was meant to be, 2012 has been a year of changes. Some good, some painful, most were confusing at first. I have hope that 2013 will also have some changes. And that I will have the strength to face them, the insight to learn from them, and the peace to make with them.

2012 - what a year.

For some of us, it was a year of dreams fulfilled, questions answered and our way, at long last, found.

For some of us, it was a year of loss, sadness and longing for what we once had.

For all of us, it was a year in which we learned, loved, and grew.

What did 2012 mean to you?

2012 has been good to me. I really cannot complain. I have everything I could possibly need and want - except for that winning lottery ticket.

My year has been filled with love, happiness, and good fortune.

But I'm not here to gloat. I am showing gratitude for the goodness of this year, at least to me.

2012 has been an asshat to many of the people I love. This year has spewed ugliness, unhappiness, loss, pain, and much more on so many of my lovelies.

I wish I could help. I wish I could take away the pain and sadness. 

But each of them has displayed so much bravery and resilience. They have not broken. Their strength, whether they know it or not, is inspiring.

If I have learned anything from this year, it is that through love, community, and compassion, anything is possible.

2012 - what a year.

For some of us, it was a year of dreams fulfilled, questions answered and our way, at long last, found.

For some of us, it was a year of loss, sadness and longing for what we once had.

For all of us, it was a year in which we learned, loved, and grew.

What did 2012 mean to you?

Last year for Christmas, as I'm wont to do, I bought myself an ornament once everything was marked 80 bazillion percent off because deals make me happy in the pants. I normally try to get something that represents the year before or something that's shiny because I'm actually a magpie dressed in Aunt Becky's clothes.

I perused the aisles of leftover Christmas stuff, trying my hardest not to ram my cart into those who hit the back of my ankles repeatedly with their OWN carts in an attempt to scare me away from my sales. Good thing they have no idea who they're messing with because I'm on sales like white on rice!

Eventually, among the aisles strewn about with Christmas stuffs in no particular order, I found the perfect ornament - something I could hold onto when I needed the reminder and something that represented how I felt about the upcoming year.

For 2012, I bought a simple ornament. It has one word on it: hope.

This year, I hope.

And I do.

That doesn't mean that this was a particularly great year for me. I had to move from my house into a tiny apartment, no real idea of how I'd be paying my bills, spending only certain days with my children, as my husband and I separated.

We'd agreed that after a year of separation, marriage counseling, and this that and the other, it was time to call the whole thing off.

I can type those words now without bursting into sobs, or even tears, but that doesn't mean that I'm "okay" or even "partially okay." I'm learning to be okay with NOT being okay.

Divorce, like any other major life event - death, marriage, a move, job loss, or new baby - brings with it a number of secondary losses. Divorce means the loss of friends, stability, a partner - someone to pick up soup for you when you're on the sofa with the flu or listen as you detail the amount of cat videos you watched or how much you love the smell of bleach.

I lost all of those when I announced my divorce. When a divorce occurs, there's no one person to blame for it, but most people who haven't been down that road don't see it. In my case, I'd kept a lot of my marital struggles to myself, not telling my blog about it, which meant that the announcement came as a shock to many. Almost at once, many people chose sides, and when they did, the trash-talk began.

It was impossible not to be hurt by such a thing, especially since defending myself meant discussing things I had no intention of telling the Internets about. I'm both a public and a private person, which means that there are a number of things I refuse to dignify with a response or an explanation - I don't have to explain myself to others, even if they're stalking me.

The past few months, I've probably shed more tears than I have in a lifetime. I've gone to bed with a wet pillow, silently screaming, barely able to function during the day. I've been sleepwalking, a shell of who I'd once been, the sadness suffocating me.

The days are still hard, filled with peaks and valleys, sometimes leaving me breathlessly happy; others, breathtakingly sad, but I'm starting to see that there will be a future. And it will, one day, be beautiful.

Hope.

This year, even despite all of the changes, I hope.

I still do.

Recovery.

Such a simple word with such a variety of implications, not a one of them simple.

This month, the Band is focusing upon recovery - from anything. Part of getting through the traumas, the addictions, the mental illnesses is to focus on the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel and focus upon new coping mechanisms, new ways of life, and recovery.

So, The Band, how are YOU recovering? What are you recovering from? How are some ways you cope while recovering?

Recovery means different things to different people. 

Most people, including myself, associate "recovery" with a substance abuse problem or alcoholism. 

However, there are other kinds of recovery.

I’m still in the process of recovering from the emotional turmoil of my father’s death twelve years ago. You see, I was a typical Daddy’s Little Girl. I had, what appeared to outsiders, a very Norman Rockwell childhood. My mom and dad were married for thirty years - until my dad’s death. Most - but not all - of those years were good ones. I was once so angry at my mother for NOT leaving my father after I learned of some things he'd done. In the end, their relationship was theirs to figure out, and they did what they felt was right.

You see, my father died of AIDS. 

Those are words I never thought I’d share with the world.

My father’s side of the family still doesn’t know that he died of HIV/AIDS.  My dad was one of five kids and throughout grandparent’s lives, my father was the only one who never got into trouble and disappointed them. My mother didn’t have the heart to tell them what really caused my father’s death, and I don’t blame her for that.

However, I've had to deal with that reality from Day One.

My father shattered the image I had of him, but he was human and made a mistake. He made some monumentally stupid decisions and ended up paying the ultimate price. I have no doubt that he loved my mother and I. 

Sex addiction is a terrible thing - it can be every bit as damaging as drug or alcohol addiction. It was for my father.

I have no idea how many women he was with. 

All I know is that (at least) one of those women transmitted HIV to my father. I will never know how many other lives were affected by his actions and the chain of events that followed. 

What I do know is that by some miracle, my mother was not infected. What I also know is that I was lucky enough to spend his last two weeks with him. I was lucky enough to tell him that I loved him no matter what. I was lucky enough to be able to say good-bye.

While I am eternally grateful for those last two weeks with him, they don’t erase the reality of his cause of death. He was only fifty-two years old - he still had so much life to live. He never got to meet his grandson. There have been so many times I’ve wanted to pick up the phone to tell him some news or ask for advice.

His actions robbed me of so many years with him - part of me is still angry about that. His death was so preventable. It’s been twelve years, but the pain is still there. I still live every day trying to accept and forgive. 

Trying to recover.

Prenatal and postnatal complications are not as rare as we'd like to believe, even in the United States. This month, Band Back Together is bringing this to light in our spotlight series.

We invite you to share your stories of any type of complication before or after the birth of your child. Whether it's preeclampsia, a cord trauma or an infection like Group B Strep, we want your stories.

Have you experienced complications during pregnancy or immediately after?

My story isn't so bad, really, because now I'm healthy and have a very healthy baby. Compared to everyone else's submissions, my story is probably tame.

But, it's my story, so I'm going to share it.

Having a baby is the coolest thing my body has done. I was amazed at my pain threshold and resilience. I was in so much pain afterward, but it really didn't matter.

I have my baby and, wow, she is beautiful! Daphne's pediatrician was worried about jaundice, so we took her home along with a little BiliBed. My husband, Jon, and I were vigilant about putting her in it while she was sleeping because we were so freaked out.

She slept very peacefully in the bed, probably because it was so warm, but I couldn't help but feel like I was preparing her for "Toddlers and Tiaras" in her mini-tanning bed.

It was pure torture when the first nurse came to our home to check her serum bilirubin levels and cut her little heel open and let it drain into a tube. The second nurse let me breastfeed her throughout, and it was completely peaceful. She didn't cry once.

The jaundice fear was over and the bilibed gone, and I was finally getting some more sleep. The worst was over, right? Wrong. When Daphne was one week old, I realized that my C-section incision was hot and swollen. I wanted to ignore it, but Jon convinced me that if it got really worse, it would be harder to care for Daphne.

He had already learned that the baby was perfect leverage. I called the OB, who told me to come in immediately - I had so much anxiety. If you've ever had to travel with a newborn who is breastfeeding, you may understand why. What once was a thirty-minute drive became an hour drive with two feeding stops to get her to stop screaming.

I went into an exam room expecting to hear that I might need an antibiotic; maybe I had a little infection. Dr. S, who wasn't my delivering OB and was new to the practice, came in. This made me more worried - the only experience I'd had with him was when he'd checked to see if I was dilated two weeks prior, and, in the process, put his entire arm inside me.

Up on the table I went, lifted up my shirt, pulled down my pants.

Dr. S said, "Yeah, I'm going to have to cut you open. Right now."

I looked at Jon, then at Dr. S.

I said, "Shut. Up. You are not serious."

I really thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

Before I could ask again, he told the nurse to get - I remember very clearly - "a blade." My loving husband said, "I'm going to take Daphne out in the waiting room. This might freak her out." That made perfect sense as I was in complete shock.

I had an infection, apparently one introduced in the operating room and Dr. S needed to drain it.

Jon needed to come back to learn how to pack the gaping hole in my stomach with gauze as he was going to have to perform this procedure twice a day until I healed. I figured that was just desserts - as he'd slept through my labor and left the room while the doctor went all Freddy Krueger on my incision.

It took two weeks for my c-section infection to heal.

Two weeks of social isolation, breastfeeding, not sleeping, and feeling uncomfortable.

I'm healthy now and, the best part?

I have a cool scar story.