Bearing Burdens

I caught a bit of Emma's online literature class discussion yesterday. Her teacher, Mr. Cothran, was talking about bearing one another's burdens and how, often, we can bear easily for someone else what we can not bear ourselves. I think it is true.

In a slightly different way, my sister Beverly is doing this. Before her son passed away, she had asked to be transferred to the psychiatric ward at the hospital where she is an LPN. They deal with addictions there as well as other mental illnesses. She thought it would be good experience in helping her deal with Corey's alcoholism. As it turned out, Corey died just before she was to start the new job.

After that, she didn't think that she could do it--work with people who were suffering like Corey did. But she tried it and has stayed. In the first week she was able to cheer and comfort a de-toxing alcoholic executive. Since then she has brought Corey's clothes and given them to a young man who had none. He was actually having to wear paper scrubs. Then she had to see him wearing Corey's clothes, which I can only imagine took her breath away. However, in helping to bear their burdens, she is finding hers more "bearable". Here is what she said in a Jan. 3rd blog post:

I've also been blessed to find myself working on a psychiatric unit, caring for patients who often have no family, no opportunities, no hope. Being immersed in their lives and finding connections between theirs and my own has been, well, painfully liberating? Is that possible? I am finding more and more "constants", truths at work, as I watch over them.

Remembering the Dead: All Souls Day

From Godey's Lady's Book, January 1858

O Leave Her to Her Grief!

by Charles Mackay


O leave her to her grief,
Nor urge her to forget:
All art is vain to soothe her pain;
She mourns her loved one yet.

The storm will run its course;
And not till clouds have burst
Shall light appear, serene and clear,
And glorious as at first.

O leave her till she weep;
And when the tear-drops flow,
Let Pity's word, soft-stealing, heard,
Be music to her woe.

And water'd by those tears,
A little flower shall bloom;
A blossom fair for love to wear,
A hope beyond the tomb.

Happy Birthday, Corey!

In honor of my nephew Corey's birthday today, I am reprinting an entry from my 1986 journal.

Bev's Baby

Three years ago my oldest sister, Beverly, was pregnant with the first grandchild in our family. Bev and I were constant companions during the whole pregnancy. I read all the books and articles about babies that she did. I was an expert on the theory of breast feeding. I helped her shop for maternity clothes and baby equipment. And against the advice of everything we read, I helped her satisfy her cravings for chocolate eclairs from Cakemasters, our favorite German bakery.

Bev and her husband, Stephen, had decided to use a midwife and deliver the baby at home. It all sounded exciting to me. Melissa was the perfect image of a midwife. Big and strong with long, straight brown hair, she completed her earth mother image with a Volkswagen bus covered with flowers and a bumper sticker that said:

MIDWIVES MAKE SPECIAL DELIVERIES

We were into the ninth month, and I thought things were going splendidly. For one reason or another I didn't see Bev one weekend. I decided on Monday morning to stop by and take her to lunch. I breezed into her driveway with the sunroof open and the radio on, jumped out, opened the front door, and called Bev's name.

No one answered. I'm not shy, so I marched into the living room and called again. All of a sudden Stephen appeared. I wanted to ask him why he wasn't at work, but instead I asked and asked, "Where's Bev?"

He looked at me, grinned, and confided, "She's in transition."

I was about to demand to know where in the world that was when I remembered my nine-month study of gestation and labor. He was talking about THE transition into hard labor.

"Melissa says the baby will be here in about four hours." he told me. "We'll give you a call."

I backed out of the door, and the next thing I knew I was driving down the road crying my eyes out. I couldn't believe Bev was actually in her bedroom birthing a baby. All this time I had been helping her get prepared for its arrival, and now I knew that somehow I had separated the idea of her pregnancy from the reality of a baby.

I would have let her go on being pregnant forever.

I drove over to seek comfort from my husband at work. I knew I could count on his sympathy for the bewilderment I felt. After I broke the news to him, I waited in vain for an understanding hug. Was he sympathetic to my disillusionment? Not one bit.

He was as excited as if he were having the baby himself!

Four hours dragged by. Right on time, Stephen called to announce the birth of Stephen Corey and to invite us to come look him over. I took my camera and like some kind of TV detective, I searched for clues to prove that a birth had really been committed. In the bedroom I saw a baby wrapped up in a blanket. But that could have been anybody's baby. He wasn't really proof. I looked at Bev. She still had on maternity clothes and was demanding pan pizza from Pizza Hut. Everybody knows you eat Jell-O or some kind of bland hospital food if you've just delivered. This had to be some kind of sham.

Then someone handed the alleged Stephen Corey to me. I looked down at his face. Smack dab in the middle of it was Bev's nose. I had all the proof I needed.

It was Bev's baby.

A postscript: Now I know that it was Bev's nose, but it was Stephen's mouth. See the family picture below.

Going Under

I've been having a really bad day, grieving for John and Corey. Corey's birthday is Saturday, and John's is Sunday. I started off crying over my coffee and have gone downhill since.

I'm usually a procrastinator, but when it comes to being sad, I work in advance.

Two things have helped:

First, B. shared this picture postcard of the 2009 Iowa State Fair Butter Cow with me:
It's 600 pounds of butter sculpted into a Jersey wire form. I find it extremely comforting.

Second, I called S. She has always given me sound, practical advice. When it comes to grieving counsel, she is the reigning queen. Today's helpful morsel is, "Carbs and cuss words release seratonin." Girding up my loins with this and her first rule of grieving, "Life sucks, and s_ _t happens," I feel I can get through the rest of the day.

No, I don't really believe that life sucks. Somehow, though, saying it dulls the pain a little.

P.S.
Just in case you're thinking that you have messed up your life and your family would be better off without you, you're wrong. Your family loves you NO MATTER WHAT and would like the opportunity to talk it over with you.

Put Down Roots Near Your Family Tree

Tucker gathering eggs from flighty hens.

Tucker, my 12-year-old "city" nephew, left Friday morning, ending a two-week visit. While he was here he embraced country life eagerly and completely, out at the dawn's early light to do chicken chores and guzzling raw milk like he was raised up on it. We had to send him home with an ice chest "care package" of eggs, milk, and homemade bread to ease his transition back to city living.

We all really savored his visit: Herb gave him pep talks on setting goals to complete a difficult book. I snuggled him every morning and smooched his punkin' head. Nathaniel took him to the movies and out for ice cream. Emma played Uno and Dominoes with him.

We didn't talk about it, but we knew that it could very well be the last visit. After all, we've become painfully aware of how precious the time we have with family members is. I believe that is one of the reasons Nathaniel and Emma decided to make a trip to Florida this week to visit their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who live there.

They're fighting back.

They lost Uncle John last November and cousin Corey just a few weeks ago. They experienced the extra hurt of feeling that they had not spent enough time with either one of them, though it was not their fault.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I first married, I used to sketch out plans for a family compound with individual homes clustered around a big house with a commercial kitchen and a vast dining room. I dreamt of us all gardening, canning, laughing, shooting skeet, and watching our children run and play together. I even drew in a tower with an observatory for stargazing. Big plans, but that is all they were. We moved far away, following jobs instead.

I don't suppose that we could have changed the outcomes by being there for John and Corey, but I do sincerely believe that being there is still better. At least it's a "1". Living away is worse than zero. It's a negative number.

Nathaniel and Tucker at Corey's funeral.

Making bread with Emma.

Healing the Hurt When Addicts Withdraw

My friend Cay beautifully shares the story of her nephew Aaron's addiction.

I was especially thankful that she included how her children felt about Aaron's withdrawal from the family. My children and my other nieces and nephews felt that with Corey, too, taking it personally. Hopefully, Cay's post and mine will help other families realize that it is just symptomatic of the disease, nothing else.

I am kicking myself for not seeking Corey out and overwhelming him with assurances of our love. Instead, I let him dictate the relationship, thinking we had time. Though Beverly and I are very close, she was reticent about Corey's illness. She and Stephen essentially carried this heavy burden alone for years. The distance between our homes--from Houston to Birmingham, also worked against us.

Corey's sister Caitlin, my daughter Emma, and my niece Kaley spent a good deal of time studying the family photos at Corey's funeral. It was a start on putting it all in perspective, trying to mend the hole that Corey's suffering and death left in the fabric of our family--not closing Corey out, just stitching around the raw edges.

That, I am happy to report, seems to be how the family is handling this tragedy. We are pulling together, seeking each other out across the miles and trying our best to move forward. I think we have all grown in charity, with a new awareness and sensitivity to the trials of others.

Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make my heart like unto thine.

There but for the Grace of God, Go I: What the B'ham News Didn't Say

I have read the Birmingham News report of my nephew Corey Wittkop's death, including the negative comments that follow it. Although it was very painful to read, I respect the writers' feelings. I ask that they respect mine by not commenting here. I especially want to extend my sincere gratitude to the anonymous person whose office looks out onto the parking lot where Corey died. This person took the time to write a very moving condolence card to Corey's parents that brought them great comfort. May God bless this kind soul.

I felt strongly as I was trying to absorb the news of Corey's death last week, that my sister Beverly, Corey's mother, would make something positive happen because of it. Though in the depths of mourning, she asked me to share this information on addiction on my blog. She said, "This knowledge resonated with me when I first heard it. Being a nurse, knowing a little neuro-anatomy, I finally understood what was happening to my son."

Corey was tortured by alcohol addiction and depression, both of which run in my family. One of my paternal great-grandfathers was an alcoholic. I believe one or two of his sons were alcoholics. My mother was adopted, but her biological father was an alcoholic.

I spent about an hour reading the articles and watching the videos. The video interview with Nora D. Volkow, M.D., Director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) at the National Institutes of Health, was especially informative. NIDA supports most of the world's research on the health aspects of drug abuse and addiction. Dr. Volkow says that addiction, whether alcohol or other drugs, causes dramatic changes in the brain. Coupled with depression, addiction is a voracious monster.

In the article, "Addiction and the Brain's Pleasure Pathway: Beyond Willpower", Dr. Volkow says, "A person takes a drug of abuse, be it marijuana or cocaine or even alcohol, activating the same brain circuits as do behaviors linked to survival, (emphasis mine) such as eating, bonding and sex. The drug causes a surge in levels of a brain chemical called dopamine, which results in feelings of pleasure. The brain remembers this pleasure and wants it repeated."

"Eventually," Dr. Volkow says, "the drive to seek and use the drug is all that matters, despite devastating consequences."

You will find much, much more information by following the link I provided above. However, I know that many people will not have time to read further, and so I wanted to provide an idea of what kind of problem alcoholism is. It is not about willpower. It is a disease of the brain.

Learning this was very helpful in understanding how a good boy like Corey, from a loving, supportive family, could do things that were totally incompatible with his personality and upbringing, and this despite years of seeking help from a wide variety of places, from Alcoholics Anonymous to extended residential treatment. He desperately wanted to change his life and had been studying the Bible. He longed to "win back his girl", marry, and raise a family. He sought and accepted the guidance of his parents, even on the day he died in a grocery store robbery which ended with him taking his own life. He was weary and ashamed of his inability to kill the tiger that daily tormented him.

I ask for your prayers for Corey, his robbery victims, his parents and sister, and all those who loved him and are trying to understand how this could happen. I have come to the realization that it could just have easily been one of my children. Both are at high risk for alcoholism from both sides of their family. I also ask that you join me in talking openly about alcohol addiction. We need to get over the stigma, which is a substantial barrier to getting treatment for this devastating disease. This stigma can cause the addict and his family to feel extremely isolated, just when they most need support.

No one in my family approves of or offers excuses for Corey's criminal activity. We are so grateful that, as far as we know, he did not injure anyone. On behalf of the family, I offer our sincere apologies for any crime he committed. I can not imagine the terror he must have caused by robbing at gunpoint. It is just one more aspect of this tragedy that we are trying to deal with. At the same time, I have compassion for Corey, and I forgive him.

Despite the way he died, there was much good--so much to be thankful for--in Corey's life. There are many happy memories that I cherish.

Here I am with newborn Corey. Loving and being loved by him changed me forever in wonderful ways.
This was about the age that I remember Corey eagerly singing "Daddy's Homecoming": I'm so glad when Daddy comes home, glad as I can be. I clap my hands, shout for joy, and climb upon his knee. One of my favorite pictures from Corey's happy boyhood, taken by his doting Uncle Bill.
Here he is with his baby sister Caitlin. She's grown up now, and he was always so proud of her.
Corey swinging my daughter Emma during a visit to my parent's river camp.
Corey cut my son Nathaniel's hair and also cousin Tucker's hair one year when we all visited my sister Lisa. He wasn't a barber; he just enjoyed it. He regularly cut his dad's hair, and it was done so carefully, so tenderly, that it was one of the things that Stephen talked about at Corey's funeral.
Beverly and Corey on her back deck. Corey was famous among friends and family for his fabulous hugs.
Corey and his dad, Stephen, on the front walk at home last Thanksgiving.

This was taken at Corey's aunt's house in Huntsville at a family get-together last January or December. He had a hard time going to such things, as he did not feel worthy of love. After his death, Beverly found that he had written inside one of his ball caps, "Just for today". It is a phrase that he learned from Alcoholics Anonymous.

Eternal rest grant him, O Lord
And may perpetual light shine upon him.
May the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

I love you, Corey. Always.

There Is A Balm In Gilead

In memory of my first sweet baby boy, my nephew Corey Wittkop. August 29, 1993-July 14, 2009.

My heart grew three sizes the day he was born.