Shattered Dreams

Yesterday evening before I came home from work, I felt so compelled to go to the cemetery. I felt like I was being called there. Called to visit, and called to find closure. Called to a place that I had only been to once before. A place where I have never taken flowers, and to a place that I was unsure of where I was going, or could even find again.

The cemetery was beautiful. I parked my car outside a small chapel that was surrounded by fountains, tucked deep in the middle of the cemetery. Flowers and shrubs and small brick paths wound around all sides and ended with concrete benches that had scripture engraved upon them. I had only been inside the chapel once before, five years ago.

I don't remember if I ever told anyone about this little chapel that only held twelve short cushioned pews and a tiny little white coffin, so small that I could have carried it myself. On top, a single white rose with nine delicate white ribbons decorated the little box. This tiny little coffin held my unborn baby, and eight others.

There were four other couples in the chapel with us, and four other Mothers and Fathers that didn't come. This doesn't make them bad, it only made them not present. For I am sure they had shattered dreams too.

One particular young woman I noticed was so visibly upset that she could hardly sit there. She was sobbing out loud and her husband comforted her. Tears streamed down his face as he held onto her. After the prayer service, and after they announced each couples name that had lost their baby, we moved on to the cemetery. We walked, each holding the tiny white ribbon that was all that was left of our dreams. Surrounding us were other little graves .... all from The Women's Hospital, all little graves from other lost dreams. This hospital has a wonderful bereavement program, and they opt to have these services, and to have a burial if the parents so choose. The nurse in charge of this service, Darlene Inman RN helped me to feel like the child I lost had a home. He was somewhere that I knew would always be there. Somewhere that I could find peace in knowing that he had existed.

I spoke with the woman that was so visibly devastated with her loss. Her name was Tracy. She lived close to me, and she had miscarried twice before. We exchanged phone numbers and stayed in contact for a couple of years ... then lost touch. I heard through the grapevine that Tracy went on to have a son.

My husband and I were so devastated by our miscarriage, and we had kept our heartbreak to ourselves. We didn't share our plan with our families to go to the memorial service for the unborn babies that were lost, and buried together in a tiny white coffin. It was awkward for them, and as time went on, for them it was over. They didn't share our grief, or even begin to comprehend our loss.

Like a small piece of a precious treasure that was snatched from us, before we were able to reach out and grasp it, we lost it. I miscarried at nine weeks. A week after we saw that tiny heart beat. A week after we had chose a name. A week after we had a made a world full of plans, for this tiny little being, that wasn't meant to be. The dream of having this child was gone. We had planned his life. We had talked about how our lives would change, and how this child would grow up on this farm and would be so special. Von had waited all his life to become a Father, and his dream of having his son with him vanished as quickly as it came, very unexpectedly.

So the drive to have a child bloomed and grew. We suffered two more devastating miscarriages over the next year. Then we successfully had our triplets: Sam, Jay and Meg. I was told once by a nurse I worked with, when we found out that we were having triplets, that God was giving back what was taken from us.

I still remember my due dates and still remember the dates I miscarried. I never thought this would happen to me. A woman that had successfully carried and delivered four healthy children almost twenty years before. A woman that was stunned to complete heartbreak.

I had been told to not have hope. To guard my heart. To not buy things for this baby. I was not at a safe point yet. But the maternal drive is strong ... stronger than anything I've ever experienced, from the very first moment that I knew this little being existed inside of me. And I had lost him, or her. It hurt.

Today I found that little grave. There were fresh flowers there. Someone else had come to visit. Someone else with a shattered dream. Someone else was called there, and someone else was remembering. I wondered if it was the young woman named Tracy that obliviously was very heartbroken by the loss of her unborn child, or was it one of the others. I also found the graves of the other two babies that we lost. Just larger than a brick, a flat little bronze stone marked where they each lay. There was only a date and a tiny pair of wings engraved on each stone. No names, but lots of shattered dreams lay there, just outside of baby land, under a little tree, not far from that peaceful little chapel that I sat in five years ago.

Tomorrow I will return with flowers ... and I will never forget them. I will pray for them and let them know that they have brothers and sisters, and my heart still yearns for them.

Be Blessed,
Tan

The Ending: My Story of Domestic Violence

"Some women are not as lucky as I am. Some never walked away. Some died, and there are thousands that wish they would. ... and if anyone reads this that is walking in the shoes that I walked in. Leave. Leave now. Your life depends on it."


The Ending:

For some of us, writing the raw and unguarded secrets of the heart is painful. It brings back many memories and feelings. Some good, and some unpleasant. Some that make you shudder, and some that make you cry. For me, I'm finding that as I've thought deeply this past week about my walk with domestic violence, it has been therapeutic, and both cleansing and healing. It has helped me to write these words and look deeper into my future, and it has shown me that my path is golden, and my future is good. I know that I will never have a hand raised towards me again, and I know that all men are not abusive.

I walked away from that marriage seven years ago. Yet today he haunts me. He continues to be in my present. He harasses me, he threatens me, and I believe that will never change. I believe that he, and others like him, will never change. I don't think he is capable of change. His violence is his sickness and his power, and his attempt to control.

He still yet attempts to control our kids, with threats and anger. He still yet feels that I deserve what he did to me . I believe that his rage lies dormant and I believe that it will rise again, and he will rear his ugly head like that of a snake ready to strike. His venom is poisonous ... his words are deadly. But yet, I am no longer afraid of him. I now pity him.

I used to pray that he would die a lonely man. Totally alone. That was to be my revenge. The satisfaction of him knowing that he will never have me, and that I left him for ~ ME ~. I have prayed that he would feel hands around his throat squeezing, until he sinks to the ground unable to breath. I have prayed that he would feel the cold steel of a gun to his head, and hear the click of the trigger, not knowing if he would live or die, then hear the sick laughter when there was no explosion. I have prayed that he would feel someone kicking his stomach until he's vomits. I have prayed that he would hear the crack of his skull as it hit concrete. I have prayed that he would be unable to see because his eyes were swollen shut, and that he would choke on the taste of his own blood. Many times in the past, I prayed that he would physically feel the things he did to me, and suffer for it. Mainly, I prayed that his tongue would be ripped from his head and I would never have to hear his voice again.

I no longer pray for these things to happen to him .... I have found my peace, my place in life, and I thank God that the nightmares are no longer vivid, and no longer visit me frequently, and when they come, I have safe arms to remind me that I am no longer there.

As I write these words ... I feel like I to was tormented for wishing these things upon him. Forgiveness is hard. I haven't found that I can do that yet. I know that I will never forget.

Because we have children together, there are times that I have to be in the same room with him. I feel the chills running up my spine long before I see his face. Even though I hide it well, I feel the nausea in the pit of my stomach and I hear his cold promise to me the day I left him "I will make you pay until the day you die." .... and he does.

I read this on another blog, and it made me think, "And so I began to think of the power of women's stories, and what they mean in our lives. Women's stories can be, are meant to be, a source of strength, a lesson learned, a poignant memory that unlocks one in our own heart. Something to take forward with us on our own journey - the idea that you are not alone."

Domestic violence is not only in the homes of the poor, or the uneducated. The violence we endured as educated upper middle class people, is everywhere. It is everywhere. There is no neighborhood that is exempt. From the very rich to the very poor. It is hidden behind four walls, tucked away like a great secret, until some woman, some day tells her story.

Everyone has a story to tell. It's been said, "there is nothing more painful than having an untold story inside you."

If you've read these words, please leave a comment. If only your name, I'd like to know. Mainly, if you know someone that is in danger from domestic violence, reach out to them. It could make a difference in their life. It could make a difference if they live. Many women are killed by men everyday in their own home. Statistics say that most of these women live with these men, and have been abused prior to that relationship. Speak up. Save another woman from domestic abuse. ... and for some women reading this, it could be your own life that you're saving.

Be Blessed,
Tan

Soon I will write about ~ Starting Over ~ and how I met my Marlboro Man and came to have his triplets.

PART TWO: MY STORY OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

"So the cycle goes .... like an old wringer washer that turns and turns and turns, and never stops until you pull the plug, and drain the dirty water from the tub. It spreads out onto the ground and soaks into the dirt, then disappears. Once dry, it's gone, until the next wash day." - Tanya S.

Part Two:

The Pain. The pain was not only physical, it also was anguishing mental pain for my unborn child. Cold fear ripped through me like a hot searing knife cutting deep into my heart. For at that moment, I knew that I might lose her. Her life might end before it began. The pain of losing a child has to be worse than any physical pain. I healed and Juli was born on June 15, 1982, a perfect healthy baby. I went on to have Joey the following year, and Jared the year after that.

Throughout the years of my children's childhood, I endured many many more beatings and many more fears. The abuse escalated as he became more and more depressed and angry. I became reclusive and left my home only when I had to. I was ashamed of the bruises and the black eyes. For when people looked at me ... I knew they knew. My children witnessed almost every episode of abuse. As they grew, they would cry and try to stop him from the beatings that he was certain to give. They would jump on his back and hit him. Our dog would bite him, yet he never felt their blows nor did he hear their cries. He was oblivious to his children and what he was doing to me. Not once throughout the years did I ever fight back. It would have only made it worse, and I couldn't imagine it being worse.

I remember the dining room the most vividly. For some reason, I was always in the dining room, in a corner, against the closet door. I can remember hearing my head crack against the wood at the same instant that I felt his fist smash into my face, and I can remember the taste of blood as I would slowly fall and swirl into unconsciousness. I remember counting the blows as a way to endure until it ended. ... and it always ended. It ended with pity, sorrow, tears and promises that it would never happen again. I remember that he would pick me up, lay me on the couch and my kids would bring me wet wash clothes and sit with me, and they would shake and they would cry. Only twice did he take me to the hospital, knowing that he did this me, and would have to pay in the eyes of the law. Yet I stayed, and I never left him. I endured many more meaningless beatings and many more years of his torture.

The cries of my children still haunt me. When I remember back, the vision of them I see, tears at me, and I hate myself for staying and I hate myself for letting them witness the violence that could have destroyed them. And at times, I pity them, for they remember too.

At the time, I didn't know which was worse. The fear that it would surely come, or the actual pain of his hand that would hit me with enough force to knock me to the floor, or over furniture ... or out the door. His rage would come in waves and in cycles. For reasons that no normal person would even get upset over. But I always knew when it was coming.

He would stand in the doorway and watch me as I cooked dinner for our family. When the clock struck five o'clock, and if dinner was not ready ... he would say, "I told you that we eat at five o'clock. Look at me!" ... and I knew. I knew what was to follow. I can remember him throwing the pans of food out the door. I can remember the dishes being broken, I can remember seeing the fear in my children's eyes. I remember that I tried so hard to have dinner ready on time ... but for some reason, whatever I did, was never was good enough. I never kept the house clean enough. I never did the laundry good enough. I never did enough. I didn't have sex enough ...and I never did it right. It was never enough. Just like the beatings, to him, I never got enough.

My husband entered into counseling after being court ordered. I too would go occasionally when the Psychologist would summon me. I was told that "he is a sick man that is waiting to explode like a loaded gun, and he is capable of the unthinkable." I took that to mean that he could kill me and our children in his rage. I took his threats very serious, "if you leave me, I'll kill you." I stayed. I still believe with all that I have within my soul, that if I'd left him then, I would not be here today. I could have been the poster child for domestic violence, and I endured it like a disability that would be forever.

Sadly, I can not say that my children never suffered at his hand. They did. And they remember, but they forgave me for my fear of him.

After many many years of counseling, the abuse never ended. It did stop though. My children grew up and they physically stopped their Father. There came a time in our life that he knew that they no longer would tolerate the dirty little secret that we lived. It was over. My boys had reached their limit. It was over. For all of us. This was at about the same time I knew that I had to leave. ... and I did. After his fifth extra-marital affair, I left. It's funny .... I never left because of the abuse, I left because of his affairs.

I left him in the very same place it started. I walked away. It took more strength to leave than it did to stay... I am free from domestic violence. I have a good life. I have remarried and know that never would my husband raise his hand to me. I am healthy and have a healthy love. Only the memories remain, and they visit me less and less with each passing day. I could write forever of each incident, but as I think back now, they were all the same.

Some women are not as lucky as I am. Some never walked away. Some died, and there are thousands that wish they would. ... and if anyone reads this that is walking in the shoes that I walked in. Leave. Leave now. Your life depends on it.

You can't go back and make up for the past you've missed, but you can go forward and live. You can just live, or you can live. I choose to live. I am one of the lucky ones.

~ lay your hands on those you love with kindness ~

Tanya

To read the conclusion, click here

PART 1: My Story of Domestic Violence

Less and less do I think back to the days when my life was not so good. It's funny how when you find peace, love and happiness, painful memories slowly fade away, like the colors in an old quilt that's been left hanging in the sun. This is a good thing, and a God thing. It's his way of healing. Healing fear,torture and terrorism. Erasing the scars of Domestic Violence. I have color in my life again, and I am healed.

This is painful to write, but I'm writing this because statistics say that most women that are physically abused usually never tell. Some never live to tell, and most never leave. I don't want to be one of those statistics. If one woman reads my story and it saves her from the throes of hell that I lived in, it will have been worth it to have told the world.

To those that read this blog that know me well ..... you know. To those that read this blog that know me well, but don't know the entirety of my past, have no pity ... for I am healed, and I am happy, and I have been blessed.

In the fall of 1979, I met the man that I married and was married to for twenty three years. The man that I bore four children with, and lived with, until the day I turned my back and walked away. I took a deep breath, turned away and walked through the door. I knew that I free. If I lived. If I lived through the rage that was surely to follow. Occasionally the words I said continue to haunt me. I still can hear them ringing through my head, like the echo of an old church bell. "kill me now if you want to, but you'll only kill me once."

Within two months of being married to him, I knew that something was wrong. That he had a temper. That he was deeply bothered. That he was severely depressed. Yet I was co-dependent and I blamed myself and I tried to do better. I tried to help him. I vowed to stay and not leave him alone. I believed him that he was sorry. I believed him that he would never hit me again. I wanted more than anything in the world to believe him. So I stayed. I stayed home for almost two weeks while the bruises on my face healed and the black under both eyes faded. I listened to him tell me he was sorry, but I shouldn't have pushed him. He had warned me. I hadn't listened. I was young. I was 22 years old. I should have ran, but I didn't. ... and I was embarrassed.

"So the cycle goes .... like an old wringer washer that turns and turns and turns, and never stops until you pull the plug, and drain the dirty water from the tub. It spreads out onto the ground and soaks into the dirt, and disappears. Once dry, it's gone, until the next wash day." - Tanya S.

He didn't get along with his family. He felt like his Mother hated him. He hadn't seen his real Father in almost fifteen years. His last memory of his Father was of him shooting his dog in front of him when he was a little boy, because the dog killed a chicken. His Step-Father worked him like a animal on the farm. He says it had been this way since grade school, since he was a little boy. He said they made him plow the fields at night and go to school in the day. If his rows weren't straight or he got into the next field, he got beat with a stick. He was made to work in the garden during the times he wasn't in school or working in the fields. His lips would blister and bleed from the sun and heat. His sister verified this. I have now come to believe that he told the truth. I believe that his Mother did hate him because he was the reminder of his Father. I also believed that he had no one except me, and I stayed. His parents have both since died. His Father died without really ever getting to know him, and his Mother died without ever telling him that she loved him. He's estranged from a sister that suffered sexual abuse from their Father, but he came to form a relationship again with his other sister.

His Mother was adopted when she was nine years old. Her only memory of her biological Mother was walking down a highway carrying a suitcase and holding the hand of her little brother. She never saw her Mother again after that. She remembered being in a courtroom and playing with a typewriter. She said that she remembered being in a orphanage and sitting on the front step and seeing her younger brother taken away in a car. She never saw him again. .... and she remembers being adopted. By a cold woman that told her that, "We only got you to do the work. You will never replace Janice." Janice was their daughter that had died. She said her adopted Father was good to her .... and she took care of him until he died. But her heart never softened. She never loved her husband or her children. I don't think she was capable. She died of Liver Cancer thirty days after she was diagnosed in 1993 at the age of 64.

My first son was born in 1981. I can't remember many times during that period that he hit me. I had learned early on not to provoke. To be quiet when he was in a rage, and to always do better than what he expected of me. I got pregnant again a few months later with my daughter. During this time, money was tight and things were tense between us. Nothing I did could make him happy. A month before my daughter was born in the summer of 1982, I remember him being very upset one day. I remember saying the wrong thing to him, and an argument escalated into a fight. I remember him opening the front door and literally throwing me out into the yard. I remember the fear as I landed, the fear for my unborn baby, and I saw my 13 month old son standing in the doorway. I remember the kicks to my back and the kicks to my stomach, and I remember being curled into a ball to protect my baby. Mainly, I remember his cries of sorrow for what he had done to me, and I remember the pain. I'll never forget the pain.

Click here to read part two, and here to read the conclusion.

Some Thoughts about Age, Time and Life

Tonight I babysat for my daughter .... she brought her daughter and her boyfriend's two little girls out to the farm for the evening while they went out to dinner. Since we had plans to go down to my sister in law's and swim, we took the girls along.

Swimming in the dark (there was a pool light) with six little kids was rough. Four of them being two years old. I was starting to think that this isn't safe. It was very busy watching them all and we constantly had to hand off a kid to an adult. We had it covered though and they had so much fun. Total exhaustion when we got back home!

After Juli and Mark picked up Kelcie, Kami and Chelsea and our little trio was sound asleep, I just sat down. My head was spinning at how "busy" they were, and how much energy they had. Chelsea is eight and Kami is four and the other four kids were almost three. I had time to think about my future and what is in store for me.

I have the energy to keep up with my three little terrors for now. I've grown accustomed to their energy level. I've been with them from day one! They do what I want them to do .... well, most of the time anyway. Everything is at my pace.

But the day is coming that this will all change. As I age and slow down, they too will age and have the energy of a Duracell bunny. That would be three Duracell bunnies in this household. I wonder if I can keep up with them and do them justice.

I wonder how it will be for them to have a Mother that is the age of a Grandmother? I wonder if they will make cruel remarks like kids often do. I wonder how tough my skin will be. Will I have my feelings hurt and hide the tears? Or will I brush it off?

I literally have sat down in the past and calculated our age differences. I truly wrote it down once. I ran across that little piece of paper the other day. Tonight I seriously thought about it, and I was sad. I wondered if I did the right thing for them by bringing them into this world at my age, when I know they'll lose me long before they should. But I love them so much, and I tell myself that they have a great life and they are so blessed, and they are a special gift, and that God gave them to me because he wanted me to be their Mother. He gave me wonderful healthy triplets at almost 48 years old. That makes me special to him. He knows I can do it. I worry. I need to trust in him more. I need to worry less.

Here is that little piece of paper that I wrote and shed tears over:

Them and Me
Them: 0 Birth
Me: 47 Young at Heart

Them: 2 Toddlers
Me: 50 Keeping Up

Them: 8 Activities, School
Me:55 Living in a Car; Busy

Them: 13 Teenagers
Me: 60 Very Busy and Very Worried about how I can do this

Them: 16 Driving
Me: 63 Oh, So Worried

Them: 18 High School Graduation
Me: 65 Retiring

Them: 22 College Graduation
Me: 69 Health Problems ?

Them: 30 Married, Children, Career
Me: 77 Slowing Down

Them: 35 Prime of Life
Me: 82 Needing their Help, Nursing Home?

Them: 40 Bitter? Resentful? Lonely? Too busy for a ailing parent?
Me: 87 Flowers on my Grave? If I'm lucky to live this long

Them: 45 Becoming a Grandparent
Me: 92 I'll See them from Heaven

Them: 50 Living the Good Life

Them: 60 Looking towards Retirement

Them: 70 Retirement

Them: 80 Nursing Home?

Them: 90 The Circle of Life Begins Again .... the Revolution of Life

What bothers me the very most, is that I won't see these kids at 50. The age that I am now. I feel so young, and so healthy, and so full of life .... and way too young to lose my Mother. As the years creep up on me ... I think about the future more. I try hard not to compare them to my older kids ... who will have me (hopefully) well into their later years. I think about my Grand kids. They will remember me and will remember having a Grandmother. They will have memories.

The Grandparents that would have lived right down the road from these kiddo's are already gone. They missed them by just a couple of years. They missed two of the most wonderful people that God gave life to. I hope these little treasures that I'm raising will miss me when I'm gone and will look back on their life and say, "Our parents had us when they were older, but what a life they gave us. They gave us life. We are Lucky."

.... and I'll be smiling from Heaven, waiting until I see them again.

Be Blessed,
Tan

I Love My Spanx!

I absolutely love my new Spanx! For those of you who don't know what a Spanx is ... I'm not telling! You'll have to Google it or check out their link. http://www.spanx.com/ It was worth every penny! But I can tell you that it is almost impossible to get it on by yourself! I bought "The Higher Power" Spanx! ... and I bought it a size smaller than what I thought I needed. That was definitely the sales woman's idea. She told me that it would suck me up 4 sizes and smooth out all my lumps. She told me that all the MOG's (Mother of the Groom) and MOB's (Mother of the Bride) buy them! She failed to tell me that it takes an act of God and Congress to get the thing on and pulled up.

I started out in the bathroom, but our bathroom isn't big enough for me to lay on the floor and roll around as I tried to pull it up ... so I moved to the dining room (after I made sure no one was in the house except me). I was huffing and puffing and grunting and groaning until I finally got the fat rolls and both legs into the cute little thing. After fifteen minutes I finally got it up over my hips. Sweat was dripping off of my forehead and my underarms were drenched! Then I had to reach around and try to get it up over my butt! I didn't have enough arms. I am not an Octopus ... I am WOMAN ... gently plus sized! Once up over the hips you have to get the thing smoothly pulled up under your boobs. That's where the Act of God comes in!

I admired myself in the mirror after all my efforts ... and decided that the saleswoman lied to me. I should have just bought a corset and tied the strings to the doorknob and slammed the door instead! It wasn't a pretty site, me in just a green shirt, my Spanx and a strappy pair of silver heels, with a red sweaty face and tears and mascara running down my cheeks. I leaned against the wall for a full five minutes to recuperate before I sucked it up and came in here to sit down!

Now here I sit in a Higher Power Spanx, and I have to pee. I am 50 years old! Women my age that have had seven babies, and three of them being triplets, have to go pee frequently. I know why the package says *Cotton double gusset (crotch) opens to make life easier when Mother Nature calls. Once it's on, this baby isn't coming off! The package says it's Disco tested .... dancing approved and says, don't worry, we've got your butt covered. That's quite a testimony! Oprah says she wears a Spanx everyday! I wonder who helps her get it on? I'd lose 40 pounds too if I had to put this thing on everyday of my life! Maybe I'll just call up Oprah and ask her if there is a easier way to pour my body into this six inch wide tube of tightly woven spandex.

I also think I forgot to mention that maybe the Spanx company has something here! I think my boobs are a few sizes bigger .... maybe it's just my belly misplaced! Either way, that's the only up side to this Spanx ... that and the fact, I can't possibly eat since everything that once was on the outside is on the inside! My poor organs!

No wonder they call it "Higher Power" ... it took a higher power for me to get this thing on. Now I'm in a pickle ... it's only Wednesday and the wedding isn't until Saturday and I'm not woman enough to do this again! Why oh why didn't I just go on a diet six months ago. I am praying to lose forty pounds by Saturday!

Pictures will follow .... (I promise! ...just as soon as I can breathe again)

Be Blessed,
Tan