I have always been a driven person, placing high expectations on myself. At least that is the way to say it that sounds the best. The more accurate truth is that I have always been a little girl doing her best, begging for someone to notice her. Operating at a high level of excellence was not something I really chose to do, rather it was a reaction to feeling unseen. Being mediocre was never going to get my parent’s attention. I am not sure excellence ever did either.
While that drive to excel has served me well in my career, it has also left a wake of hurt, disappointment, and unresolved, internal feelings of unworthiness.
It never came as a surprise to me when the doctor diagnosed me with something. It just felt like one more bad thing that happened to me. It felt like I deserved it. I had, after all, consumed more than my fair share of alcohol in my life, and had smoked a pack a day for more than a decade. Any ailment that came was probably the result of something I had done, or at least that’s what I believed. Every diagnosis felt like a punishment, like a failure.
It is easy to look at my own health problems and place the blame solely on myself. But when the diagnosis is given to my fifteen-year-old daughter, I cannot find any fault in her. She doesn’t deserve this; she didn’t bring this on herself. But because she has been mostly dependent on me for the things she has consumed over her short life, it was easy to see how I could be responsible for her health. I was her mother, after all. She was my responsibility, and I had failed her.
This week, when the test results came in, I was drawn back to a decision I made to move my office out of my home. For the first eleven years I was a mom, I worked from home, or on site with clients a few hours a week. I often brought my kids with me, finding tasks for them to do to help me, or more accurately to keep them busy. I worked at home while they slept, or during their free time; while they were swimming and while they were playing. But when the opportunity came for me to rent a small office, I jumped on it. My business had grown and I really needed a place where I could focus, uninterrupted.
It was that decision that I remembered as I read the email that told me my daughter has a condition usually diagnosed in adults more than twice her age. I was absent from my home during meal times, and I failed to offer my kids proper nutrition. It was my fault that my daughter had her gallbladder removed six weeks ago, and when the next email came in saying that she has vitamin deficiencies and a few other red flags, those felt like my fault, too. How could it be possible that my (not so) little girl was facing these attacks on her body, when she had not lived enough life to cause this much harm?
If you read my blog last week, you know that I was already considering some changes in my personal diet. I have too much information to pretend that I don’t know better. But in light of the medical diagnosis we received this week, I think it is more than my diet that needs an overhaul.
I did clean out my pantry and fill my refrigerator with nutritious foods. And while my nature is to make extreme changes overnight, that hasn’t worked well for me in the past. What I want to do is go on a three day fast, then drink bone broth for a few days, then start a high protein diet. But instead, I sat down with my calendar and made a reasonable plan that I think I can stick to. I have two birthday parties to attend this week, and while that could be detrimental to any new diet, I chose to enjoy whatever the host presents. Rather than view those events as a hindrance to my food journey, I decided to allow them to be what they are: opportunities to enjoy time with family and friends. It has been more than five years since I wrote “Learning to Live in the Gray,” and it feels like I am finally able to do that.
I don’t know what the future holds for my daughter. We have not discussed the test results with her doctor yet, so we don’t even have a formal diagnosis. What I do know is that I can’t go back and change the past five years, or the choices I have made. What I can do is make better decisions this week, and stand beside her while she hurts, and while she heals.
I also know that a mom can’t help every situation. It has not been so long since I was a teenager that I have forgotten what it feels like to have a mother who is trying to help, but her very presence brings tension, and at the same time comfort. I remember wanting my own mother to leave me alone, and never let me go – all at the same time. Being a teenager is tough. And although the circumstances my daughter is facing are different than the difficulties I faced at her age, I know that the internal war is the same.
Last night, after I closed my computer, meal plan complete, I wandered into the kitchen. I found the bag of peanut butter cups my husband got half off at the drug store last week. I grabbed not one, but two. I savored every last bite, eating them slowly.
And now, it’s Monday, and I am focused on better choices, setting a better example for my children, and finally getting rid of the baby weight. Wish me luck!
Uncommonly Common Mom 