Too blessed to be stressed?

Too blessed to be stressed? Living with stress is a guarantee in today's economy. Don't beat yourself up about it! Find ways to deal with it.

The phone rings, it’s our estate agent (or realtor, for our international readers), “Great news, the buyers’ bond (mortgage) has been approved. Congratulations, you’ve sold your house!” I excitedly thank her, exchange excited farewells and hang up. I flip over to WhatsApp and quickly thump out a message to Becs, “Their bond was approved, the house is officially sold!” When I get home, the SOLD signs are up and it starts getting real.

It’s not like this all came as a shock, I mean they made the offer and signed the papers weeks ago, so we knew this was coming. But there is something about that red SOLD sticker on the FOR SALE board that makes it all the more real. Too blessed to be stressed?


With little over two months to go to our move date, I still haven’t got formal approval of my relocation request. Becs has gone from having two really exciting job prospects to having nothing in the pipeline. We have no idea where Fletcher will go to school – or where we will live for that matter. Too blessed to be stressed?


A few days later, we’re sitting outside with our happy little two-year-old. The weather is amazing – that late summer sunshine that warms your soul without scorching your skin. We’ve arranged a braai (barbecue) with our close friends and their 8-month-old son. The fire is lit, I’m busy in the kitchen making marinade for the chicken and then, disaster strikes.

Flash forward 24-hours, Fletcher has had surgery, our afternoon braai plans, like the broken plate at the centre of it, are cast aside. And all this against the backdrop of having just sold our house, planning a move across the country and not having packed a single box. Too blessed to be stressed?


Shortly after Fletcher’s accident, my relocation request was approved and I, at least, had a firmed up job. Becs had been contacted by an amazing new school in connection with a role they hadn’t even advertised for yet. Two weeks later, we had ticked off three out of four of our major checkboxes – I had a job, Becs had a job, Fletcher had a school. Now we just needed to find somewhere to live.

Being a person who craves certainty in my life, I had been silently freaking out for two months, panicking about all the things we didn’t know. I remember saying I couldn’t look at everything all at once, because it gave me a lump in my stomach so big that I couldn’t breathe. I had to separate things, look at them in isolation. Now that we both had jobs and Fletcher had a school to go to, I could focus on finding us somewhere to live. Too blessed to be stressed?


We must’ve looked at over 100 listings. We saw some of the most terrible pictures (I mean, really, what are people thinking?), doilies on toilets, washing on the bed, washing on a clothes horse in the middle of the lounge – you name it, we’ve seen it! Most agents we contacted didn’t even want to talk to us until closer to our move date, which only compounded my stress.

Luckily, we have family in Cape Town who could go be our eyes on the ground, which meant we were able to tick off the final major item on our list fairly quickly. Now, we just have to finish packing our house (which looks like a bomb has hit it, by the way) in the next week because the truck is coming next Monday. Then, I will be driving down (with the cat – for my sins) to meet the truck a week later and start unpacking. Becs and Fletch will follow about two weeks later and will hopefully arrive to something that resembles a “home”.


So, “too blessed to be stressed”? F*ck no! Look, don’t get me wrong, we are hella blessed – we have an amazing marriage, the kind movies are made about, the kind people hate you for; we have a beautiful, funny, special soul of a kid; we are surrounded on all sides by loving friends and family; we have great jobs; we earn good salaries and can send our child to good schools and get him whatever he needs. But that doesn’t mean that we are above stress.

Anyone who tells you they aren’t stressed is a bloody liar! Don’t be friends with them, no one needs that kind of negativity in their lives. Seriously. They’re setting you up for failure, creating unrealistic expectations and lumping pressure on you to try and fit into a “stress-free” ideal that quite simply doesn’t exist.

Don’t kid yourself. Stress will find you at every twist and turn, even when you think everything is plain sailing. In fact, especially when you think it’s plain sailing. But don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re allowed to be stressed. And when you are, talk to someone. Talk to your mom. Talk to your bestie. Talk to a work colleague. Talk to your wife / husband / boyfriend / girlfriend / partner / whatever. Talk to you cat, if it makes you feel better, but get that shit off your chest because it’s poison. It will push you down, it will pull you under and pretending it’s not there will not make it go away. Let me say that again: ignoring it will not make it go away! But saying it out loud takes the edge off. Talking about it lightens the load. It’s true what they say, a problem shared really is a problem halved.

Advertisements

A stitch in time…

amateur mommies a stitch in time

With summer, in South Africa, comes braais – or as most of the rest of the world knows them, barbeques. I had just lit the fire when our good friends arrived with their 8-month old son for a Saturday afternoon braai. Becs had set out a picnic blanket with a variety of toys for young Myles and Fletcher to play with, while the moms and dad chatted and chilled. 

With the fire burning away, I went inside to make the marinade for the chicken, leaving Becs, Lloyd, Ani and the kids outside on the grass snacking happily from a fruit platter Becs had lovingly prepared. While still busy with step one of my marinade (measuring out the olive oil), I heard Becs saying from outside, “Fletcher, don’t stand on the fruit.” A split second later, the follow-up sentence came – and it was one that dropped my stomach – “Babe! Stitches!” My heart sank. I grabbed a dishtowel and ran outside to where Becs was rinsing Fletcher’s foot under the outside tap. It was immediately clear, it was bad. I grabbed his foot with the dishtowel and held onto that tiny foot with all my might. I took him in my arms and Becs went inside to grab the car keys. Lloyd was already reversing his car out the driveway when we climbed into ours and pulled out, leaving our guests to clean up and lock the house. (Thanks guys.)

The calm before the storm

Arriving at the closest casualty with our two-year-old son screaming and crying in my arms while I tightly held his little foot was a surreal moment. We were ushered in by a nurse, who paled somewhat on lifting the dishtowel and quickly fetched the casualty doctor, who took one look at the wound and began issuing instructions about pain meds and calling the orthopaedic surgeon on call. Once the meds had kicked in, Fletcher allowed the doctor a proper look, which confirmed her thoughts about calling in the ortho. 

We were sent down to radiology for a quick x-ray and, shortly returning to casualty, were led to the paed ward for the long wait for surgery (because, obviously, Fletcher had eaten 30 seconds before slicing his foot open, so we had to wait for that to clear his system before they could operate). 

When our little man came screaming and raging out of theatre a few hours later, I went into the recovery room to try and settle him, while Becs chatted to the surgeon. Our dear son has never done anyhing in small measures. When he gets sick, he gets pneumonia; when he gets fevers, he gets 40º fevers; and when he stands on a plate and cuts his foot, he cuts through his tendons! 

Being a parent is a traumatic, wonderful, terrifying and immensely gratifying experience. It will take you to places you never knew existed and show you parts of yourself you didn’t know you had. You will face your greatest fears, every day, and you will stand up to the biggest, scariest demons and smack them on the head with a plastic hammer that makes a squeaky noise. You will look at what you thought you knew about yourself and be amazed at just how far removed you are from it. And you will love every moment of it – even the ones you dread. Seeing Fletcher on the gurney in that casualty department, with tears cutting through the sunblock we’d applied just moments before everything fell apart, broke my heart. Seeing how he looked at me, pleading eyes begging me to help him, watching him look from me to Becs and back with an expression of why aren’t you doing anythingon his small, tear-stained and blotchy face was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. It’s gut-wrenching. But at the same time, it shows your mettle. 

Becs and I are both in the fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you think about it) position of having been in life or death situations before, so each of us knows that we are pure calm under pressure. Many others aren’t. A lot of people, when faced with life-threatening – or even just slightly hair-raising – situations dissolve into a puddle of hysteria. The trick is to harness the energy that comes from hysteria and channel it, it’s not an easy task but once you master it, cucumbers will have nothing on you in a crisis. 

We still don’t know how many stitches Fletch actually had, but I’d guess no less than 10 (plus whatever had to be done internally). We have a follow-up appointment next week with the ortho to check his progress and are hoping for the all-clear, because keeping a busy two-year-old off his feet for a week is no mean feat. Fletcher himself has been an absolute champ! He’s been brave and accommodating, he’s been adorable and endearing and he’s been such a big boy about the whole incident. He weaves a beautiful tale about how he stepped on a plate and it cut his foot, but then the doctor fixed it, complete with dramatic embellishments and wild gestures. 

All recovered and watching diggers

The biggest thing we’ve taken from this incident is really how quickly accidents happen. Fletcher was less than a metre from two adults when it happened. He wasn’t doing anything naughty or intentional – he was just walking to get a toy for “baby Myles” and he mis-stepped – put his foot down in the wrong place, as clumsy toddlers are wont to do. The thing to remember, when accidents do happen, is not to berate yourself. Every child ends up in the emergency room at some point in their lives, whether they’ve fallen off a jungle gym at school (like I did) or stepped on a rusty nail (like I did) or run into their cousin’s bicycle handlebars and sliced a chunk out of their faces (like I did) – accidents happen. Life happens. Go with it. Be in that moment for as long as that moment lasts. Be present. Be intentional. Be an active participant and not a passenger. Try to remain calm and if you can’t, channel your hysteria, use it to help you focus – you’ll be amazed how well those panic hormones focus your mind. 

When it all becomes too much

I’m crying as I write this. Not ugly crying (yet), just soft, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. Fletcher’s amazing nanny, whom we love dearly & is absolutely part of the family, had her 3rd set of seizures in under a year yesterday. Fortunately, she had already left for the day and was at home with her family – a safe place. It could just as easily have happened while she was walking home from work or somewhere where she was surrounded by strangers with no idea how to help her.

Last year, the day before I was due to go back to work, we called her to ask if she could come in a little earlier than normal and her 16-year old son answered the phone and delivered the devastating news – she’s had a severe seizure in her sleep, one that had necessitated CPR. She was off work for two weeks that time, while the doctors at various government hospitals shunted her from pillar to post before assuring us the seizure had been caused by an asthma attack in her sleep, which had deprived her brain of oxygen, forcing it to take drastic measures to alert someone to its plight. We bought it. It sounded plausible.

A few months later, she had another seizure, also in her sleep, but fortunately not as severe as the first one. This time, we went with her to the hospital to try and get to the bottom of things because this clearly wasn’t a one-off thing. After a variety of queues and who knows how long at the Germiston Hospital, Becs finally accompanied Fletcher’s “Gogo” in to see the doctor. He was shocked that the other doctors hadn’t put her onto meds after the first seizure because that’s what you do! He prescribed Epilem and she was to come back monthly for a check-up. After 3 months of monthly check-ups, he was happy with her progress and cleared her to only come back every 3 months. Now this.

We’re caught in such a terrible situation. We love her, she is fantastic with Fletcher, she’s a wonderful human being, she’s honest and reliable (if a little lacking in the punctuality department, but let’s be real, if that’s her only flaw, we’ll take it!). We definitely don’t want to lose her, but we’re caught between the devil and the deep blue sea at the moment. If she were to have another seizure while she was alone at home – even if we could put Fletcher into school now, to take that responsibility off her plate and ease her load a bit – she could die. She’s needed CPR after a seizure before and if no-one is there to know she’s had a seizure… we’d only find her when we get home, possibly hours later. Anything could happen. If Fletcher is still at home and something like that happens, anything could happen to him. He’s fully mobile now, he climbs stairs like nobody’s business, he walks, he runs, he stands up without holding onto things. If she were to have a seizure and lose consciousness, literally anything could happen to him. (I’m too terrified to even articulate any of the gut-wrenching potential outcomes of that scenario.)

So what do we do? We can’t just let her go, she’s part of the family. Could we try and find her another post where she’s not responsible for children – absolutely. But that job would need to be one where someone is around all day because otherwise, the potential risks to her health are still there. Could we try and work out a situation where she’d have “supervision” during the day – sure, we could try that, I don’t know what that would look like, but at this stage, I’m willing to try anything. Could we send Fletch to school and keep her on… Not really, I’m afraid. At this stage, I don’t think we could afford to keep her on and pay school fees for full-day and that still doesn’t negate the potential risks to her health if something were to happen to her when no-one is home.

This is possibly the worst situation we’ve faced in our almost 5 years together. We have no idea what to do and no idea where to turn. So, my question to you is, what do you do when it all becomes too much?