Calling the "War on Christmas" what it is: A White Christian Crusade

I used to ignore my Republican friends' insistence there was a "War on Christmas." They claim the words "Merry Christmas" cover all religious celebrations during this time of year. Amplified by FOX news, one might think this war was of huge significance. To me, it was silly. Who cared if the clerk at Target said Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, which would be more inclusive? Now, given our President's attacks on black and brown people, I can no longer dismiss it.

I don't know how it ever became an issue. When I was a teenager in the late 1970s, my mother would only allow me to purchase cards for my friends which said Season's Greetings. I remember a particular box of cards that showed pine trees in the snow with a sled. Had it shown a decorated Christmas tree, my mother would have disapproved.

Now the words "Merry Christmas" are ideological. They are used to assert white Christian dominance. A person could mean this in a stereotypical way, the way most people picture a white Santa Claus. On the other hand, words of domination have been employed to promote discrimination and outright racism.

Christians asserted their dominance in the world through the crusades. So the next time a Republican friend says, "Merry Christmas" to me, I will answer with "Merry Crusades." It sounds petty. But, then again, so does the idea of Flush-gate.

Let Me Speak - Paul

Hi everyone. I am going on a long internal journey & won’t be active on social media indefinitely. Not that I have been very active recently. But I won’t be on at all for awhile. I was going to cancel my account, but didn’t want to alarm anyone. Figured this simple post will suffice for now. Thanks for all the support these last couple of years. Much appreciated. I know i didn’t post or interact as much as I used to. Sorry about that. But I hope some of my posts helped you tho. I did try to be positive. Even about sad topics. I will be back. I just don’t know when. Until then sending out good vibes & a big hug to all those who need it. You are loved. Remember to always be kind to yourself & others. Love is the answer. Namaste.

Publications

Buffalo News:

Physical Health
Trump's Disease

Refugees
Harmful myths trail those seeking a better life here


Mental Health, Caregivers:

Buffalo Healthy Living
Caring for a Child with a Serious Illness

Buffalo Healthy Living
It's Always the Same Story: My search as a person with bipolar illness to find a better ending


Adoption:

Buffalo Healthy Living
Love Doesn't Come in a Color

Adoption STAR Newsletter
Post-adoption Depression





















c

It’s Always the Same Story: My search as a person with bipolar illness to find a better ending

Published in Buffalo Healthy Living

It was 1998. I pulled back the top sheet and pink bed cover. As I sat up, I saw a window. I had no idea where I was. Had I attempted suicide? I looked at my wrists. There were no bandages. I rolled over and saw the stash of quarters on my night table. I was in a mental hospital. But why was the cover pink? All the other times the blankets had been white.

The first thing I did was try to get out of there. As I walked down the hall, I saw the nurses’ station. Across from it was an elevator. I pushed the down button. I was wearing my hospital gown. Three nurses appeared. Two held me as the third pressed an injection needle into my thigh. It worked quickly. I remembered the quarters and walked back to get them. When I called my husband, he patiently explained I was receiving ECT treatments which can cause short-term memory loss. I remember counting out loud until succumbing to the anesthetic which makes shocks are painless. My loss of short-term memory had one benefit: I didn’t remember my entire depression.

Upon returning home and unpacking, I saw a blue wraparound skirt with small flowers and a peach suit jacket to match. I walked into the living room where my husband was. “My mother was here,” I declared. I would have only purchased that suit to make my mother happy. I hated blue. The jacket wasn’t tailored enough. He told me my parents had driven from Long Island to Buffalo. I didn’t blame them for wanting to be there, but knew they hadn’t helped. I also realized my mind missed things because of the ECT treatments. Princess Diana had died. I had watched the movie Titanic. I haven’t watched it again, fearing it will spark the memories of that depression. I don’t want to get PTSD on top of bipolar disorder. Some of this is funny. But, mostly it’s the same story.

Now in 2019, I want to advocate against the stigma of mental illness. I remember reading an article about a bipolar woman’s experience. It was eerily similar to mine and made me feel nauseous. Calming down, I realized bipolar illness is a diagnosis like any other. People who have it display the same symptoms. Realizing I was determined to become healthy, and healthier than the woman in the article, I began my quest for a better ending. I am finding it as I begin to tell own my story.

I have been married for 29 years, have two great kids, and two advanced degrees. I realize now that woman’s story is not my story, and, with effective medication and therapy, it doesn’t have to be anyone else’s.

Harmful myths trail those seeking a better life here

As published in the Buffalo News

Immigration is a hot topic now. Not only is it important to understand the various policies, knowing someone’s story is a window into the myths being perpetrated. Through teaching a class to prepare green card holders to pass their U.S. citizenship test, I understand the struggles of immigrants.

Immigration is not solely about illegal immigrants crossing our southern border. The first thing to understand is that many are crossing our borders legally. For example, some are asylum-seekers. They can claim asylum status at a border checkpoint or even when they are in the country undocumented. This is in accordance with United States law and U.N. policies.

Once here, asylum-seekers have due process and equal protection rights under our Constitution. They are entitled to an asylum hearing. Generally, political refugees – those facing persecution in their home countries – are allowed to stay. Economic refugees – those in this country simply to earn more money – are generally deported.

One problem is how long the hearing process takes. Alternatives to detention, such as ankle bracelets, were common during the Obama administration. This ensured that asylum-seekers showed up for their hearing dates and were more than 90% effective. By prosecuting them for the offense of entering illegally and immediately detaining them, the Trump administration has caused the crisis at the border. Families are separated because children cannot be detained as long as adults and facilities are overcrowded.

The immigrants I teach have been pre-cleared in their home country before coming here. They are considered refugees, not asylum-seekers, and can obtain a green card. Still, there is more to their immigration stories. Often coming from war-torn nations in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, they may be in refugee camps for years before being allowed to come here. The camps themselves can come under fire.

It is a myth that Muslim immigrants are terrorists. Most come as a family unit. Another myth is they overuse social services. While they can receive money to come here, their ability to receive government resources is restricted over time.

Imagine coming here from an African nation speaking only Swahili. Imagine having to learn a new alphabet after knowing only Arabic, which has different characters from English and is read right to left. Imagine seeing a supermarket for the first time and having to learn how to shop.

I am fortunate to teach an immigrant community here in Buffalo. I’ve also created a website, www.JanesPlace.org, where you can learn more about stigma against refugees, religious groups and the disabled.

Helaine Sanders teaches refugees to pass their U.S. citizenship test. She co-chairs the Town of Amherst Committee in Disabilities.

Self-Respect

My young womanhood began the day I read Joan Didion’s short essay, “On Self-Respect.” The symbolism of the green light flashed brighter in those early years.

I was at Cornell on a scholarship from my father’s union. It remains the achievement he is most proud of, even now, more than three decades later. That’s how I attained his respect.

It was a decision that took mere seconds to make. His union had sponsored a college fair and he told me to go over to the Cornell table. When asked by the recruiter my intended major, I said history. He was there to promote Cornell’s School of Industrial and Labor Relations, a school partly subsidized by New York State. When he told me I could take over thirty credits of history in the private College of Arts and Sciences at no additional cost, I decided to apply. I was accepted on that scholarship. It was the pinnacle of my academic achievement in father’s eyes, although I later attained a Master’s in Social Work and a Juris Doctor degree.

The question presented by Joan Didion, however, was whether I attained my own self-respect with that achievement. She lost the notion that the light would always turn green for her when she failed to make Phi Beta Kappa. She acknowledges the triviality of that: she didn’t have the grades. My green light stayed lit until I was twenty-six, the time I expected to have a baby by and didn’t. After that, nothing came according to a pre-determined timeline. Although I wouldn’t be diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was twenty-nine, my unraveling began in earnest at twenty-six. But, to answer Joan Didion’s question, I did earn my self-respect at Cornell. The rest of my life has been an attempt to keep it.

I did, eventually, become a mother. And, I was able, during the important times, to keep from unraveling.

I remember the first time I couldn’t panic in front of my children, then young boys. We were on an airplane, having planned a Florida vacation. The pilot announced that smoke in the cockpit would necessitate an emergency landing elsewhere. All was normal, I assured my children, as the plane bounced and its lights flickered.

It is because of my bipolar diagnosis that I can successfully manage the difficult times. Coping strategies I learned earlier immediately come back. Having previously unraveled, I have a cure for the unpredictable. I can maintain my self-respect.

—

Helaine Sanders, LMSW, JD still finds the coping skill of journaling useful during difficult times. She administers this website, JanesPlace.org, where other articles about mental health may be found.

Knowing Your Limits

The beginning of my bipolar illness was a nightmare, which included a suicide attempt. I willed myself back to life during the charcoal treatment, since the attempt had nothing to do with a desire for death. It was a message to my husband. New York City is a harsh place to begin a career. I had a public sector job which allowed for a normal schedule. He worked for top law firms in the private sector. He was never home and I had no idea how to manage my unraveling. With the aid of medication and therapy, we managed to put together enough of the pieces to allow us to move to Buffalo, my husband’s home town.

Prolonged recovery didn’t begin for another decade, when the drug that would ultimately save me came on the market and prompted my upward climb. I had gotten to the point of not needing to think about my disease … or so I thought.

Feeling better led to a desire to work more. I always had a desire for public service and got involved in my children’s school and with the local Democratic Party. Then, in the Hell of Trump, I wanted to run for office, specifically County legislature. I had an excellent academic background and worked in jobs with tremendous responsibilities. Mental illness did not hold me back either: I had many good years behind me. I made a valiant effort, but in the end, I was too green to be on the ticket. After the fact, I got a lot of, “You wouldn’t have been able to do this, both the campaigning and paid work.” I started to doubt myself, not only in politics, but in any role, including parenting.

I withdrew my name in February. My son had an MRI, detecting a tumor, in March. It was easy to tie my depression to my son’s diagnosis, even if it had started before then. That’s how I made it about me, telling everyone how I couldn’t cope with the stress and my illness. But, it was never about me. Also, my depression ended, even though there was continued bad news for my son.

My husband and I took a trip to Italy in the beginning of August for our 30^th Anniversary. It caused me to understand my limitations in a positive way. I couldn’t keep up with his pace. One time, I needed a spa day. Other times he went out in the early morning and I joined him later.

There were limitations in my parenting. My husband took care of the children’s morning routine because he had to leave the house for work. I was with them for the afternoons and evenings, especially when they were younger. Although it would become harder to cook for both together once my sons had different schedules, there was a year when we all cooked together and bonded that way.

I see now I did the best I could. I volunteer for different organizations, but can not handle the rigorous schedule of paid employment. I am here for my children. When they were younger, I enjoyed giving them play dates after school. Most importantly, right now, I can ask friends for help, something I learned because of my own struggles with bipolar disorder.

As published in Buffalo Healthy Living: Caring for a Child when You're Disabled

Caring for a Child with a Prolonged Illness

Take Care of Yourself and Rely on Your Instincts

by Helaine Sanders, LMSW and JD

I lived most of my adult life believing that if I worried enough about a bad outcome, it wouldn’t happen. With my pessimism and low expectations, what actually occurred would always be better than I thought. My son’s malignant tumor and current chemotherapy treatments shattered that belief. While I never had control, I had the illusion of control. That realization has made me more optimistic.

The only constant thing in my son’s treatment is its unpredictability. Following his first chemotherapy treatment, he had two bacterial infections. Three weeks later, after another chemotherapy treatment, his blood levels were off, and he was unable to come home.

You might think caring for a seriously ill child while you’re disabled is doubly challenging. It’s not. I am actually coping better because I know what it is like to have to struggle. Despite feeling like I am living through years, not weeks, I keep going. I’m making sure my own needs get met. After I posted my needs on Facebook, my friends responded offering girls’ nights out, food shopping, and food preparation. I’m was so grateful for this outpouring of love.

Even in these early weeks of a 29-week course of chemotherapy, I’ve learned some lessons that might help others. I particularly want to assure the disabled community that they can handle a child’s serious illness.

First, don’t underestimate your own value. You’ve got this because you’ve already learned to advocate for yourself.

Second, there’s no shame in asking for help. As I learned from a helpful counselor while I was recovering from my first depression, “Your job right now is not to prepare the food. Your job is to eat the food prepared.”

Third, simply be physically present. If 90 percent of life is showing up, being near your child suffices. There’s no need for constant engagement. You can do something you enjoy while he plays a video game.

Fourth, don’t forget about your other children. Let them know the distinction between quality and quantity. You may not be physically present, but they are always in your heart.

Fifth, the hardest part for any parent is an emergency situation. You will need to rely on your instincts. However, it’s no different than daily parenting. You’d know what to do if you had to pick up a child who became sick at school. Emergencies during a prolonged illness are no different. Trust yourself.

All parents, especially disabled ones, should remind themselves they always have more control than they think.

Helaine Sanders has found that her bipolar diagnosis does not limit her ability to parent a child with a prolonged illness and instead benefits her. Check out her website at www.JanesPlace.org which focuses on stigma in mental health, the immigrant population, and religious groups.

Immigration Myths

Immigration is a hot topic now. Not only is it important to understand the various policies, knowing someone’s story is a window into the myths being perpetrated. As someone with a JD, I know the relevant terminology. Also, through teaching a class to prepare green card holders to pass their US citizenship test, I understand their struggles.

Knowing the significant terms of the immigration debate, I can increase other people’s understanding. Immigration is not solely about illegal immigrants crossing our Southern border. The first thing to understand is that many are crossing our borders legally. For example, some are asylum seekers. They can claim asylum status at a border checkpoint or even when they are in the country illegally. This is in accordance with US and UN law. Once here, asylum seekers have due process and equal protection rights under our Constitution. They are entitled to an asylum hearing. Generally, political refugees — those facing persecution in their home countries — are allowed to stay. Economic refugees — those in this country simply to earn more money — are generally deported.

One problem is how long the hearing process takes. Alternatives to detention (ATDs), such as ankle bracelets, were common during the Obama administration. This ensured that asylum seekers showed up for their hearing dates and were over 90% effective. By prosecuting them for the offense of entering illegally and immediately detaining them, the Trump administration has caused the crisis at the border. Families are separated because children cannot be detained as long as adults and facilities are overcrowded.

The immigrants I teach have been pre-cleared in their home country before coming here. They are considered refugees, not asylum seekers, and can obtain a green card. Still, there is more to their immigration stories. Often coming from war torn nations in Africa, Asia, and the Middle-East, they may be in refugee camps for years before being allowed to come here. The camps themselves can come under fire.

It is a myth that Muslim immigrants are terrorists. Most come as a family unit. They are assimilated once here.

Another myth is they overuse social services. While they can receive money to come here, their ability to receive government resources is restricted over time.

Imagine coming here from Somalia only speaking Swahili. Imagine having to learn a new alphabet after knowing only Arabic, which has different characters from English and is read right to left. Imagine seeing a supermarket for the first time and having to learn how to shop.

I am fortunate to teach an immigrant community here in Buffalo where I’ve learned their struggles. I’ve also created a website, www.JanesPlace.org, where you can learn more about stigma, not only against refugees, but among religious and cultural groups and due to disability.

Helaine Sanders holds an MSW and JD. She is the co-chair of the Town of Amherst Disability Committee and Secretary of its Community Diversity Commission. She has volunteered in the Williamsvile School District on matters relating to curriculum and special education.

Correcting Bad Behaviors

The symptoms of mental illness do not manifest themselves all at once. For example, before I was diagnosed as bipolar, there were warning signs. I remember perching myself on a window ledge nineteen floors above Greenwich Village. I had no intent to commit suicide. I wanted to scare my boyfriend in order to win the argument we were having. At the time, my boyfriend didn’t know what to do so he got my parents involved. They took me to their physician on Long Island. I told everyone I was having problems adjusting to law school. My parents went home after securing a promise I would complete my three years. The doctor recommended a mental health practice group in Greenwich Village. I made an initial appointment. I saw a man who sized up the situation completely and was not afraid to say so. I spent almost two decades running away from his words. That’s exactly what a borderline personality diagnosis looks like and he knew it right away.

When I compare who I was pre-diagnosis to who I am now, I see two different people. I have no idea why that particular boyfriend was willing to continue our relationship. Yet, he stuck by me throughout my recovery and is now my husband of thirty years. I’ve taught our children, now 16 and 18, not to tolerate that type of behavior from a partner. That is something for which a couple needs professional help.

Now I want to tell others that identifying and correcting bad behaviors is key to recovery. They can have a better ending … because I found one.

Let Me Speak - Daniel

My wife doesn't have patience with my father or sister, especially because their bipolar illness makes them irresponsible with money. But, she has been so awesome with me when I had depression on and off. I am so thankful for her support.

Let Me Speak - Cara

I have been on medication for postpartum as well as for anxiety ever since perimenopause started nine years ago. Medication helps me.

Let Me Speak - Melissa

My husband has an uncle who is currently being institutionalized for a combination of alcoholism and bipolar disorder. It's been a tough few weeks so far.

Let Me Speak - Natalie

My father and sister are bipolar, but are not being treated. My mother is doing the best she can as a caregiver, but they give her so much needless stress.

Let Me Speak - Emma

I have survivors guilt and I'm still processing moving forward in this new reality. I don't blame myself. I just miss her. But, I'm focusing on the good and rebuilding. Hopefully, I can help others along the way.

Let Me Speak - Marc

Honesty and sharing our stories...our truth, is the best way to remove the social stigma of any kind of depression. We are all struggling in our own ways. I always thought I was well versed in the signs. But after my brother suddenly died, even though I saw my girlfriend and was communicating with her...sending her love & support, I maybe missed some signs. I don’t know. In hindsight I see them. I go over and over in my head what I could have done or said differently. She was sounding so much better. And I was days away from seeing her again. When she sent me a video of her blowing me a kiss, I smiled and wrote something silly back to her. I didn’t know she was kissing me goodbye. I think about that a lot. I just don’t want what happened to her to happen to anyone else. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others.

Let Me Speak - Andrew

Depression & Regrets

I haven’t been on FB or social media much the last couple of years. But when i do, i have noticed that depression & people struggling with depression seem more common on social media lately. Maybe it’s just amplified by the current divisive political climate we seem to live in. The tribalism. And the anxiety that can cause. Or the rash of high profile suicides of people we admired like Robin Williams & Anthony Bourdain who seemingly had it all...that makes us seem even more hopeless about our own situations. 

Maybe for some it’s truly genetic or chemical. Or being at an age where regrets can suddenly weigh heavy & crush our normally positive spirits. Or perhaps it’s an illness that rocks our world, and leaves us asking endless loop questions like ‘why me?’ Or maybe it’s the sudden loss of a loved one, or two, or three that has caused you to plunge into darkness & despair. 

Whatever it is, there is no more helpless feeling than true depression. The darkness. The seeming hopelessness. Or pointlessness of it all. Of being stuck in a moment you can’t get out of. I may not have been much help the last few years to those struggling, but I have been there. I am there.

My grief counselor said to let go of all the ‘should haves’ and ‘wasn’t suppose to bes’ about Tommy & Mara...that they are only regrets. And regrets are just thoughts about the past crippling us in the present.

Good advice. But does it really help when we are at our darkest?

I am not here to offer a panacea or cute phrase that will magically lift you out of depression. I don’t think such simplistic answers always reach us in our darkest moments. However true they may be. 

If things are truly bad. Reach out to a friend. Or call a hotline. For someone to listen.

Maybe your darkness won’t let you take such action. Please do. But if you can’t or won’t...just know this...these feelings tend to come in waves. And they DO pass. Sometimes they feel like they won’t. But they will. 

My advice, if I have any, is to ride it out. Just hang in there for another moment. Another hour. Another day. Distract yourself any way you can. Don’t give into the darkness. And it will lift. Even just a little to give you a glimmer of hope. And then you can take some positive action...until the next wave hits.

Be kind to yourself & those around you

Let Me Speak - Maureen

My depression comes and goes in waves. Every once in a while a huge surfer-sized wave comes along. I've recently climbed out of that one. It's never easy. I try to stay strong and keep swimming. The tides always turn ... eventually.

#NeverAgain

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

First they came for the Muslims
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Muslim

Then they came for the asylum seekers
And I did not speak out
Because I was not an asylum seeker

Then they came for the children
And I did not speak out
Because we have dehumanized mankind

How many deaths will it take this time?
Because the first poem is about the holocaust
And we, all, are letting it happen again

Why aren't children in cages
On the first page
Of every newspaper in America all days?

Why aren't the bots and trolls
Transmitting this message
So we can love

#Again

It's Time to Call Them What They Are: Concentration Camps

It's time to call the camps on our Southern border what they are: concentration camps. If six children have died in DHS custody can we call them death camps? Jews, myself included, are reluctant to use words that evoke the holocaust when the comparison is of lesser significance. On the other hand, we remain vigilant in using the words "never again." I believe the word "never" is slowly being ripped of its meaning as the conditions along our Southern border worsen.

I've read several articles today about what was occurring there. But, it was one word that a friend of mine used that made me sure the comparison was apt. It was the word "cattle."

Specifically she said, "To be honest, when I first heard that 900 were being kept in a space meant for 125, my first thought was of the cattle cars the Nazis used. No, these poor people are not being sent to a certain death, but their treatment, like cattle, is just as dehumanizing and inhumane. No civil country should be treating anyone like this. Ever. We are no better than the regimes we deplore. There are always alternatives."

She had just read a Washington Post opinion article entitled, "Never Again means nothing if Holocaust analogies are always off limits." I similarly read an article from the New York Times about the anti-refugee movement in St. Cloud, Minnesota. The Muslim Ban that Trump tried to enact before the second week of his Administration may have faded in our memories. Still, we need to recall both or "never again" will have no meaning.

Co-author, Wendy Kalman, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/author/wendy-kalman/

Let Me Speak - Emily

"I can definitely relate to stigma from others on having had postpartum depression. When I was going through that time period, my mother and mother-in-law helped me out a lot before I had my medication stabilized. I found out from my husband that his mother was upset that I was going through it. She didn't say it to my face, but I think she thought less of me because of it. Later on, when she was recovering from surgery on cancer that appeared on her spine that metastasized to her brain, she experienced panic attacks. I told her she could call me any time to help her through those attacks, since I had experienced many. I never judged her as she had judged me.”

A Mental Health Diagnosis Shouldn't Define You

My mental illness and I have always been on a collision course. Armed with a bachelors from Cornell and a JD, I did what other disabled individuals may not bother: research. Even before I was medicated for my first depression, I would walk from my therapist’s office in Greenwich Village to a nearby Barnes and Noble to read self-help books. I would then go home, too depressed to follow their suggestions. When a self-help book mentioned a diagnostic manual, I looked at that too. I also believed it, which became a problem. When my psychiatrist diagnosed me as bipolar, I hadn’t been manic. He was the Chief of Psychiatry at a major New York City hospital so he knew there was more to bipolar illness than alternating manic-depressive episodes. Now the diagnostic manual describes Bipolar II disorder and mixed episodes. My psychiatrist didn’t explain how he came to his conclusion and lead me to believe I would always be depressed.

Later in my treatment, my problem would be the opposite: I hated the stigma associated with a diagnosis. Don’t we all have faults? Shortly after being diagnosed, a therapist encouraged me to go to a workshop on codependency, which involves excessive emotional reliance on a partner. At the workshop, the speaker described her codependent relationship with her cat. I did not return.

Now I realize a mental health diagnosis is the same as any other diagnosis. It classifies people who display the same symptoms. It’s mostly necessary for health insurance purposes. It doesn’t define a person and it certainly doesn’t stop someone from getting better.

You Do Not Want to Take Up Space in My Bipolar Brain

Although it wasn't my intent, I've been posting about experiences I went through more than two decades ago. Maybe my subconscious wanted to tell you I was sick then, but not now. Maybe my subconscious remembered I wanted to write a book so I started early on my life timeline. I no longer want to write a book. Frankly, I want speaking engagements. I want to tell people about Jane's Place so it becomes a reality. I've had the idea for Jane's Place for 23 years. Technology enabled me to start now. A physical building for Jane's Place may be years away. I recognize that.

I also want to give credit for the title of this essay. I saw Hillary Clinton being interviewed. She said she must still be taking up space in Donald Trump's brain. She wanted out. I want out of my bipolar brain now. Usually, I don't think about that anymore. But, to borrow a little Joan Didion in "Slouching Towards Bethlehem," I had another moment when I realized the light wouldn't always turn green for me. In fact, I had the worst moment. Because when these moments had to do exclusively with me, I eventually overcame them. But, I'm a mother now. I know the desire to take a bullet for your children.

About two months ago, we found out my older son has a tumor in his knee. The tumor is either an osteoblastoma, the more benign one, or an osteosarcoma, the malignant cancerous one.  After a biopsy, doctors are leaning toward the former. The first question was whether it had spread. Given how large the tumor is (9cm) and the length of time he's had it - he's had pain switching from hockey to track all of high school - we were scared. But, it hadn't spread. The next step is a five hour surgery and five days in the hospital. The surgery was scheduled for May 29th. They needed cadaver bone for a graft. They found the match May 30th.

That's what broke me. That's when the light switched. I had been able to be calm to support him. Now there's a feedback loop in my brain:

- the surgery won't be scheduled
- if he has the surgery, something will go wrong
- he won't wake up from the anesthesia
- he'll have the surgery and develop an infection
- the tumor will spread before he has the surgery
- the surgery will reveal an osteosarcoma
- he won't start college this year. (Fact: There's no deferral; he will have to reapply. Yes, that's cruel. And, he's chosen a field he can't start second semester.)

When my brain was working normally, I worried most about him not starting college in the fall. I also felt awful because he won't be able to play sports anymore and that was part of his identity.

Now I am reduced to nerves of anxiety. You may think this sounds normal. But, I assure you it's not.

My bipolar brain, when under stress like this, goes to the darkest places. It's not about my son anymore and that's sad. I know I'm being selfish. It's about me and my bipolar brain.

So, here's what you should not do: Do not tell me my son will be ok. Are you his doctor? His father? Any of the people in the room listening to the surgeon? No. So shut up.

Here's what you can do: Ask about me. Don't even bring up his brother who is having a homework strike. He's a teenager and he's rebelling, testing the limits. He wants to spend time with his friends and only do the activities he enjoys: chorus, band, art, and dance, not his core subjects. If you are a professional with an appropriate background, you can privately message me advice. Back to me: Keep me focused on this blog. Say you can help me with a story about a stigma you faced and how you overcame it. I need two paragraphs. I will not use your name. Or, we can speak on the phone and I'll write it up. This blog is keeping me sane. Help me grow it. But, also keep in mind that's not the sole remedy. The sole remedy would be making everything okay this instant. Given you can't do that, time with you is good. Distractions are good. I'm hurting. I need your help.
--
Email: helaines@roadrunner.com

The Refugee Experience

Love Doesn't Come in a Color

Published in Buffalo Healthy Living

I was recently asked about my experience as a Caucasian mother of two adopted African American sons. My initial reaction was to say it wasn’t that different. However, as I thought more about it, I found it easier to respond. I don’t have any biological children but don’t feel a need to make a comparison. I became a parent just like every mother.

Benjamin was one week old when we met him. As other adoptive parents know, adoption is a process involving home studies and legal appearances in Surrogate’s Court. Michael, Benjamin’s biological brother, was born nineteen months later and similarly adopted. Adoption Star told us to use the word “adoption” in regular conversation, because as children get older, they ask questions naturally and should be given age-appropriate answers. We read the book How I Was Adoptedby Joanna Cole to our children, sometimes tailoring it to them.

We raised Benjamin and Michael as we would have raised our biological children. Although we thought we might want to provide them with culturally appropriate experiences, that never seemed natural. What came naturally were our experiences as a family. My husband and I came from Eastern-European Jewish families. From their earliest weeks, my husband took our boys to Temple. They attended a Jewish day school and camp — Kadimah and Ramah — which became part of their identities. When Trayvon Martin was murdered the year that my older son turned 11, I wanted to talk to them about it and allow them to ask questions before their peers did. The discussion went well and became a template for others we would have involving racial tensions.

Parents of African American girls know it’s all about the hair. Parents of African American boys know it’s all about “the talk,” which occurs when African American boys are of driving age. Of concern are “DWBs,” otherwise known as “driving while black.” It serves as African Americans’ introduction to our unfair criminal justice system that typically treats them harsher than Caucasians. As Buffalonians, we live near a border, so I made sure my children knew how to behave at a border crossing. This made it easier to describe what encounters with police might look like.

My sons graduated from their private school when they were in eighth grade and attend Williamsville North High School. They are in school with African Americans, including those with many diverse backgrounds. They have good hearts, which I attribute to learning Jewish values at an early age. Both do well in school. Benjamin is strong in art and good at sports — involved in varsity hockey and track. Michael prefers the performing arts — he plays the clarinet and piano, sings, and dances. I couldn’t be prouder of the unique individuals they are.

Others may question if this is the correct way for white parents to raise African-American children. My answer is there’s no recipe. If people wonder why we raised them as Jews, while most African Americans are Christian, we tell them we chose to raise them with good values. Most importantly, we raised them with love, and love doesn’t come in a color.

Post-adoption Depression

This is an article about post-adoption depression. It is empirically based and adoptive parents have found the article helpful. I wrote it over ten years ago and I’ve since come to understand my story differently. My story was about emotional abuse by a nurse we employed. She was with me and the baby because my husband had to return home to litigate a case. We told her I was bipolar. She had no understanding of what that was, other than it was a mental illness. Cultural and generational factors added to the misunderstanding. It’s clear to me now this was about the stigma of mental illness.