Mel Henry's Blog, page 6
May 12, 2013
My thing with Mother's Day
I'm not a fan of Mother's Day. It's no secret, though it may seem like a mystery considering I'm the mother to two amazing kids. I thank God every day for them and that I was given the job of raising them. They're loving, funny, affectionate, smart and I adore them. They remind me almost daily how much they love and appreciate me. I am so blessed to be their mother.
That being said, I don't like today.
It comes down to a few things for me. Obviously, I hate that I don't have my own mom here. I miss her every single day. It makes me think about Mother's Day 1981 when we found my grandmother dead in her home from heart failure. It makes me think about the child I miscarried in 1992. Mother's Day isn't a joyful thing for me. It's like an anniversary of loss. I hate that.
It also bothers me that Mother's Day has morphed into some sort of "Let's Celebrate Women" holiday. Having had a miscarriage, I understand the pain this day can bring to those women who are barren or who have suffered the death of a child. I respect you, your pain and your desires.
What bugs me, however, is all the "Happy Mother's Day to all the fur-baby owners!" and the cousins, and the aunts, and the women who chose NOT to have children and..and..and... c'mon. Are we really going to cheapen and trivialize the pains and joys of motherhood by lumping mothers in with anyone who has ever purchased a bra? or a dog leash? or babysat for a neighbor kid once when they were in 8th grade?
I own pets, too. Love them as much as I love my own children. Grieved their deaths like they were human, but that doesn't make me a mother. It makes me an animal lover.
Not everyone is a mother and that's fine. Celebrate them the other 364 days of the year. Today? should be sacred. Today is for moms, mother-figures, surrogate moms, mothers-to-be, mothers-who-were, mothers-who-weren't-meant-to-be and moms-who-will-never-be-again. Can we please just have ONE day that's ours?
That being said, I don't like today.
It comes down to a few things for me. Obviously, I hate that I don't have my own mom here. I miss her every single day. It makes me think about Mother's Day 1981 when we found my grandmother dead in her home from heart failure. It makes me think about the child I miscarried in 1992. Mother's Day isn't a joyful thing for me. It's like an anniversary of loss. I hate that.
It also bothers me that Mother's Day has morphed into some sort of "Let's Celebrate Women" holiday. Having had a miscarriage, I understand the pain this day can bring to those women who are barren or who have suffered the death of a child. I respect you, your pain and your desires.
What bugs me, however, is all the "Happy Mother's Day to all the fur-baby owners!" and the cousins, and the aunts, and the women who chose NOT to have children and..and..and... c'mon. Are we really going to cheapen and trivialize the pains and joys of motherhood by lumping mothers in with anyone who has ever purchased a bra? or a dog leash? or babysat for a neighbor kid once when they were in 8th grade?
I own pets, too. Love them as much as I love my own children. Grieved their deaths like they were human, but that doesn't make me a mother. It makes me an animal lover.
Not everyone is a mother and that's fine. Celebrate them the other 364 days of the year. Today? should be sacred. Today is for moms, mother-figures, surrogate moms, mothers-to-be, mothers-who-were, mothers-who-weren't-meant-to-be and moms-who-will-never-be-again. Can we please just have ONE day that's ours?
May 7, 2013
Such a funny term...
Mental illness.
It's a funny term, that one.
Nobody really likes the phrase. Most people aren't even sure if it's a politically correct term to use. I mean, think about it. What's the first visual that pops into your head when you hear it? A sterile, checker-tiled floor in a room full of people in a sanitarium...one dude is slapping his hand over his face repeatedly...some woman is babbling in tongues to herself...then you've got the guy in the corner playing ping-pong using his slipper. Right? C'mon, be honest. It's what I visualize.
The thing is, mental illness isn't just about people who are clinically insane. It's about people like you. And me. And that person over there. And that chic on TV. And that baseball player with the 105 RBI. And that singer who did the duet with what's-his-name.
None of us are drooling on ourselves, so let's stop with the uneasiness of the term "mental illness," okay?
I'm sure I can be defined by a half-dozen terms in the DSM-IV, but to sum it up, I have anxiety, depression and borderline agoraphobia. No, I'm not afraid of spiders (okay, well, I am, but more so because they're creepy, not because I'm nuts). It means that I have days when I cry all day. For no reason. Fun, right? And there are days when it feels like my heart is a shorted-out cord zapping me constantly. Equally enjoyable, yes? And the agoraphobia? Remember having that dream where you're being chased but your feet can't move and you're stuck there just waiting for whatever monster your twisted subconscious has created to catch up with you? Yeah, it's like that. Except for me, the monster is the unknown of whatever is outside my door, at the store, in the airport, at a concert, on a ship, at a friend's house. It's a shit-ton of fun, lemme tell you.
But what those things aren't? Is a reason to avoid me. Or avoid talking about what's wrong. I don't expect you to fix it. If I did, I wouldn't be paying my therapist to do it, trust me! But if you care enough about me to ask me how I am, then I expect you to care enough to listen when I say "I'm not doing okay." Don't change the subject. Don't act like you didn't hear me. Don't suddenly disappear from my life until it's "back to normal" (because, let me give you a hint -- it will never be "back to normal").
My mental illness is as much a part of me as my great sense of humor, my beautiful eyes or my contagious laugh. Love all of me or don't love any of me. 'cause here's the thing: I already have good friends. Incredible friends. AMAZING friends. Friends who are here for the good, the bad and the ugly. I don't need someone who's only going to be here when the getting's good. If you're in, you're all in. If you're not, then you might as well leave now. I don't need you.
That may sound flippant and even a bit harsh, but the truth of the matter is, if there's anything I've learned in the thirty years I've dealt with this, I don't have the energy for bullshit. Love me or leave me. It's that simple.
Now...has anybody seen my slipper?
It's a funny term, that one.
Nobody really likes the phrase. Most people aren't even sure if it's a politically correct term to use. I mean, think about it. What's the first visual that pops into your head when you hear it? A sterile, checker-tiled floor in a room full of people in a sanitarium...one dude is slapping his hand over his face repeatedly...some woman is babbling in tongues to herself...then you've got the guy in the corner playing ping-pong using his slipper. Right? C'mon, be honest. It's what I visualize.
The thing is, mental illness isn't just about people who are clinically insane. It's about people like you. And me. And that person over there. And that chic on TV. And that baseball player with the 105 RBI. And that singer who did the duet with what's-his-name.
None of us are drooling on ourselves, so let's stop with the uneasiness of the term "mental illness," okay?
I'm sure I can be defined by a half-dozen terms in the DSM-IV, but to sum it up, I have anxiety, depression and borderline agoraphobia. No, I'm not afraid of spiders (okay, well, I am, but more so because they're creepy, not because I'm nuts). It means that I have days when I cry all day. For no reason. Fun, right? And there are days when it feels like my heart is a shorted-out cord zapping me constantly. Equally enjoyable, yes? And the agoraphobia? Remember having that dream where you're being chased but your feet can't move and you're stuck there just waiting for whatever monster your twisted subconscious has created to catch up with you? Yeah, it's like that. Except for me, the monster is the unknown of whatever is outside my door, at the store, in the airport, at a concert, on a ship, at a friend's house. It's a shit-ton of fun, lemme tell you.
But what those things aren't? Is a reason to avoid me. Or avoid talking about what's wrong. I don't expect you to fix it. If I did, I wouldn't be paying my therapist to do it, trust me! But if you care enough about me to ask me how I am, then I expect you to care enough to listen when I say "I'm not doing okay." Don't change the subject. Don't act like you didn't hear me. Don't suddenly disappear from my life until it's "back to normal" (because, let me give you a hint -- it will never be "back to normal").
My mental illness is as much a part of me as my great sense of humor, my beautiful eyes or my contagious laugh. Love all of me or don't love any of me. 'cause here's the thing: I already have good friends. Incredible friends. AMAZING friends. Friends who are here for the good, the bad and the ugly. I don't need someone who's only going to be here when the getting's good. If you're in, you're all in. If you're not, then you might as well leave now. I don't need you.
That may sound flippant and even a bit harsh, but the truth of the matter is, if there's anything I've learned in the thirty years I've dealt with this, I don't have the energy for bullshit. Love me or leave me. It's that simple.
Now...has anybody seen my slipper?
April 23, 2013
Against all odds
I held the stick in my hand and scrutinized it with one eye shut. Was there a second line? Man, I couldn't tell! I opened both eyes and looked again. Still couldn't tell. I looked again with one. Cripes, was I pregnant or not?
I was twenty and not even through my first year of marriage. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet here I was taking a pregnancy test. I was so scared, yet excited, too.
I'd always thought about how I wanted to surprise the father of my children when I told him I was pregnant, but honestly, how could I do that when I couldn't even tell for sure if I was? These tests were so hard to make out in the early weeks.
Reluctantly, I had him look at the stick. He looked at me with a slight smile and nodded his head.
We were going to be parents.
That pregnancy was miserable, for the most part. I was sick from the first month all the way through my fifth. Then, just when my stomach settled down, my heart took over and started kicking my butt. My health deteriorated in the second trimester and by the time I hit the third trimester, I was on bed rest for high blood pressure and then hospitalized for what I finally learned was pre-eclampsia. My blood pressure was high, I was losing protein in my urine, I had retained 45lbs in water weight and my skin was so tight it felt like it could split any minute.
The morning I delivered, my blood pressure was 190/110 and I'd gained three pounds overnight. The doctors had to get this baby out before we both died. I was transported to a neighboring hospital who was better equipped to handle the delivery of a 29-wk old fetus. They couldn't even call it a baby yet.
I remember hearing a nurse in the delivery room say "Bless his heart" and hoping my son was okay. I remember the warmth of his tiny head against my lips before the doctors whisked him off to the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) and then being left alone when my husband followed the baby. The doctors knocked me out at that point and I don't remember anything clearly until the next day. Even those memories are sketchy.
But I remember the fear our son's young life left in our hearts as we wondered if he'd make it through the night. He'd been put on a ventilator and given a very small chance of survival. Then we were told if he did survive, the chances that he wouldn't have permanent, on-going disabilities were almost none. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night two days after he was born to be told his lungs had collapsed, he'd been given a chest tube and put on a high-frequency ventilator.
I was still bed-ridden with high blood pressure that was supposed to have come down the day I delivered, so I couldn't even see my baby, much less hold him and tell him he'd be okay. It was several days before I was finally able to be wheeled into the nursery to touch him and almost two weeks before I could actually hold him.
I went from being a kid to feeling forty overnight. I learned medical terminology, how the respiratory system worked, what all the monitors were for and what it meant when they beeped. I learned that I could survive on very little sleep if it meant getting to be at the nursery all the time with my son. The nurses took notes every time they did anything to him, any time we visited or called and what the doctor said when he came in. That binder was three inches thick during the ten weeks he was in the NICU. He survived collapsed lungs, respiratory issues and developmental setbacks.
To say this child was a miracle is the biggest understatement ever. He has defied odds, outsmarted science and shown the world he's a force to be reckoned with. Today, that baby turns eighteen.
My baby is now a man and I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. I love you, son.
I was twenty and not even through my first year of marriage. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet here I was taking a pregnancy test. I was so scared, yet excited, too.
I'd always thought about how I wanted to surprise the father of my children when I told him I was pregnant, but honestly, how could I do that when I couldn't even tell for sure if I was? These tests were so hard to make out in the early weeks.
Reluctantly, I had him look at the stick. He looked at me with a slight smile and nodded his head.
We were going to be parents.
That pregnancy was miserable, for the most part. I was sick from the first month all the way through my fifth. Then, just when my stomach settled down, my heart took over and started kicking my butt. My health deteriorated in the second trimester and by the time I hit the third trimester, I was on bed rest for high blood pressure and then hospitalized for what I finally learned was pre-eclampsia. My blood pressure was high, I was losing protein in my urine, I had retained 45lbs in water weight and my skin was so tight it felt like it could split any minute.
The morning I delivered, my blood pressure was 190/110 and I'd gained three pounds overnight. The doctors had to get this baby out before we both died. I was transported to a neighboring hospital who was better equipped to handle the delivery of a 29-wk old fetus. They couldn't even call it a baby yet.
I remember hearing a nurse in the delivery room say "Bless his heart" and hoping my son was okay. I remember the warmth of his tiny head against my lips before the doctors whisked him off to the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) and then being left alone when my husband followed the baby. The doctors knocked me out at that point and I don't remember anything clearly until the next day. Even those memories are sketchy.
But I remember the fear our son's young life left in our hearts as we wondered if he'd make it through the night. He'd been put on a ventilator and given a very small chance of survival. Then we were told if he did survive, the chances that he wouldn't have permanent, on-going disabilities were almost none. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night two days after he was born to be told his lungs had collapsed, he'd been given a chest tube and put on a high-frequency ventilator.
I was still bed-ridden with high blood pressure that was supposed to have come down the day I delivered, so I couldn't even see my baby, much less hold him and tell him he'd be okay. It was several days before I was finally able to be wheeled into the nursery to touch him and almost two weeks before I could actually hold him.
I went from being a kid to feeling forty overnight. I learned medical terminology, how the respiratory system worked, what all the monitors were for and what it meant when they beeped. I learned that I could survive on very little sleep if it meant getting to be at the nursery all the time with my son. The nurses took notes every time they did anything to him, any time we visited or called and what the doctor said when he came in. That binder was three inches thick during the ten weeks he was in the NICU. He survived collapsed lungs, respiratory issues and developmental setbacks.
To say this child was a miracle is the biggest understatement ever. He has defied odds, outsmarted science and shown the world he's a force to be reckoned with. Today, that baby turns eighteen.
My baby is now a man and I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. I love you, son.
April 16, 2013
My heart's in Boston.
I grew up being a fan of Boston sports teams. In my house, you cheered for the Red Sox and the Celtics and that was it. So, long before New Kids on the Block came into my life, I had a connection to Boston.
As a teenager, I always wanted to visit Boston, but never made it there. It wasn't until last year that I set foot on the ground our pilgrims walked almost 400 years prior. But it took me less than a minute to fall in love with the city.
I'd been to New York numerous times and loved the chaos and craziness of big cities, but people warned me that Boston was different. "They don't like outsiders." "They're not friendly." "If you get lost, you're screwed 'cuz they don't give directions." But I didn't believe them. In fact, shortly before my trip to Boston in 2012, I added "Hug a stranger in Boston" to my Bucket List to prove all the naysayers wrong.
And I did just that. On Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks over from Boylston Street, where yesterday's blasts happened, I saw a kind-looking stranger who didn't seem to be in a hurry and I told him what my goal was. Without hesitation, that man hugged me and didn't let go. I don't know his name. Don't know what he does for a living. Couldn't even tell you where he was headed, but for a minute, he took time out of his day and gave some stranger in a Celtics sweatshirt the best hug she'd ever gotten.
I knew then Boston wasn't the unfriendly place my followers had said it was on Twitter.
And, as I hear more stories about yesterday, the more firm I am in my beliefs. Boston isn't a city of thugs, rude people, snobs or selfish citizens. It's a city with heart and it took a piece of mine when I left last year.
My thoughts are with those directly affected by yesterday's attacks and also with those, like myself, who have left a small piece of themselves in that beautiful city.
Pray for Boston.
As a teenager, I always wanted to visit Boston, but never made it there. It wasn't until last year that I set foot on the ground our pilgrims walked almost 400 years prior. But it took me less than a minute to fall in love with the city.
I'd been to New York numerous times and loved the chaos and craziness of big cities, but people warned me that Boston was different. "They don't like outsiders." "They're not friendly." "If you get lost, you're screwed 'cuz they don't give directions." But I didn't believe them. In fact, shortly before my trip to Boston in 2012, I added "Hug a stranger in Boston" to my Bucket List to prove all the naysayers wrong.
And I did just that. On Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks over from Boylston Street, where yesterday's blasts happened, I saw a kind-looking stranger who didn't seem to be in a hurry and I told him what my goal was. Without hesitation, that man hugged me and didn't let go. I don't know his name. Don't know what he does for a living. Couldn't even tell you where he was headed, but for a minute, he took time out of his day and gave some stranger in a Celtics sweatshirt the best hug she'd ever gotten.
I knew then Boston wasn't the unfriendly place my followers had said it was on Twitter.
And, as I hear more stories about yesterday, the more firm I am in my beliefs. Boston isn't a city of thugs, rude people, snobs or selfish citizens. It's a city with heart and it took a piece of mine when I left last year.
My thoughts are with those directly affected by yesterday's attacks and also with those, like myself, who have left a small piece of themselves in that beautiful city.
Pray for Boston.
April 12, 2013
Coming soon!
My first novel, Distance and Time, is coming your way this summer!
Distance and Time is the first book in the Time After Time series. It will be introduced in e-book format and later be published in paperback. This book is something I've spent years getting juuuuust right before sharing with you all. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
Stay tuned for the Publication Day announcement!
Carlene Cooper was your average teenager. Average, that is, except for her relationship with Josh McCarthy, member of teen mega-group, South Station Boyz. Young love blossomed at a chance meeting when Carly was a senior in high school and Josh was just discovering what stardom really meant. Despite their chemistry, it was no surprise to anyone when their very different lives took very different paths a few months down the road.
Years later, their paths cross again and they must decide if the spark they felt back then is strong enough to rekindle. Josh has built a name for himself in show business, but Carly, too, has planted roots as a journalist in New York City. Will they be able to successfully merge their lives and overcome the obstacles that drove them apart a decade earlier?
Just as she comes to the decision that will change their lives one way or the other, Detective Trey Foster enters her life unexpectedly and Carly is faced with another choice. Will she choose the man she's spent her whole life loving or will she push it aside for a chance at happiness outof the spotlight?
Distance and Time is the first book in the Time After Time series. It will be introduced in e-book format and later be published in paperback. This book is something I've spent years getting juuuuust right before sharing with you all. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
Stay tuned for the Publication Day announcement!
March 3, 2013
Home at last
California was amazing. Ahhhhh. Mazing.
It was typical Cali weather for this time of year (from what we were told): high 60's during the day, low 50's at night. Jacket and sweater weather, but still warm enough to have a few meals outside on the patios almost every restaurant offers out there.
We spent the entire time going at our pace, seeing what we wanted to see. It was wonderful to have a no-pressure vacation. We drove to Malibu one day, spent time in Hollywood another, even made time to see a movie and have drinks with a friend. We fell in love with Burbank and Tujunga. We may or may not be looking into job opportunities. hehe In all seriousness, though, I always thought I would hate L.A. because of how different it is from the East coast and how very much I love my East coast cities, but L.A. surprised us. The weather, the slow pace of it, the beautiful surroundings...everything reeled us in and held us captive.
We look forward to going back again soon. Until then, we'll have our memories.
It was typical Cali weather for this time of year (from what we were told): high 60's during the day, low 50's at night. Jacket and sweater weather, but still warm enough to have a few meals outside on the patios almost every restaurant offers out there.
We spent the entire time going at our pace, seeing what we wanted to see. It was wonderful to have a no-pressure vacation. We drove to Malibu one day, spent time in Hollywood another, even made time to see a movie and have drinks with a friend. We fell in love with Burbank and Tujunga. We may or may not be looking into job opportunities. hehe In all seriousness, though, I always thought I would hate L.A. because of how different it is from the East coast and how very much I love my East coast cities, but L.A. surprised us. The weather, the slow pace of it, the beautiful surroundings...everything reeled us in and held us captive.
We look forward to going back again soon. Until then, we'll have our memories.
