I Love Someone With Autism

Today is World Autism Awareness Day. As many of you are aware, my older son, Jesse, has Asperger’s Syndrome, which falls within the autism spectrum of disorders. According to the Autism Speaks website,

• Autism now affects 1 in 88 children and 1 in 54 boys

• Autism prevalence figures are growing

• Autism is the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S.

• Autism costs a family $60,000 a year on average

• Autism receives less than 5% of the research funding of many less prevalent childhood diseases

• Boys are nearly five times more likely than girls to have autism

• There is no medical detection or cure for autism

In honor of all those unique individuals and their families who deal with autism on a daily basis, today I am going to write about how autism/Asperger’s has affected my family.

Intellectually, Jesse was always a precocious child. I know people always say that about their kids, especially their first-born, but in our case, it was a fact. Jesse spoke early and developed a vocabulary that would regularly astonish people, myself included. Ken and I were amazed at the grasp he had on the English language at such an early age. Jesse has been able to follow and hold complex conversations since he was about 2 years old. He did, though, have a habit of making what I call “hard left-turns” conversationally. He would be talking about one thing and all of a sudden, sometimes, in mid-sentence, he would switch to something entirely different, and keep on talking, like he had never switched gears. And to Jesse, the two completely differing subjects were absolutely connected.

Physically, Ken and I noticed some oddities in Jesse’s development. He was rather clumsy. His feet turned in, but we didn’t think anything about it, because I had been pigeon-toed as a child and Ken had worn leg braces when he was little. While Jesse loved pushing himself along on riding toys, we were never able to teach him how to pedal a tricycle. While Jesse never missed any of his developmental milestones, the physical ones always took longer than the intellectual ones.

Jesse also had some strange reactions to sensory stimuli. When he was between 2 and 3, he went through a phase where anytime he wore shoes with socks, he would scream, “Mommy, there’s a bump in my sock!” And he would not hush until I jerked his shoe off his foot and smooth out any “bumps” he perceived were there. I bought every different kind of socks I could find to try and eliminate the problem, but Jesse still complained of “bumpy” socks. After that phase, for a long time, he refused to wear his pants up around his waist. He was “busting a sag” and displaying “plumber’s crack” long before either became the punch lines of jokes. No amount of cajoling, threatening or talking about it would cause Jesse to hitch up his pants. He said, “but Mama, it bothers my belly”.

Food was an issue as well. For several years, Jesse would only eat a very limited number of things: cheeseburgers with only ketchup, macaroni and cheese, french fries with ketchup, and cheese pizza. And though he has been able to expand on his list of preferred foods through the years, those remain his favorites. People would tell me “Let him go without. When he gets hungry enough, he will eat what you put on his plate.” Well, they didn’t know Jesse. He would rather go hungry than eat something that was not on his list. And it wasn’t just the food itself, it was how it looked, smelled and felt in his mouth. He always smelled everything before he would put it in his mouth. If it didn’t smell right, even though it was something he had loved yesterday, he would NOT eat it. And if he did put something in his mouth and it didn’t taste right or didn’t feel right in his mouth, he would spit it out and refuse to take another bite. It was frustrating, to say the least.

And then there were loud noises and bright lights. These stimuli not only bothered Jesse, but could absolutely send him into a full-on meltdown. We learned early on that there were just some places that we shouldn’t take Jesse. I remember once, we went to the aquarium in Chattanooga. To me, the atmosphere there was very calming… like watching a smaller fish tank, but it was all around us. To Jesse, it was like being trapped underwater and not being able to breathe. Ken had to take him out and wait in the lobby with him. He was still breathing hard when we went to lunch. Jesse couldn’t go to concerts because he said he could “feel the vibrations of the music in his chest”. When he was six, he told me he didn’t want to go to Disney World. I ignored him, thinking that all kids LOVE Disney World, right? WRONG! I should have listened to Jesse and left him with Mama and Daddy. Because Jesse was hit with sensory overload, that trip was one loooooooong whine. We couldn’t enjoy anything without Jesse going into meltdown mode.

Then, once Jesse started school, difficulties with peers became a huge problem. Because Jesse had so many peculiarities, teachers and students alike viewed him as “odd” and “weird”. It made the other kids avoid Jesse, and later, it led to them making fun of him, which eventually led to them bullying him. He just didn’t seem to “get” the whole group dynamic. Jesse would regularly come home from school upset and crying. Conferences with teachers usually all ended with the teacher telling us that he was “spoiled” and he “needed more boundaries”… basically telling us that the root of Jesse’s difficulty was certainly our fault. It was so frustrating to see my child shunned by his peers and misunderstood by the adults around him. Ken and I knew there was something different about Jesse, but we didn’t know it had a name.

Then, after many years of frustration and sadness at Jesse’s inability to “fit in”, his fifth-grade teacher said to me one day, “You know, I have been watching Jesse and I think he might have Asperger’s Syndrome”. At that time, I had never even heard of it, so I asked her to explain. She told me that it was on the autism spectrum. I sat there speechless, trying to wrap my head around the word “autism”. I knew what that was… she was saying my child had a pervasive developmental disability. I began shaking my head because I couldn’t bear the thought. My child? Disabled? Surely not! She then quietly gave me an article listing characteristics of people with Asperger’s. As I sat in her classroom reading, I began to sob. The article was describing Jesse perfectly – as if it had been written with him in mind. In that moment, I was filled with both horror and relief. Horror that my precious child could be what the world viewed as disabled, but relief because there was something wrong other than what everyone had been telling me for years, that Jesse was just spoiled. There was something causing his difficulties and it had a name!!

It took another year to get an official diagnosis for Jesse, and it took even longer than that to get the school system to offer him the services to which he was entitled. Because Jesse was so high-functioning, it just always felt like we were fighting to get people to acknowledge that he needed accommodations for his disability. It was so bad after we moved to AL, I finally ended up taking him out of public school and home schooling him. I mean, what else can a parent do when the teacher who was supposed to be the biggest advocate for kids with special needs looks you square in the face and says, “We don’t think there is really anything wrong with your child, other than that he’s spoiled. The only reason we’re serving him at all is because he came from another state with a doctor’s diagnosis!” (No, I’m not exaggerating… she really said that to me.) So, you see, having an autism diagnosis doesn’t always ensure that your child will receive the services that the law clearly states he or she should get.

Jesse, as a young adult, continues to struggle with Asperger’s. He understands the disorder very well and he understands that he perceives things differently than most people. What he doesn’t understand is why it makes such a difference to other people. He hates, as do I, that instead of trying to understand him, many people just write him off as “weird” and either ignore him or make fun of his peculiarities. His frustration at being excluded has now moved into depression and self-imposed isolation. It breaks my heart that life is so hard for him, but no amount of encouragement from his Mama changes the fact that his perception of the treatment he gets from the world in general is negative and hurtful.

And then there’s the guilt. I carry a tremendous burden of guilt at the fact that my much-loved son struggles with a disorder that I can never fully understand. I remember when I first heard of autism, blame for the disorder was firmly laid at the feet of the mother… she didn’t love her child in utero and somehow, the child sensed it. We’ve come a long way, and that horrible, hurtful myth has been totally debunked, but most of today’s research points to the fact that autism is caused by genetics. So I torture myself wondering what Ken and/or I did that caused Jesse to have Asperger’s Syndrome. I also carry the guilt of how Jesse’s disorder has affected his brother’s life. How many times have I had to push Benjamin aside because I was busy concentrating on getting Jesse through another meltdown? How many times has Benjamin had to deal with people making fun of his brother? How many times must it have seemed to Benjamin that I was giving in to Jesse because of his disorder? You see, autism doesn’t just affect the one with the diagnosis. It affects the entire family.

So, the next time you see a child throwing a tantrum in a store, or a parent trying to calm down a child in public, please realize that there may be more going on there than meets the eye. When you come across someone you feel is “odd” or who doesn’t see things the same way you do, don’t judge too harshly. You may be in the presence of someone who is autistic. Don’t turn away from them. If you do, you will be depriving yourself of some of the most intelligent, logical, interesting and honest people in the world. You act the way you do because of the way you perceive the world. SO DO THEY. Don’t punish them because their perception is different from yours.

Cancer SUCKS!!!

First off, I guess I should apologize about the title of this post.  It is not a word I would ordinarily use, and when I hear my sons say it, I usually tell them to choose a more appropriate word.  But sometimes, in some situations, I guess it is the only word that will do.  Secondly, if you or a loved one is now or has ever gone through a cancer battle, you may not want to read this post.  It won’t be one of those gentle, supportive, encouraging posts, and I want to warn y’all, because I do NOT want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  This post is born out of the anger, frustration and absolute helplessness that always gets stirred back up for me whenever I hear that another person I care about has been diagnosed with cancer.

For the record… I HATE CANCER!!!  Cancer is STUPID!!!  Cancer does NOT play fair!!!  Cancer is a hideous, horrible, mean disease that robs people first, of their health and then, of their dignity.  What other disease makes doctors want to carve huge chunks out of a person’s body and then poison what is left?  The treatments, while they may well destroy the cancer cells, unfortunately kill/damage/maim other cells in the body too.  A body that has been through any type of cancer treatment is never the same as it was before the cancer appeared.  People don’t even want to say the word “cancer”.  They use words like, “malignancy”, “mass”, “suspicious tissue”, all in an attempt to not have to speak that dreaded, monstrous word.  Some even go so far as to make up cute little euphemisms, like “the Big C”.  Make no mistake… there is nothing cute about cancer. 

I know that many people tend to ask, “why?”, and/or blame God when cancer is diagnosed.  Those are two things that I never really did.  I didn’t ask why once I realized that there wasn’t one single answer that would make me say, “okay, that’s a good enough reason… go ahead and let my loved one suffer mercilessly”.  And God did not wake up one morning and “decide” to give Ken cancer.  Ken got cancer because we live in a fallen world. When God created this world, He intended that we humans would obey His laws and live in perfect health and peace in His presence FOREVER.   Illness and death are direct results of man’s sin, plain and simple. 

The issue that I struggle with is who God allows to be affected by cancer.  Our world is in such a sad, pitiful, sinful state.  We NEED good people here on earth.  Good men and women who love God and demonstrate that love by loving, leading, helping and encouraging others.  Precious souls who sing God’s praises with joyful spirits.  These people should not be allowed to suffer and possibly die from such dreadful, horrible diseases.  Why is it that good people are allowed to go through such devastation when a crazy man who turned a rag-tag group of disillusioned, needy young people into cold-blooded killers gets to live for years and years (albeit in prison) in presumably good health?  Or people who live to strike terror in the hearts of others by committing heinous acts of murder and mayhem against innocent people escape punishment, living in luxury and palaces for year and years?  What kind of sense does that make?  It doesn’t.  AND THAT MAKES ME MAD!!!!!!   

So sometimes I get all sideways with God.   I shake my fist and pound my tear-stained pillows because I don’t understand.  My frustration at times borders on blasphemy when I presume to try and tell God that whatever purpose He is trying to accomplish could surely be achieved in some other, less painful way.  And then, quietly, in the midst of my anger and frustration fueled tantrums… I feel it.  A presence of comfort all around me, wrapping itself around my stubborn, angry self and overwhelming me with the knowledge that It can be none other than the Holy Spirit, my Comforter, the very one Jesus promised that He would send.  He does not try and explain Himself or His ways to me.  He reminds me that He knows what He is doing and that He does not owe me any explanations.  He whispers, “My grace is sufficient…”  And somehow, it is. 

So… does that make it “okay” that good people have to suffer with horrible diseases like cancer?  No, it does not.  Can I accept that there is purpose in everything that God allows?  Most days, yes… other days, not so much.  Do I still hate that cancer left me a widow and my children fatherless?  Absolutely.  Do I understand God’s reasons and plans?  No, I don’t.  Will I ever understand?  Probably not until I get to heaven and see Jesus face-to-face.  And then, it won’t matter anymore.  Do I still get sideways and shake my fists at Him?  Sometimes.  Does God still love me, even when I presume to tell Him His business?  Thankfully, yes.  Am I blessed to feel the Holy Spirit’s comfort and God’s amazing love?  Constantly.                             

  Does cancer suck?  Yeah, it does

Second Son

Seventeen years ago this week, November 27, 1995, Ken and I were blessed with a second son.  We named him Benjamin Kendrick Lunsford.  We always had a hard time agreeing on boy names… could always agree on girl names.  We quickly agreed that if we had a daughter, her name would be Elizabeth Grace, but as we had with Jesse, we couldn’t agree on a name for another son.  After having such a difficult delivery with Jesse, I had asked Ken, “Since I went through the valley of the shadow to birth the first one, that means I get to name any others we have, right?”  He agreed that I could, but later on down the road,  he tried to renege on it.  Holding him to his original agreement, I informed him that since our first son was named Jesse Kenneth, after Ken, if we had a second son, he would be named Benjamin Kendrick, after me.  I don’t think Ken was thrilled with the name I chose, but he had several months to get used to it.  I think he was a little passive-aggressive about it though, because for the first two years of Benjamin’s life, Ken only ever called him “Scooter”. 

When we were expecting Jesse, we had never been able to find out if he was a girl or boy and truthfully didn’t know until the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!” on the day he was born.  I was determined that it would be different the second time around.  I remember going in for the ultrasound with two buttons in my hands.  One said, “It’s a girl”, and the other said “It’s a boy”.  I told the technician that I would NOT get off of her table until I knew which button to wear home.  So, with Ken, Jesse and Sweet Pea all standing by, she had me turn every which way imaginable so she could try and let us know.  She finally said, “Oh there he is!  You are having a boy!”  I excitedly pinned the “boy” button on my shirt.  From that day forward, I always referred to him as “Benjamin” and not “the baby”. 

I am always amazed at what people say sometimes.  When we started announcing that we were expecting another son, several people asked me how disappointed I was that it wasn’t a girl this time.  I had just found out that our baby was healthy and growing like he should… I was NOT disappointed.  And I’ve always thought that all boys need a brother, so I was happy for Jesse. 

The pregnancy with Benjamin was pretty uneventful.  Ken and I had decided that I would stay home with the boys after he was born.  I made just about enough money at the job I was working at the time to pay someone else to watch my children, but that was all.  It would have been CRAZY to go back to work, just to pay someone else to raise my kids.  When we decided I would be a stay-at-home-mom, Ken suggested that I just go on and quit my job so I would have a few months to spend just with Jesse.  He didn’t have to tell me twice!  I gave my notice the next day and stayed only long enough to train my replacement.  I think I was about five months along when I quit.  I didn’t go back to work until after Benjamin started kindergarten and I never ever regretted our decision.

We worried that we’d have another difficult delivery and wanted to avoid that at all costs.  I asked my doctor what the odds would be that I would end up having to have another C-section.  He said that since my problem with Jesse had been that I never fully dilated, the chances were high that the same thing could happen again.  We decided that instead of waiting to go into labor and probably having a repeat procedure, we would just choose Benjamin’s birthday and schedule a planned C-section.  That would take a lot of the worry out of the whole process.  We decided on the Monday after Thanksgiving, November 27^th. 

I remember thinking about how busy and crazy it can get when you have a new baby, so I decided we needed to get all of our Christmas shopping/decorating/wrapping done before we went to the hospital, so I set about making sure that happened.  I spent many long hours cross-stitching Benjamin’s Christmas stocking because I was determined he would have one that matched Jesse’s on his first Christmas.  It was a busy time of great anticipation.

On Benjamin’s birthday, Mama came up (as usual) to look after Jesse for us.  While Ken and I were bringing his little brother into the world, Jesse was helping Grandmom bake cupcakes with blue frosting to take to his preschool class.  He was so excited to finally be able to wear his I’m the Big Brother shirt. 

Ken and I got to the hospital bright and early on that wonderful, much longed-for Monday morning.   My best friend, Jan, was going to be our labor and delivery nurse, so I knew we would be in good hands.  Someone asked me if I was nervous, but I remember saying that I was more excited than nervous.  Jan gave me one of those lovely hospital gowns to put on and sent me to the restroom to pee in a cup.  She was going to wait and let the IV team start my IV, because she didn’t want to run the risk of hurting me, since she loved me.  I guess, though, that I must have been more nervous than I realized, because all of a sudden, things sort of went a little hazy.  I remember saying, “Jan, I don’t think I feel so good.”  To which she yelled at me, “You lay down in that bed, right NOW!!”  She promptly popped that IV in me before I could even realize what she was doing.  Later she told me that I had turned a pasty shade of green and scared her half to death.  “Don’t you EVER do that to me again”, she ordered.  “I didn’t mean to do it the first time”, I whimpered back at her.  Poor Jan… I’m not sure she has ever forgiven me for scaring her like that.

About that time, the anesthesiologist came to do my epidural.  They made Ken leave the room and it made him so mad.  They got the epidural placed in my back and started pumping the medicine in me.  After a little while, he would stick my belly with a little pin and ask, “Can you feel that?”  I told him that I could feel it, but  it didn’t hurt.  He pumped more medicine in.  This happened three or four more times.  Every time I said I could still feel him poking me with his pin, he would pump in more medicine.  Finally, it was time for us to go into the delivery suite.  They wheeled me in and someone asked if I thought I could help move myself onto the table.  Now, with Jesse, not only could I wiggle my toes and climb over to the delivery table, but I had felt the scalpel go across my belly.  It didn’t hurt, but I could still feel it.  I assumed it would be the same on that day, so I said, “Yes, I believe I can.”  Well, the only part of myself that I could move was my arms, upper chest, shoulders and head.  Nothing from mid-chest down would budge.  Boy, was I surprised! 

After they moved me onto the table, they set up the drapes and went to work.  Ken didn’t try to look over the drapes this time.  I guess he had seen enough when he took a peek on Jesse’s birthday.  Once Benjamin was born, the doctor handed him directly to Jan.  Benjamin’s “Aunt Jan” got to hold him before his Mama did.  Jan said, “He looks like Jesse, but oh, he has dimples!”  She brought him close so I could kiss him.  He was perfect!  "We've been waiting for you!" I whispered, through tears.  Ken and I were both overwhelmed with emotion.  When they got me to the recovery room, I was shaking so hard from the epidural, I was almost afraid to hold Benjamin, for fear I would drop him.  Jan said, “That’s okay, we’ll be right back!”, and went happily down the hall, showing off “our” new little boy.  Ken and I were so glad that Jan was able to be with us for such a special occasion.

Later that afternoon, Mama brought Jesse up to meet his new baby brother.  I was holding Benjamin in my arms when they came in.  The moment Jesse spoke, Benjamin turned his little head toward Jesse.  That baby already knew his brother’s voice!  It was a tremendously sweet moment.

It is hard for me to believe that seventeen years have passed since I first laid eyes on that precious little dimple-face boy.  Benjamin looked a lot my baby pictures when he was a baby, but as he has grown older, his resemblance to his dad has gotten more and more pronounced.  He is built exactly like Ken, walks and talks like Ken, and has many of the same mannerisms and expressions.  Sometimes the resemblance is so strong that it takes my breath away.  I worry, sometimes, that Benjamin’s only true memories of Ken will be of him being sick.  He was just a baby (seven) when Ken was diagnosed.  But I have always talked to both boys about their Daddy, so I think Benjamin does have good memories of Ken, even if they are borrowed ones.

Happy Birthday, Benjamin Kendrick Lunsford!  I am so blessed that God chose me to be your Mama.           

     

Anniversary

SIGH… if my sweet Ken had lived, we would be celebrating our 23^rd wedding anniversary this week.  It comes on the heels of the 10^th anniversary of Ken’s cancer diagnosis, which was last week.  In an attempt to alleviate some of the bone-crushing sadness this time of year always brings, I have decided to write about our engagement and our wedding day.

Ken and I became officially engaged in the spring of 1989.  We had been dating exclusively for almost a year.  We hadn’t mentioned marriage, but I think we both felt like we were headed in that direction.  Ken knew I wanted a home and family and he had even stated on several occasions that, “One of these days, I’d like to have a wife and a couple of little rug rats running around”.  (I find it sweetly ironic that when Jesse was little, one of his favorite TV shows was called Rugrats.)

One day, we were sitting on Ken’s front porch steps, just hanging out.  I think we had just gotten home from our weekly flea market and yard sale excursion.  Some couples go to dinner and a movie for their weekly date… we always made the rounds at the local flea market and neighborhood yard sales and then had lunch.  Anyway, we were sitting on the steps, talking about nothing in particular, when the conversation turned towards the future.  I remember asking Ken, “So where do you think this thing between us is heading?”  “What do you mean?”, was Ken’s reply.  “Well”, I said, “You know I’d like to have a family… I’m almost 30 years old.”  Ken nodded his head, but remained silent.  I figured the conversation was over.  We sat for a while longer, side by side on the porch steps.  Then, Ken leaned over towards me, so that his shoulder touched my shoulder, and quietly said, “I reckon we can get married, if you want to.”  I remember looking sideways at him to see if he was serious.  We grinned at each other and I said, “okay”.  I know it’s not moonlight and roses, but it was SO Ken. 

The following week, Ken took me shopping and bought me an engagement ring.  Compared to what most young ladies expect now-days, it was relatively small… only a quarter karat.  But I adored it and I absolutely loved what it represented.  Years later, after our boys were born, Ken bought me a ruby and diamond wrap to go around it.  He offered to buy me a bigger diamond too, but I never wanted anything other than the ring he gave me first.

We decided that we would like to be married before the end of that year.  Didn’t want it to be close to the Thanksgiving/Christmas crunch time, so we decided on October.  Ken suggested, “Hey, why don’t we just have it on your birthday?  That would be a great present, right?”  I told him that he wasn’t going to get off that easy… he was just trying to make it easier to remember our anniversary!  He grinned his “uh-oh, you caught me” grin, and we agreed on October 14^th.

I don’t recall a lot of the wedding preparations.  We wanted it small… we were both more interested in being married than in getting married.  My mama made my beautiful wedding gown, along with the bridesmaids and flower girl dresses.  Ken’s family told me, “You’ll never get Robert (Ken’s dad) into a tuxedo!”  But, I guess he liked me or something, because he never gave me any lip about it.  He went for his fitting with little or no complaint.  Truthfully, I believe he liked wearing the tuxedo… he thought he was pretty cute, all dressed up.  He was, by the way.

Our wedding day dawned as one of those beautiful autumn days where the sky is just a crystal-clear, sparkly blue.  I’ve often said that the weather that day was God’s wedding gift to Ken and me.  I got to the church around noon or so, because the wedding was going to be at 3:00.  I don’t remember being really nervous until I put on the dress and veil.  I guess that made it real for me.  Michaelann, my sweet little niece, was adorable in her pink taffeta flower girl dress with rows and rows of lace.  She kept running back and forth from the bride’s room to the church and giving me updates on who was arriving.  I wondered if she was worried that Ken wouldn’t come, because every time she would announce who had arrived, she would say, “But Uncle Ken isn’t here yet!”  Lucky for me, he made it, with time to spare.

When it was time for the wedding to begin, I asked my Daddy to pray for us.  He and Mama and I held hands and he asked for God’s blessing on our wedding and on our marriage.  Then he held out his arm and walked me to the front of the church where my handsome husband was waiting.  I still remember the light in Ken’s eyes as he took my hand. 

The ceremony was brief.  I remember saying “I do”, but the one line that stayed with me was actually from the ring ceremony.  Instead of saying “With this ring, I thee wed”, we said, “With this ring, I pledge my life and my love to you.  In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”  It still makes me well up every time I remember that promise we made to each other on that beautiful day.

So, shortly after 3:00 pm on Saturday, October 14, 1989, Ken and I were pronounced husband and wife and presented to the world for the first time as “Mr. & Mrs. Kenneth Wayne Lunsford”.  It just felt so perfectly right. 

I do not remember much about the reception… just little snippets here and there.  I remember Ken’s cousin, Louise, introduced herself to me as his double-first cousin (Ken’s mom and her sister married Ken’s dad and his brother).  One of Ken’s uncles hugged me and said, “Well hey there!  I’m your Uncle Gordon!”   And I remember being very thankful that my Granny was there, because she had to have her gall bladder removed shortly before our wedding and we didn’t know for sure if she’d be able to be there.  I remember tossing the bouquet.  Sweet little Kelly, the girl who was passing out my birdseed bags, caught it, and about six months later, her daddy, Brian, married Jan, who would become Kelly’s mom and my best friend in the whole world.

When we got ready to leave, everyone started showering us with birdseed.  I noticed what looked like some really big and colorful seeds falling over our heads.  Closer examination revealed that they weren’t just throwing birdseed, but M&Ms too!  Ken’s mom had gotten his nieces to throw M&Ms because she knew they were my favorite candy.  I thought it was very sweet, but I also thought it was a waste of perfectly good M&Ms.  Maybe they should have just thrown me the whole bag of candy!  J

When we got to the car, we stopped in our tracks.  Now, I had expected that certain folks were going to “decorate” the car we would leave in.  I truly looked forward to it as part of the whole wedding experience.  I was not prepared, however, for how thorough they would be.  My car was completely covered, inside and out, with silly string, balloons, and Fruity Pebbles breakfast cereal (I still haven’t figured that one out!).  We had to take balloons out of the car so we would have room to get in.  We hopped in that ridiculously decorated car and took off.  And what was our first stop as husband and wife?  THE CAR WASH!!!  We must have made quite a picture with Ken busy vacuuming out and hosing down the car as I stood by in my wedding dress with the train gathered up in my arms!  And we were never able to get all of the cereal out of the car.  Several pieces got stuck down in the crack where the windshield and dashboard meet.  For years thereafter, people would look puzzled at me and say, "Why do you have Fruity Pebbles in your car?!"

That beautiful day was 23 years ago, but sometimes, it feels like it was just yesterday.  Ken went to heaven a month after we celebrated our 15^th anniversary.  He was too sick that day to go out shopping, so he told me to go and pick out something I wanted.  I chose a necklace and matching earrings.  To this day, I can’t bear to wear them. 

Happy Anniversary, Ken.  I am so very thankful that you chose me to be your wife.  I love you.

          

 

                   

Why I LOVE the 4th of July!

I am going to go on record and say that Summer holidays have never been my favorite.  I don’t like to be hot enough to sweat… I don’t like being sunburned… I don’t like mosquito bites… I don’t like watermelon… I don’t like the sound of exploding things.  The ocean is pretty to look at, but I don’t like salt water and I don’t like sand.  I don’t like fishing, because if I catch something, I might actually have to touch it.   I don’t like swimming in lakes because I can’t see my feet, and the only reason I can imagine wanting to be dragged behind a speeding boat is if there is a snake or a shark behind me trying to take a bite out of my big behind.    I much prefer the Fall thru Winter holidays, with the crisp, cool air, changing leaf colors, turkey & dressing, manger scenes, decorated trees, Christmas cookies, Christmas cards, Christmas carols, colder weather, and even snow.  That being said, though, I have to admit that July 4^th is one of my all-time favorite days of the year.  Let me explain why.

I guess I will backpedal a little so I can set the scene.  In the Fall of 1987, I was teaching a K5 class at a private school in Birmingham.  It was my third year at this particular school and even though class sizes were smaller throughout the school that year, there was no indication of any problems.  But one afternoon, just before Thanksgiving, I was called in, along with one of the 4^th grade teachers, to have a “little meeting” with the school administrator.  We both figured it was a curriculum issue.  Well, when we sat down, the administrator informed us that due to declining school enrollment, we, and one of the 1^st grade teachers (she was supposed to be at the meeting, but didn’t get the message) no longer had jobs there.  I guess the word that best described my feelings at that moment is “thunder-struck”. 

Once the shock and hurt eased a little bit, then the panic set in.  That job had been my main source of income.  I had rent, a car payment and bills to pay.  No one hired teachers in the middle of the school year.  I just didn’t know what to do.  I prayed, HARD, and started applying for jobs.  I had already been helping at my then brother-in-law’s video store, so I could still do that.  I was able to pick up a part-time job at a tutoring place.  But even with two part-time jobs, once my severance from the school ran out, I would NOT be able to pay my bills.  My savings dwindled quickly, and I was finally to the point that I either had to get a full-time job, or I was going to have to move back home with my parents.  I remember crying out to God that night, begging for His guidance and promising I would follow wherever He led, if He would just help me find a job. 

It is amazing how quickly we forget our promises to God.  Just a couple of days later, I was sitting at my Mama’s table, reading the want ads when I came across one for which I was exactly qualified.  They needed someone with a Master’s degree in Early Childhood Education with teaching experience with 3 to 6-yr-olds.  I remember getting so excited as I read on and found, to my absolute dismay, that the place advertising the position was in Chattanooga, TN.  In my orneriness, I tossed the paper across the table and said, “I am NOT going to move to Chattanooga just to find a job!”   Anyway, as I was driving home, I felt an almost physical tap on my shoulder and heard the words, “Why not?!”  I argued at God all the way home, but He kept on tapping and asking.  By the time I got home, I finally said, in exasperation, “Okay, okay, okay!!!  I will send them a resume!”  And I did.

This was one of those times when God answered my prayer so definitively that I had no doubt what the outcome would be.  He told me that this particular job was MY job.  I felt it so deeply that I began making moving plans before anyone from the place had even called me.  I knew they would be calling, but with two part-time jobs, I was never home during the day, so I knew I would need to go and buy an answering machine.  This was before the days of cell phones and voice mail, so you had to buy a whole separate machine that recorded onto cassette tapes, to attach to your telephone.  These machines did not come cheap.  So, with what little money I had left, I bought an answering machine and an interview dress, and went on about my business.  Just a couple of evenings later, when I got home from my two little jobs, there was a message from the program director.  I called him the next day, he asked if I would come for an interview.  I did, and I GOT THE JOB, just like God told me I would.  Suddenly I was the supervisor of a therapeutic nursery school serving children who had been abused and/or neglected.  I just knew that it must be God’s will for me to make a difference in the lives of these kids, and that is why He moved me up there to take that job.  And even though it was a PART of His will for me, God had more far-reaching plans in mind.  He used that job to get me in a place where He could bless me with His REAL plan for my life.

As I was running around like a crazy woman, preparing to move to Chattanooga, one of my friends made the off-hand comment, “I’ll bet ‘Mr. Right’ lives up there!”  I remember getting all indignant with her and spouting off, “If you think I would move my life to another state just to meet a MAN, you are crazy!!!”  (Can’t you just see God smiling and nodding his head?  Can you see where this is heading?”)  I went about my business, moved, settled in, and started my new job.

I had been up there about a month when I started looking for ways to meet people.  I was already visiting churches, but one day I saw a sign across the street from my apartment complex advertising “Clogging Lessons”.  I know… the thought of seeing me stomping around in tap shoes must be making you roll your eyeballs and shake your head in disbelief.  But, I weighed a lot less then than I do now and God was still nudging me, so I signed up.  Soon, I was making new friends.  I met one girl who was a little older than me, but a single career-girl like me, so we became buddies.  One night she invited me to another friend’s house to watch movies and hang out.  When we got there, I found myself being introduced to a slow-talking, blue-eyed country boy named Ken Lunsford.  (See that twinkle in God’s eye?)  We talked a little, watched movies, and went home.

You will remember, from previous posts, that I was in a place of suspicion when it came to men.  I truthfully still believed that I was too old and heavy for anyone to be interested in me and that I would spend the rest of my life as a single woman.  So you can imagine my surprise when Ken called a couple of days later.  To make a long story short, God’s plan for moving me to Chattanooga had, indeed, been a MAN—a very special one.  Ken was my “Mr. Right” and God had to move me to a place where we would meet each other.   The rest, so they say, is history.

Hmmm… this post has gone in a very different direction than I anticipated… I was going to talk about the 4^th of July, wasn’t I?  Well, I will finish up with why it is so special to me.  Ken and I went on our first date to Lake Winnepesaukah (Lake Winnie, for short), an amusement park in Rossville, GA.  We had gone there a couple of times that summer, for concerts or just to hang out, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked me if I wanted to go watch fireworks there on July 4^th.  At this point in our relationship, we were seriously “in like” with each other, so I readily agreed to go.  We went in the early evening, so we could spend some time in the park before the fireworks show began.  Ken had recently worked up the nerve to start putting his arm around me and holding my hand, so we wandered around like a couple of kids.  It was an enjoyable evening.  It started getting dark and we walked to the parking lot to get our cooler and blanket out of the car so we could get a good spot on the hill to watch the fireworks.  Just as we got to the car, Ken sort of pulled me around and KISSED ME!!  I remember being so surprised – it had been so long since I believed that ANY man would even want to kiss me.  We smiled at each other, and shyly, kissed again.  I think it was in that moment that being “in like” took a more serious and permanent turn for us.  We found a spot on the hill and watched the fireworks.  For some reason, on that night, the fireworks seemed a whole lot brighter and prettier.  And yes, I guess you could say that Ken and I made some “fireworks” of our own. 

So… why do I love the 4^th of July?  Because it was on that day that Ken Lunsford kissed Melinda Kendrick for the very first time.  Each year, that day always reminds me of how it felt when we fell in love  Maybe, just maybe, the extra brightness, twinkles and sparkles of the fireworks that night were simply a reflection of God’s smile.    

   

              

    

Firstborn

Jesse’s due date (or I guess it was MY due date, when Jesse was supposed to be born), was June 3^rd, 1991.  He unfortunately didn’t make his arrival until June the 14^th, a full 11 DAYS LATE!!  In commemoration of this auspicious, occasion, I have decided to tell the story of Jesse’s birth.  It can be the build-up to my “baby” turning 21.

First of all, can I just say, that for a pregnant woman, when her due date comes and goes with no baby being born, it is just not funny anymore.  I remember that I spent the entire day of June 4^th crying because Jesse was due on the 3^rd and didn’t come.  Secondly, I have to say that people can say some of the dumbest things to an overdue pregnant woman.  I can’t remember how many times different ones threw “You haven’t had that baby yet?!” my way.  It was quite obvious from looking at me that the answer to their question was NO!!!!  It felt like they thought I was doing it on purpose or something!!  I got to the point where I told people that it had all been a huge joke, that I had never really been pregnant, but had taken a job as a basketball smuggler!  Or I would look really surprised and exclaim, “What baby?!  It’s not nice to assume a woman is pregnant just because she has a big round belly!” 

Anyway, since it didn’t look like Jesse had any intention of making an appearance on his own, the Dr. decided to admit me to the hospital and induce my labor.  He told me to check in after 7:00 pm on the 12^th and they would begin the induction the next morning.  I worried a little about having a baby born on the 13^th… didn’t want him to have birthdays on the dreaded Friday the 13^th… but by that point, I was more than ready to finally hold that little bundle in my arms instead in my belly, so I was all for it.

Ken and I arrived at the hospital just past 7:00 on the 12^th.  They put me in one of the L&D rooms and there was a picture of a COW on the wall.  I wondered what genius it was that thought it would be a good idea to put a cow picture in a room that would be occupied by hugely pregnant women trying to give birth.  I’m sure it was a man. 

Once I got changed and into the bed, the nurse came and hooked me up to all the equipment to monitor my contractions (once they started) and the baby’s heartbeat.  Said she would come in a little later and put some kind of gel on my cervix to soften it up before they started the induction the next morning.  Sounded like a GREAT idea to me.  She came back just a little while later, looked at the monitors and said, “Did you know that you are having contractions right now?”  Well, no, I didn’t know it, because I wasn’t feeling anything other than the same general discomfort I had been feeling for the past month or so.  She said she was going to call my Dr. and let him know, because if they went ahead and put the gel on my cervix, it could stop the contractions. 

About an hour or so later, the nurse came back in and said Dr. Brown had said not to do the gel.  Then she cheerily said, “You can get dressed and go home now and we’ll see you back in the morning!”  WHAT??!!!  I finally make it to the hospital and they are going to send me back home?!  I was incredulous.  She must have seen it in my face, because she hurriedly said, “You can stay the night if you want to, but we won’t be doing anything for you until in the morning and if you stay it will cost you for another night.”  I got out of the bed and started getting re-dressed, sobbing as I went.  Ken told me we could stay if I wanted, but I didn’t see the point in having to pay for a useless night in the hospital, so we went home.

Around 4:00 or so the next morning, I woke up and discovered that I had lost the mucus plug.  I will spare you a description of what it looked like.  Just let me say that I was (and still am) amazed at the processes of the human body.  Anyway, shortly after that momentous occasion, I started having contractions… REAL ones.  I was SO excited!  I was going to have my baby without having to be helped along by labor inducing drugs.  Even though we didn’t have to be at the hospital until 7:00 or 8:00, I was much too excited to go back to bed.  So I took a shower, checked my suitcase to make sure everything was packed (even though it had already been packed for three weeks now), frosted a cake I had baked because I knew my Mama and Daddy were coming later that day, and cooked Ken a very big breakfast.  All the while, I was timing my contractions.  They were getting stronger and closer together.  By the time Ken and I left for the hospital, they were about five minutes apart.  They continued at this rate all the way to Erlanger Hospital.  But the very moment we pulled into the parking deck, they STOPPED!  I mean it was like they had never even happened!  I couldn’t believe it.

We went up to the Labor and Delivery floor and I told the nurse at the desk (through gritted teeth), “I am here to have my baby.”  She asked, “Are you in labor?”  “NOOOO!!”, I said, still gritting my teeth.  I was honestly so mad that my contractions had stopped that I could barely talk to her.  Ken told her we had been there the night before but they had sent us home and they were supposed to do an induction that morning.  She checked the orders and finally found my name.  This time she took us to one of the new L & D suites and thankfully, not the room with the cow picture on the wall.  She gave me a gown and told me to change and get in the bed.  About the time I got settled, Dr. Brown came in and said, “I’m going to break your water and then they’ll start the Pitocin to get your contractions started.”  Then he pulled out what looked like a giant crochet hook, pushed it up inside of me and started fishing around.  I guess that is the closest I have ever come to hurting a member of the medical profession.  I drew my foot back and told Dr. Brown that if he didn’t stop, I would kick him.  He laughed and said, “No, you won’t.”  He just didn’t know how serious I was.  Anyway, he stopped and said he’d “try again later”.  “Not so long as I’m conscious!”, was my reply. 

Being that this was my first time giving birth, I had the crazy notion that I would “go natural”.  Ha ha! Silly me!  Once they started the Pitocin drip and the contractions started coming one on top of the other with no time to breathe in between, I quickly opted to have an epidural.  (Yep!  I am a BIG wimp!)  The first anesthesiologist they sent was from India.  His accent was so heavy that I could not understand a word he said.  Each time he would speak to me, I had to ask him to repeat himself and he was getting mad at me because I couldn’t understand him!  Call me crazy, but I do not think people who are in considerable pain should have to worry about having to find someone to translate what the doctor is saying to them.  Finally, I grabbed the nurse’s arm and said, “Please go get me someone who speaks English!”  She called for another anesthesiologist, who placed the epidural with no problems, and we settled in to wait. 

We waited… and waited… and waited… and then we waited some more.  The monitors showed I was having really good contractions, but evidently not good enough to convince our hard-headed little baby to go on and be born.  This went on all day.  Every half hour or so, someone would come in, introduce themselves and say, “I’m going to check you now.”  Erlanger was a teaching hospital, so there were a lot of pre-med and nursing students, residents, etc., hanging around trying to learn something.  But we waited so long and so many different people came in, at one point I told Ken, “I think someone is out in the hallway selling tickets!”  Anyway, they all “checked me” and they all said the same thing… “Oh good!  You are at 7 cm.  Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”  Then they would leave, before I could tell them that I had been at 7 cm ALL DAY!! 

The waiting continued.  Around mid-afternoon, one of the nurses came in and said that maintenance was going to be working on the AC that evening, so they would be turning off the system soon.  REALLY?!  It is the middle of June and you are going to turn off the air conditioner while I’m trying to have a baby?!  Unbelievable!!  They turned it off and it got HOT!  Luckily, we had a very sweet nurse on that shift who went in search of a fan for the room and a recliner chair for my Daddy.  Wish we could have kept that nurse, because after the shift change, our nurse was less than interested about me and my baby.  She had a student nurse with her and they stood, one on each side of my bed, totally ignoring me and yammering on about how rotten their kids were.  I interrupted their gab-fest to tell the nurse that my bag of epidural medicine was just about empty.  “Hmm”, she said, and they left the room.  I figured they would be back in soon with another bag of meds, but the sun went down, the bag emptied out, and they never came.  I started to get very uncomfortable, so I pushed the call button.  She stuck her head in the door and looked at me like I was interrupting something important.  I said, “I can feel my contractions.”  She stomped over to the monitor and said, “Well, it’s no wonder… you are really blowing them off the charts over here!”  Then she turned to leave.  “Wait!”, I yelled.  “This thing in my back is so I WON’T feel my contractions, isn’t it?”  She looked at the bag of meds (the same one I had told her earlier was almost empty) and said, “Well, that one’s run out.  They’ll have to do another epidural on you.  Do you want me to call the anesthesiologist again?”  “Well, DUH!”, I thought.  “Yes, please do”, I said. 

By this time, we were into the wee-hours of the 14^th.  Ken was curled up on the couch, Daddy was stretched out in the recliner, Mama was fanning me and bringing me cool cloths, and I was in tremendous pain, begging anyone who would listen to “please let me go home”.  The anesthesiologist came in to do my second epidural.  Unfortunately, though, I was in such pain that I had a hard time holding still, and he was never able to get it placed correctly.  About this time, Dr. Brown came in.  He said that I’m still at 7 cm (SURPRISE!) and that he will give me two more hours to have this baby before he does a C-section.  “Or”, he said, “we can go ahead and do a C-section now”.  I looked at Ken, he nodded, and we both said, “Now!”  My immediate concern was whether or not Ken would still be able to go into the delivery room with me.  Dr. Brown said only if they were able to get another epidural to take effect.  If they had to put me to sleep, Ken couldn’t go.  They called the anesthesia department and they sent the doctor to come and do another (my THIRD) epidural.  Thankfully, this one took.

As they were wheeling me to the delivery suite, I suddenly realized that I could wiggle my toes.  I remember that all of my friends said when I had an epidural, I wouldn’t be able to feel my feet.  So I said to the anesthesiologist who was at the head of my gurney, “I can feel my toes.”  He continued talking to whoever else it was at the head of the gurney.  I said, a little louder this time, “I can feel my toes!”.  Still no response.  This time, I yelled, “I CAN FEEL MY TOES!!!!”.  He stopped talking and smiled down at me and said, “Can you feel your contractions?”  “No”, I replied, BUT I CAN FEEL MY TOES!!!”.  He laughed and said, “Well, honey, we’re not going to be cutting your toes!”

When we got to the delivery suite, things sort of started going in fast motion.  Ken came in all gowned up, I got onto the table, they put drapes up all around me and got down to the business of bringing our firstborn child into the world.  Ken stood up once and peeked over the drape, but he sat back down quickly and was a little green around the gills. 

  At this point, we still did not know if our baby was a girl or a boy.  Very uncooperative little critter whenever we had ultrasounds.  I had the feeling for my whole pregnancy that it would be a girl… had only really considered that it might be a boy for the two weeks prior to the birth.  I had a really good track-record for correctly guessing the sex of other women’s babies, so I think Ken and Mama and Daddy fully expected a girl.  Ken and I hadn’t even been able to agree on a name for a boy baby until just before we went to the hospital when I gave him two choices and told him to pick one.  We finally agreed on Jesse Kenneth, and it was a good thing, because after much tugging and pulling, Dr. Brown happily announced, “It’s a BOY!!”  Then the nurses whisked him away and I didn’t get to see him until after Dr. Brown had stapled me shut and I was in the recovery room.  I was getting concerned, but they brought him in shortly thereafter.  It seems that there was meconium in his water and they didn’t want him to breathe it into his little lungs.  The umbilical cord had also been wrapped around his neck – twice, so his little nailbeds were purple when they handed him to me.  I shudder to think what could have happened if we had tried to push that sweet baby through the birth canal.  Thank you, God, for not letting me push!

Jesse Kenneth Lunsford was born at 8:13 am on June 14, 1991.  He weighed 8 lbs. 9 oz. and was 21 inches long.  Due to the C-section, he had a perfectly round little head and when he scrunched up his forehead, he looked just like my Daddy.  We promptly christened that expression “the Granddad face”.  Now, I already loved this little scamp.  I had ever since the moment I saw two lines on that pregnancy test.  But when they put Jesse in my arms for the first time, the love I felt for him simply took my breath away.  I call it the “earth-shaking, heart-breaking love”.  I don’t think I ever fully realized how very much my parents loved me until that moment when I felt that kind of love for my own child.  Ken and I knew that our lives would never be the same.

It was about then that the nurse brought Mama and Daddy back.  They knew the baby had been born, but the nurse hadn’t told them if it was a boy or a girl.  I said to them, “Come in and meet your new grandson.”  I will never ever forget the way my Daddy’s face brightened up as he said, “Grandson?”  Aww… it still makes me misty when I remember. 

That was 21 years ago.  Now my sweet little baby boy is a man.  I thank God every day for this precious blessing that He gave us all those years ago.  Happy Birthday, Jesse!  Your Mama loves you!!!  (And your Daddy did too, with his whole heart.)