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What Does 125 Gallons of Donated Breast Milk Look Like?

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donated breastmilk

A friend asked me yesterday what my most popular, or most viewed post was. I shared with her THIS POST. It was written about a little under 2 years ago during a very challenging time. I re-read it and was in tears. Every emotion came back to me and I remembered every terrible detail of that period in my life.

I’ve shared with you all that I lost my younger sister 2 years ago to suicide. My son was a newborn at the time, well, he was 2 months old, and I was breastfeeding him. He actually was so easy to breastfeed compared to my daughter. I had horrible issues with my daughter, including her completely taking a chunk of my nipple off. And, yes, stubborn me, I nursed right through it all. I was super-mama. I could nurse with a missing nipple…even though I, secretly, despised every whimper or cry my daughter made to nurse when she was hungry.

My son was a completely different story. I was so happy that we had such a good nursing relationship from the start. I guess this is how it usually is with your second child. However, the day my sister died, my supply immediately tanked. I talk about my experience more in depth in THIS POST. But, I remember sitting on the curb outside my sister’s house 15 minutes after we discovered that she had taken her own life. My son was hungry and I had to feed him. I had to give life in the midst of death….and I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

I will never judge another mom who I see give formula to their baby. I was so ashamed. I felt so guilty. I felt so inadequate as a mother. I drove myself crazy trying to get some milk out of my deflated breasts. I pumped while I was grieving. I took herbal supplements while eating care-meals that were delivered to us. I wore an Supplemental Nursing System in the middle of my sister’s funeral. I tried and I tried and I tried…and I failed. My body was telling me I needed the rest. My body was telling me to focus on myself…on my grief…on my loss. But I could not just let it go. Here I am trying to care for my 2 year old and my newborn baby …but my body was not able to keep up with the high demand that I was giving it.

Embarrassed by what I had to do…I shamefully, purchased baby formula in secret. I put that formula in my Medela bottles so people would think that it was pumped breastmilk. I even wore a nursing cover while feeding my son out of a bottle UNDER THE BLANKET. I was so ashamed.

My healing…

This is what 125 gallons of donated breastmilk looks like…

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Two years later my son is a brilliant, strong, and healthy little boy. I made it. I got through the toughest season of my life. For a short while, I thought he was my curse. How could something so tragic happen when I had a newborn? I was so mad at God for giving me this “burden”. I loved my son so much, but, why? How? How could I celebrate this new life given to me while grieving the death of my sister? We think miracles are flying angels, or healings, or someone someone walking out of a wheelchair. But, I’ve come to realize they aren’t always like that.

Miracles come in the form of plastic baggies and styrofoam coolers and little notes saying that 10 ounces is all I could pump. They come in the form of a stranger handing you a cooler of pumped breast milk and giving you a hug. They come in the form of friends pumping while nursing their babies then giving you their milk. They come in the form a UPS man handing you a regular package, but inside you know that there is 2 months worth of milk for your baby that you weren’t able to produce.

Two years later I have a new appreciation for the community of mothers. They pump and they nurse and they drive 50 miles to give you something that you so desperately need. They don’t ask questions and they don’t ask for anything in return and when you give them flowers to say thank you, they say that they didn’t think twice about it.

My son is thriving today, 2 years later, because of those mothers. You are the reason I got through this. You are the reason I have hope in mankind again. You give birth to your own babies and then you nurse them and pump for mine. Who does that?

This is what 125 gallons of breastmilk looks like…

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This is because of you. Thank you for donating. Thank you to all the mothers who have ever donated to ANYONE. You are amazing. You are the angels that walk this earth. Thank you.

 

 

 

City Girl to Farm Girl: The Transformation Within

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Picnic basket in one hand, my son’s hand in the other, we open the rusty gate and head out to find a perfect spot to lay our blanket. The autumn leaves crunch beneath my farm boots – I still snicker when I look down and see rubber boots instead of polished, tan toes that compliment my $1 Old Navy flip-flops. Paleo farm girl runs ahead of us and asks to let the chickens out. Her wavy hair dances in the mountain air and sings a song as the sun flickers off her fading summer highlights.

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Paleo son giggles when the chickens break free from their coop – their eyes eager to find a juicy bug outside the coop walls. Do I know that feeling! Paleo farm girl picks up her favorite chicken, Susie Sunshine, so delicately and gently. This is the second Susie Sunshine. The first Susie Sunshine met her unfortunate fate when Paleo farm girl accidentally stepped on her. I felt the crush and blow with her and we held her fading body as she slipped away from this world. This was our first hard lesson of farm life but we knew the pain of death already.

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My son slips from my hand and brings me back to this moment. I watch as he runs ahead and I know where he is going. He is fascinated with “wish flowers” and they cover our pasture. He counts to three and blows and I watch the white florets surround my son and I watch as his eyes follow the florets up in the air above him. The moment is perfect and I thank God that I am here in it. I remember my life when it was crushed, stepped on…like the first Susie Sunshine. My life was fading away and I felt like I couldn’t breath. My bones were broken and I couldn’t hold my head up. My spirit barely was holding on and I could not get past the pain my body had felt._MG_7785_MG_7798_MG_7788

I stood in the hallway broken and crying out for help, I felt it. I felt someone pick me up and over time He began to, every-so-carefully, put me back together. I watch my children in our new life and think of how my life has so, drastically, changed. But it didn’t happen all at once…it was piece by piece…by piece. And now I walk hand-in-hand with my child whose birth painfully reminds me of the death of my sister. My life has been a life of parallels; plagued with celebrating the life of my son, but burdened, at the same time, with grieving the death of my younger sister. It’s been two years and I’ve walked these parallels and I’ve been burdened with grief and guilt. I’ve been screaming into a pillow and felt trapped in this life. I thought this is how it would feel forever…but here I am…I’m watching the wish flowers surround my son and fly up into the mountain breeze. I’m looking at the mountains that surround us and admiring the way the sun forms shadows on in the crevices of the distant peaks.

I hit my knees and a wave of peace comes over me. I don’t feel God anymore so I don’t know if that is what this is…but it is something so close that it leaves me believing that I will feel Him again. I reach my hand up to grab my sister’s necklace and, for once, I know it’s ok. My sister led me here because I know I wouldn’t be here…in the middle of the mountains of North Carolina…if it wasn’t for what happened. My life wouldn’t have gone through such trauma. I wouldn’t feel like I do now. I wouldn’t be this alive.

Cause now I feel things. I see things I never saw…

like how beautiful the florets of the wish flower are.

Or how my daughter’s hair dances in the air.

Or how beautiful the leaves are as they are changing from green to their autumn color.

I wouldn’t feel peace because to truly feel peace, you have to know what war is. 

I pull the checkered blanket from our picnic basket and we sit down to enjoy this day that was given to us. My daughter says a prayer and thanks the Lord for her chicken. My son throws his little arms in the air and screams, “AMEN.” We break bread together, as a little family that has been through a tough few years but has come out of the storm. I had a feeling this place would help me continue to heal and I’m thankful that it has held up to that expectation.

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My heart has always had a calling for more than what a city could offer me and living in it was like a prison.

I’m thankful to be set free.

I’m blessed to be able to treasure this moment.

…because now I know how fast life is.

…now I know that I can be broken…and happy…and it’s ok.

This crushed and broken city-girl is gone. A vibrant and peaceful farm girl has arrived. 

My soul is…

quenched.

 

My Rainbow Baby that God Gave Me After the Storm

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I’m breaking my summer blogging sabbatical because I’m feeling very emotional tonight and feel like writing. My son turns 2 tomorrow and my emotions are a whirlwind because of that. I’m not sure why…well, I have a few ideas why. First, he is my baby and 2 marks the end of “babyhood”. Second, as we draw closer to his birthday, we draw closer to the anniversary of my sister’s death.

I asked God so many times why He would take my sister from me at the time I had a newborn baby. It was nearly impossible for me to care for my kids while grieving the loss of my sister and without my husband (who was incredible through it all), I’m pretty sure I would not have endured it.

A friend of mine who also went through a intensely tough storm said it perfectly when she said that she felt like she was living a life of parallels with her newborn. I, too, have felt plagued with the same feelings. It has been 2 years of parallels…2 years of life and 2 years of death. At many times I felt so confused as to how I was supposed to embrace this precious new life that God had given me, while being broken and hurt over the life that I had loss in my sister.

I felt God whisper to me many times that out of death comes life.

He knew before my son, Frankie, was even conceived that my beautiful sister would pass away from this earth around the same time as my son’s birth. There was a purpose to these parallels and what is so beautiful is that I am only beginning to see it.

Frankie brings me so much joy that it is almost unbearable. The first year of his life I dealt with guilt over so many things…our broken breastfeeding relationship…laughing at him when I should be grieving…and, most of all, feeling as if the beginning of his beautiful life was overshadowed by my sister’s tragic death.

Frankie is my rainbow baby. He was conceived shortly after a miscarriage that my husband and I had. He was my promise to God that followed a very difficult season of our lives.

Frankie is my rainbow baby that followed a very difficult storm…a storm that raged so hard that it shook the foundation of my faith and brought me to my knees in desperation. God knew I would need Frankie. God knew what exact moment I would need him. He was there with me and there was a reason for it all.

Frankie suckled at my breast 10 minutes after I found my sister. I held him and gave life to him when death was surrounding me. And in the darkest hours, in the blackness of the night, Frankie was there next to me, wrapped in my body and warmth, reminding me that out of death came a much needed significant life.

When I look at Frankie, I think of the promise God gave Noah. He will always calm the storm.

So, today, and always, I celebrate my Frankie!

Happy Birthday sweet boy!

 

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Frankie, Jr. born beautifully into Mommy's arms.
Frankie, Jr. born beautifully into Mommy’s arms.
Big sister holding him for the first time <3
Big sister holding him for the first time <3
I think this was the first picture I took of Frankie after my sister died. I remember thinking, "how can I be sad when I have this little boy to look at."
I think this was the first picture I took of Frankie after my sister died. I remember thinking, “how can I be sad when I have this little boy to look at.”

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Where is the Church?

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Disclaimer: sorry to everyone who follow me for my recipes. I am not strictly a recipe blog. I post random things on my mind and off topic all the time. If that is, solely, why you follow me, just skip on over this post!

I heard this song, Why by Rascal Flatts, for the first time today and just couldn’t believe how it, perfectly, expressed so many of my thoughts surrounding my sister. For those who don’t know, my sister, Dinah, took her own life about 1.5 years ago. It feels like yesterday. Her boyfriend was very tragically killed in an automobile accident by a drunk motorcyclist who ran a red light. The next day, my sister became overwhelmed with grief, confusion, and darkness. I know that if she was thinking straight and could have a “do-over”, she wouldn’t have done this. It leaves so many questions behind for the family. There never feels like there is comfort at all in her death. Fate didn’t take her. Sickness didn’t take her. She took herself and in doing so, she took everything.

The death of mega-church pastor Rick Warren’s son has ripped open my Dinah-wound. His son at 27 years old made the ultimate decision to take his own life after dealing with depression for many, many years. My heart aches for the family because I know the pain and depth of their sorrow. My sister was 27 years old too…almost done with college…and was the happiest I had seen her in a long time.

I love God and I have a great relationship with him. But I do not love the church. In fact, I have so much hurt over the church that there are some places I cannot even go. My question is…when is the church gonna put down their ridiculous mask’s and start doing something? The church has lost it’s practical side and has stopped extending Jesus’ hands and started extending promises of prayers. Prayers are great…but they don’t cut it. Jesus got his hands dirty and touched prostitutes and lepers and mentally ill and depressed people. Who are we reaching out and touching? Bible studies and care groups and home groups only reach out to each other. When are our hands going to open from our little circles of “groups” and reach out to the orphans, the prostitutes, the widows, the hopeless?

When someone is struggling with thoughts of suicide, promises of prayer and intercession are almost laughable! They need more than that. We have people sitting in the pews that are literally screaming for help and you can see it in there eyes! LOOK at them. Don’t look away…look at people in the eyes and you will see the pain. Where is the church? I don’t know the answers, but I do know that something needs to be done to reach out to the lost a little bit better. We need to show more love, instead of judgment. We need to extend grace, instead of gossiping about someone’s shortcomings.

My sister was shunned by her church and her workplace because she went through a divorce. What kind of love is that? I just can’t keep quiet about this lack of grace and love the church has taken on. When will we start to see people again, instead of their failures? When will we start to get dirty again, wrap ourselves in each other’s life mess, instead of avoiding people with too much drama? Why do we think that getting messing in love is any different than what Jesus did? Weren’t His words something like this…

“He who is without sin may cast the first stone.”

I need Jesus friends. I’ve wasted my time with fake friends who run when life gets dirty. What a waste of time! Life is about getting through the crap together.

We, desperately, need help in today’s world. Where is the church?

Why by Rascal Flatts (listen to it on youtube here)

It must’ve been in a place so dark  you couldn’t feel the light
Reachin’ for you through that stormy  cloud
Now here we are  gathered in our little hometown
This can’t be the  way you meant to draw a crowd

Oh, why? That’s what I keep askin’
Was there anything I could have said or done?
Oh, I had no clue you were masking
A troubled soul, God only knows what went wrong
And why you’d leave the stage in the middle of a  song

Now in my mind I keep you  frozen as a seventeen year old
Roundin’ third to score the winning run
You always played with passion no matter what the game
When you took the stage, you shined just like  the sun
Oh, why? That’s what I  keep askin
‘And was there anything  I could have said or done?

Oh, I  had no clue you were masking
A  troubled soul, oh, God only knows what went wrong
And why you’d leave the stage in the middle of a  song

Now the oak trees are  swayin’ in the early autumn breeze
The golden sun is shining on my face
The tangled thoughts I hear a mockingbird sing
This old world really ain’t that bad a place

Oh, why? There’s no comprehending
And who am I to try to judge or explain?
Oh, but I do have one burning question
Who told you life wasn’t worth the fight?
They were wrong, they lied, and now you’re gone, and we  cried
‘Cause it’s not like you  to walk away in the middle of a song
Your  beautiful song, your absolutely beautiful song

My sister. My beautiful Maid of Honor. Actually, it was my honor to have her as a sister.
My sister. My beautiful Maid of Honor. Actually, it was my honor to have her as a sister.

Memoirs of a Sister: Day 4

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Dinah & I getting ready to go on a ride

When I was 24/25 years old I bought a motorcycle. My brother had already had one so he taught me to ride and helped me purchase my first bike. Shortly after, my dad bought one…then my mom bought one…then my sister bought one. We all had motorcycles and a short era of riding together began.

It was the best days of my life with Dinah and with my family. We rode everywhere and nowhere. The 5 of us in our little family bike gang couldn’t be stopped.

With Dinah riding beside me, my life was always exciting. One day, we traded in our real motorcycles for my Dad’s Vespa scooter. He had this before he had the courage to get a Harley and we decided to take it for a drive. I drove, she rode on back. We went through woods and pretended we were Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels from Dumb and Dumber, her favorite movie. As we were riding around, laughing hysterically at I don’t even know what, we saw a pretty large hill that had a drop off at the end. Dinah goes, “Let’s ramp that.” I smiled and turned the bike around to gain some “speed” and distance. We started to pick up speed…15mph…20mph…30mph…35mph…and we hit the hill. We gained some serious air and we were giggling and screaming the whole time like you would on a rollercoaster. We didn’t even think about how this scooter would take a landing. As we were in the air I saw that we were not going to land this thing on its tires. We were turning and as we neared the ground I remember saying to Dinah, “We’re gonna crash, hang onto me.”

Instead of her landing on me, I completely landed on her, and, as always, she was the injured one and I walked away with scratches. She banged up her legs and elbows pretty good but didn’t require stitches this time.

We still laughed about that till the day that she died. It was a pure “Jackie & Dinah” moment. It was crazy and impulsive. It was stupid and fun. It was exactly how Dinah and I enjoyed spending our time together. You would think we were teenagers at this time! Nope, we were grown, married adults!

Memories like these with Dinah now haunt me, yet bring a smile to my face as I remember the craziness we were together. And somehow…even in Dinah’s death…she still makes me laugh my face off and cry till my eyes hurt. She was, and still is, the only person that could ever do this to me.

Dinah, our niece, Jaimee and I riding together!

Dear Suicide

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You took another this week. You must be proud. Well, guess what, I hate you. I hate you with every bone and ounce of blood in my body. You destroy. You rip lives apart. You steal truth and implant lies. You’re a coward. You’re scum. I hate what you do. I hate everything about you.

You wait; you linger; you hunt. I know your game. I know your way. I know what you do when you whisper, tempt and lead them astray. You make them think that death will ease their pain and that this is the only way. You creep right in, and then make your play.

You sit in the background and articulate your scheme. You choose the hopeless, the depressed, and those with low self-esteem. You choose the waiter, the plumber, the stay-at-home-mom.  You take the preacher, the truck driver, the rich and the poor. You take them all with you with your bite and your sting.

You laugh at their weakness. You thrive on their pain. You ruin so many lives that this has just become a game. How do you think this will end? Do you think that you can get them all? Do you think that all of us are going to take your fall?

You see, you took my sister and for that you are going to pay. It doesn’t end pretty. It doesn’t end today. Let me tell you something, this “game” that you play, won’t go on forever. No, you won’t get them all. You won’t win. I’ve got the Eight ball.

Your lies, deception, depression will end. You think you’re on a roll. You think you can snag every soul with your snare. I know you don’t want to hear this, but this doesn’t end well for you. You see, there is Someone stronger, Someone smarter, Someone more powerful than you.

He tells me He will save us from your snare, from your pestilence, from your death. He tells me He will cover us with His feathers. He will protect us, shield us, and save us. He promises life. He promises hope. He promises to save us from your hanging rope.

I hate you, suicide. I hate you, I do.  I’ll hate you forever…till the day that you are through and my King stomps all over you.