Milestones

Tomorrow is a special sort of milestone in our family's life, and Cora had a plan for how she wanted to celebrate: by sharing her story. 

One year ago tomorrow, Cora came home from the hospital. In some ways, that day marked the culmination of a very long, hard road, although the months that followed were difficult in their own way. To bring you along on some of that journey, Cora and I decided to take turns sharing the story from each of our perspectives.

Cora

It all started in early elementary school. I had several things I loved leave my life, including my grandparent's dog who got cancer and got put down, my aunt and uncle divorcing (she was my favourite aunt at the time), and three great grandfathers who passed away around the same time. I also struggled with self image, being much taller and slightly heavier (in my eyes) than my friends. I started getting very depressed. I even started hurting myself to cope. I kept it all bottled away for years. In 6th grade, 2 years ago, I finally started talking to Momma. She and Daddy worked with me and got me into counseling. Eventually, I started seeing a psychiatrist. I tried several different medications, some of which made me gain weight, which did not help my self image, but things kept getting worse. After one specific session of counseling, my counselor was concerned. She said if I didn't feel better by the next day, I should go to the hospital. I had already been there once, the year before, but was only there for six hours and was not admitted. That night, I felt terrified. I had Momma spend the night in my room. It was a school night. The next morning, I didn't feel safe. I knew I needed more help than what I was getting.

April

The months leading up to that night had been long and exhausting for all of us. In addition to checking in with Cora and working with her at home, she called, emailed, or went to the school nurse often during the day, struggling to cope while she was at school. Micah and I woke often at night to check on her, always concerned about her safety as her symptoms continued to escalate. We locked up anything she might use to harm herself. We were doing all we could to help her, including getting help from our amazing counselor, several friends who worked in mental health fields, family, and her youth leaders, but we often felt at a loss. The day of that particular counseling appointment, I didn't realize just how seriously Cora was struggling--at least, not that she was struggling more than usual. I'm so thankful her counselor saw it. She pulled me aside and told me she was very concerned. Because she knew we would keep a close eye, she was willing to not have Cora go straight to the hospital right then and there, but if things didn't change by morning, she felt we had no choice. I slept on a mattress on Cora's floor that night. Well, I stayed in the room. I'm not sure I slept more than an hour or two. I felt desperate, exhausted, even hopeless. We'd tried all we knew to try, and we just couldn't seem to help her. I was terrified of the idea of her at the hospital without us. But I was equally terrified of what would happen if she didn't go. I prayed all night long that something would somehow change, but come morning, it was clear she needed help. We saw Micah and the boys off to school, quickly packed her a little overnight bag, prayed together, and then we drove to the hospital.

Cora

In the emergency room, they gave me the choice of whether I wanted to be admitted or not. I said yes. I felt like I needed to go. I was absolutely terrified. The ride there was equally terrifying. I was riding in the prisoner's seat of the police car. I hated it. When I got there, I was crying. I never like being away from my parents and I had no idea how long I would have to stay. The staff were all so kind. I'm shocked they could hear me enough to understand what I was saying, between the tears and my shyness. They comforted me. That night, I hardly slept. If I'm remembering correctly, I didn't really sleep any of the nights. I would always sit in my bed, crying and snuggling the one stuffed animal, sprayed with my parents' scents, I was allowed at a time. The nurses would walk through the hallways and come ask if I was ok. I always just sniffled and nodded. During the day, I had group therapy. The only one I remember in particular is the aromatherapy. We would go into the closet in the gym (it was a big closet) and we would all put on lotion--either citrus or lavender. Some days we would just sit and breathe, other days we would chat or listen to music. Another day we watched a slideshow of peaceful pictures. There was one day that we made a craft with cinnamon dough that we pressed into disposable lids and put flowers on. I still have it, and Momma keeps it by our kitchen sink. Every day, we would visit a doctor to talk about our physical health. Then we had visitation at lunch and at bedtime. I remember my youth pastor coming for lunch on the last day. My grandparents came one day each. My parents came every day, but my brothers couldn't come because they were under eighteen. They sent notes with my parents every night. Then the patients would watch a movie while some of the people showered, then we went to bed by nine o'clock.  Girls would go home at different times. Sometimes it was sad, sometimes I didn't care, always I was happy for them. New girls came too. Some of them hated being there. I remember some kids tried to "escape." The adults would drop everything to chase them. I decided early on that I would make the most of my time there and do what I needed to do, even when it was hard. Okay, Momma, your turn...

April

I was so, so proud of Cora. Even though she was clearly terrified, it was her choice to go to the emergency room, her choice to be admitted, and her choice to make the most of her time there. I was with her right up until the police officer came to transport her to the hospital. I gathered our things from the lockers (they locked everything up and searched me before letting me into the emergency room, and they would have us lock up all our things at the hospital before going in to see her too). I drove to the hospital and checked in at the front desk, telling them, as they'd told me, to say I was there to see "Patient 447." Something about reducing her to a patient number made everything feel so real, and so very, very raw. I kept it together as they went through her overnight bag, sending home several items that wouldn't be "safe" for her. I kept it together as they led me to the room where they had her working on paperwork, as they reviewed policies and procedures, as they walked her to the patient common area. I even kept it together as I hugged her goodbye, told her I was so proud of her, promised to be praying. But when I turned down the hall and passed through the first of several sets of locked doors, I crumpled. I felt like I'd abandoned my baby, left her in prison alone. The nurse who was walking me out put an arm around me and kept saying, "You're doing the right thing. You're doing what she needs." But, oh, was it painful... I cried so hard on the ride home, that I had to pull over. Each day without her was agony in a way I can't even explain. The house felt empty without her. Our lives felt empty without her. And lingering in the background of all of it was the fear that this could really be what it was like: that if she didn't get better, there really could be a future where we were without her. We cried so many tears as a family that week, healing tears that brought us together. We took walks and hikes with the boys to process things. Every day, I hurried from work to the hospital to sit with her over lunch, and every night Micah and I went to visit her in the evenings together. With each day, she seemed older. More mature. We knew she was seeing and doing hard things, and they were changing her. Yet we also saw growth and healing taking place right before our eyes. We knew we would all come out of this experience changed, and we prayed it would be for the better, even if it was a gut-wrenchingly painful process. Finally, after six days, she was released. I left work early, as soon as the hospital called to tell me she was free to go. It was surreal and wonderful to have her home--but it was only the beginning of the next leg of the journey. 

Cora

I stayed out of school for two more weeks after that. I was still struggling quite a bit when I went home, although I was much better than I had been. When I got back to school, everyone asked what had happened. Hoping to keep it to myself, I just said I had been in the hospital. Rumours started FLYING. Rumours that I had died had apparently started while I was gone. And my own best friend started horrible stories about what had happened. I... don't want to talk about them. Just know that it was the worst season of my life I had ever been in. I was spending several class periods in the office at my school and going home a little after noon, skipping algebra and language arts. I fell very behind in my schoolwork. Momma and Daddy both agreed that they didn't care about my grades, as long as I stuck through the school year. I quit jazz and drama club. I stopped doing any extra things. I skipped music performances. It was just very hard for me to even last through the school day. I started taking my stuffed rabbit, Velvie, in my bag. He's very small, so he fit in a pocket. I still bring a stuffed animal every day. I had a system with my teachers where they would ask what colour I was feeling and I would point to sticky notes on my computer coloured green, yellow, or red. Green meant I was doing great, yellow meant I was doing badly but didn't need to go to the office, and red meant I was feeling suicidal and needed to be escorted to the office. I remember my algebra teacher would smile and try to bring up my colour to at least a yellow, if not green. It only sometimes worked. My friend really helped me through algebra. I barely passed the class. I decided to retake the class this year, and I am happy to report an A in that class. 

April

Although Cora appeared to be safer in general after coming home from the hospital, things seemed to go from bad to worse socially. There were days she refused outright to go to school, and we spent what felt like hours coaxing and pushing her just to get dressed and get in the car, only to get calls from the school office or nurse an hour later saying she was in tears, struggling to get through her day. All day long she emailed me, begging me to come get her and bring her home. At home, she was like my shadow, never far from my side. We worked constantly on coping skills, on communicating about where she was at mentally, and on building in supports so she could get back onto her own two feet. It was some of the hardest work any of us have ever done in our lives. In the midst of it all, I struggled through one of the fiercest spiritual battles I've ever encountered. In those hard months, I learned to pray differently, spending hours literally on my hands and knees, my face to the floor, pleading with God to intercede, and claiming a victory for our family that I still couldn't see. I learned to praise differently, too. In moments when I felt most overwhelmed or hopeless, I turned to praise. I told God I was choosing to worship Him, even if I didn't feel like it. Every time, He met me there, surrounding me with His presence in ways that changed everything. In ways that changed me. 

Cora's school was amazing throughout all of it. On the first day back, the assistant principal called a meeting with all of her teachers and filled them in on what had been happening, and created a plan for her. They agreed to a color-coded system--one we eventually adopted at home too--to check in throughout the day. They kept close tabs on her, working with her when things were escalating and getting her the help she needed when she was unsafe. They worked hard to help her continue to learn, but also gave her abundant grace for the many days when it was all she could do just to stay in school. And they worked hard to shield her from the effects of the inevitable rumors and social challenges of being a seventh grade girl on the heels of a hospitalization. They were such a blessing and a lifeline. Our families, youth leaders, and a few key friends were just as instrumental, taking turns holding Cora and us as she struggled through those days. Even though so much of what we walked through were individual battles, we never walked them alone, and I'm so grateful for that. 

Cora

I remember being really, really mad at God. I was angry at Him for making me suffer, and wanted Him to take away my mental struggles. I stopped working in the kids' wing at church and I stopped praying. Even as I refused, my brother Henry always prayed for me. He always asked if I wanted to pray together, and I always said no. He'd say, "OK, I'll pray for you," and I know he did. I really appreciate all that people did for me. It means a lot to know I have so many people on my side. 

I still struggle quite a bit. I've gotten new diagnoses and a new psychiatrist, medicine that works well now (although we still tweak it sometimes). Some days it's hard and I don't know if I ever did get better. Other days, I feel amazing, as though I could fly. It's hard. We found out I have bipolar disorder. One of my friends doesn't really understand what that means, and she asks me if I'm "being bipolar" when I'm upset. I think it's funny, and I don't correct her. 

In general, though, I feel like I'm better than I was a year ago. I'm back with God now and my faith has grown tremendously. I have good grades and good friends. I've learned to set boundaries in relationships, and who I can trust. I've learned good coping skills, and I've learned not to gossip. One of my favourite quotes is "Be kind; every one you meet is fighting a hard battle." I don't remember who said it, but I've learned it's the truth, and I live by that rule. Don't get me wrong: I still struggle. But I'm better than I was. I just want to thank every one who helped me. This has been a really hard battle, one that I'm still fighting. But everyone along the way has made it easier. Just a little bit easier. Thank you. 

April

One evening, several months after Cora came home from the hospital, she and I went for a drive in the countryside. The sun was setting and it was casting everything in a beautiful golden glow that I'll never forget. As we drove, we were listening to the radio. I had turned to a Christian radio station for my own sake, even though Cora had mostly refused to listen to that kind of music recently. The song, "Don't Stop Praying" came on, and for the first time in months, Cora reached over and turned up the volume. I looked over at her in surprise, and she smiled. She told me just a few days before, she'd been ready to give up on God completely. She told Him she was done. She didn't trust Him and didn't want Him in her life. If things didn't change by the next morning, she would walk away from Him forever. And then that song came on the radio. I still get goosebumps (and Cora just turned the song on now, as I'm writing, and I'm suddenly back in that car). She told me she had needed to hear those words, and they had changed things. 

It was a long road back, but suddenly all the battles I'd been fighting on my hands and knees came into focus. All throughout those months, I'd had the sense that her life--present and future--hung in the balance. I don't know any other way to describe it, but I wasn't going to lose her without a fight. Those hours of prayer, those tears, those words claiming victory... All of them had been part of the road to this place, on a country road in the evening light. But Cora wasn't finished. 

She told me she never would have chosen the road she'd had to walk--but she wouldn't have wanted the faith she had before, either. She told me she had had to go far, far beyond the surface level with God, to deep, dark places. But He'd been faithful. He'd met her there, right in the darkness. And now she knew there was nowhere He couldn't reach. 

Oh, friends, I wouldn't wish rock bottom on any of us. I wouldn't wish the road we walked last year--the road we walk still--on anyone. And yet, I can tell you from the very depths of darkness to the golden light of evening, He is with us. He is faithful. He is not finished. 

Fight on. In whatever dark place you find yourself, with whatever impossible thing you face, fight on. Fight on your hands and knees. Lead with praise--choose praise. And know that God does not abandon us. He doesn't leave us in the broken spaces, nor does He waste them. He redeems every single one, one messy, agonizing piece at a time. 

He is doing it in our story. And I know He will do it in yours. 

Cora's first snuggle with Monty after getting home from the hospital.