Due to my depression and general state of feeling overwhelmed with life, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to dispute the doctor’s prognosis. The medication kept the seizures from reoccurring and Brian left for college a few weeks later. Though I went on with my own day-to-day grind, and life seemed to be back to normal, the memory of Brian’s seizure haunted me—it was obvious he had suffered his share of our family’s trauma. The awareness made me even sadder.
Unfortunately, another part of my life showing signs of turmoil, which cast a negative shadow on any hope I held for my future, was my job. I had worked as a special education teacher’s assistant in the public school system for a decade--a long time, especially since the physical nature of the work was beginning to tax my health. My muscles ached constantly and my intestinal tract was easily upset by my student’s stressful and noisy behaviors. I needed to frequent the restroom often, which highly annoyed my fresh-out-of-college supervisor, Nora. She treated all those assigned to her in a servile manner; reprimanding us—like naughty children—in front of our work associates, monitoring our work unnecessarily, and ignoring us when we asked her questions. Her supervisory methods dis-empowered us staff members and made working under her management extremely frustrating. Since the day she had been assigned to head our department, I had quickly become disenchanted with a job I formerly loved.
“What?! Are you taking another bathroom break?” Nora hollered across the classroom at me one day. She was in conference with the parent of one of our students, so it was especially embarrassing to be called on the carpet.
“I’m sorry, but I have time between students—I’ll just be a minute.”
“It’s barely noon and this is the third time you’ve left the room. If you expect to take potty breaks every time you get the urge—you’ll need to show me a note from your doctor!” she announced in front of students and staff, alike. My co-workers looked at me as though they wanted to wring her neck--we all felt the same exasperation at our boss’s insensitive manners. Though I held a deep affection for the special needs children I taught, and worked with them skillfully and patiently, because of the additional upheaval in my personal life, I was extremely stressed and discouraged.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said to Elizabeth, as we stood on the playground during recess one day at the end of the first semester that fall. It was a year and a half after my divorce. We watched the children scrambling to and fro on the jungle gym. Elizabeth was my best friend at work and had recently experienced her own painful divorce.
“I hear you, Friend—but what can we do? We applied for other positions this year, but nothing opened....” she said. I stooped, pausing momentarily in our conversation to tie the shoe of one of our students. When I stood up, Elizabeth wrapped her arm around me and whispered, “Don’t worry-- God has something in mind for us. He won’t leave us stranded here forever!” Noticing a few sprinkles from an approaching rain shower, we flipped our hoods over our heads just as the December cloudburst began drizzling down on us.
***
A few months later, early in the spring, I came up with an ingenious idea. As a way to improve my employability, I decided to apply at a local university to a graduate program in social work; the school district would fund a large portion of my tuition, I could attend at night in a longer, part-time program which would allow me to continue my regular job during the day and, once I graduated, I’d be in a position to find a better paying job. Since we were kindred spirits and were both looking for a way to advance ourselves, I convinced Elizabeth the plan could be the answer to our woes and encouraged her to apply with me.
“If we’re accepted, this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to us!” said Elizabeth, as we simultaneously stamped our sealed envelopes. We were sitting at my kitchen table where we’d spent a good portion of that Saturday morning filling out our applications together.
“I’ve dreamed of being a counselor since I was a teenager,” I said, leaning back in my chair, hands clasped behind my head. “Getting a master’s degree could make it happen—in just three years!”
“It’s such a great idea! With all our years in special education, a social work certificate seems like a practical next step…And doing it together will make it so much fun!” Elizabeth said. I agreed. Simply coming up with the idea had brightened my days considerably since I’d thought of it several weeks before; Elizabeth’s decision to apply with me seemed like frosting on the cake. We mailed our applications that day and began our restless wait.
Six weeks later we received the results we were anxiously awaiting: Elizabeth was accepted, but I was rejected. To further the bad news, the college would only accept Elizabeth if she attended full-time. The upshot? She’d be leaving our school district job to attend graduate school the following year; Elizabeth would be moving on and I’d be left to face the job alone. The door of opportunity slammed hard in my face.
“Well, congratulations, Elizabeth! I can’t imagine anyone more deserving of this honor than you,” Nora said speciously when she heard the news. Glancing at me, Elizabeth flushed. Stiffening, she offered Nora a pasted smile. “And how do you feel about Elizabeth’s good fortune?” Nora said snootily, turning to me. “Despicable” was Nora’s middle name.
“Elizabeth’s one of my dearest friends—I’m very happy for her.” Elizabeth and I turned and walked away. “Of course, I’m disappointed I can’t go,” I whispered, “but I am soooo happy you’ve got your ticket out of here!” We walked up the hall toward the lunch room as Elizabeth hooked my neck in the crook of her arm, pulling me toward her.
“I don’t want to leave without you, Sweetie.” She put her forehead on my shoulder and I felt the weight of her body shift onto mine; I sensed the sincerity of her words.
“Well, if I’d been accepted and you hadn’t…I’d still go.” I said, encouragingly. I wanted her to feel my full support for her decision to move ahead. Though it was a huge disappointment not to enter graduate school, I knew my prayer over previous weeks had been that if getting into the program wasn’t right for me, I wouldn’t be accepted. And I’d obviously received my answer.
***
A short time later, our school district announced they would be canceling the last four weeks of school that year--due to a shortage of funding--leaving us nearly a month short in wages. A week after that they informed us they were permanently cutting our salary. I was worried sick that I wouldn’t be able to cover the mortgage payments on my home; as a result, my battle with existential angst mushroomed again--life seemed to be getting harder and harder by the day. Weighed by the challenges of life, I plunged back into the depression I had struggled to manage for more than a year.
Then every parent’s nightmare happened.
“Mrs. Larsen! Mrs. Larsen!” Daniel’s friends stood pounding and shouting outside my front door early one day. Daniel had been vomiting that morning and, assuming it was the flu, I nursed him with cold washcloths, staying home from work to watch over him. When his friends showed up, my first thought was that they were there to give their buddy moral support. But the circumstances were not what I had supposed.
“Daniel took a whole bottle of prescription drugs at midnight last night…he tried to commit suicide! He called us a few minutes ago on his cell phone…we came over as soon as we knew what was happening!”
I don’t remember what happened next, I simply went into auto pilot, clambering into the car and racing Daniel to the hospital emergency room. When we arrived, they pumped his stomach and prepared me for the worst.
“The toxins in Daniel’s blood are rising. They’re already at an extremely high level…Mrs. Larsen…we don’t want to alarm you, but is there a friend or family member you could ask to come sit with you? We’re battling for Daniel’s life.”
My step-father was ill at the time so I couldn’t call on my mother. Knowing my girlfriends were all at work, I thought about my neighbor who I remembered was home from work that day. Telephoning Charles, he hurried to the hospital and stayed with me through the most critical hours. We waited anxiously, together, praying for Daniel.
“I wish I could say I know everything'll be all right…but I’m too stunned to feel anything…I don’t know what’s going to happen…” Terrified, and devastated by the horrifying turn of events, I started to weep. I had always taken comfort in intuitively knowing, during times of crisis, that things would turn out fine, but on this occasion the heavens seemed empty and closed. Shattered, I sat on a cold, hard chair in the chilly, pitiless waiting room experiencing a powerlessness I had never known. Charles served as the Lord’s encouraging hand during those dark hours, calmly reassuring me my son would live.
“Daniel still has an important mission to play in life …everything will be okay…you’ll see,” he promised. “These hours will pass…someday this will only be a bad memory,” he sat close to me, patting my hand and whispering low. Because of Charles’ compassion, and his ability to remind me of God’s love for me and my son, I was able to endure that frigid and forbidding January day.
Early the next morning, the doctor’s announced that Daniel would live. My baby had survived.
Later that morning, in the hospital, the news that Daniel needed to be checked into a psychiatric hospital took me by surprise; I’d never experienced a suicide attempt before and was naive in thinking that they would let me take him home with me. The dark reality of Daniel’s state crashed over me like a violent wave. Guilt and self-reproach consumed me--I had been completely unaware he was struggling so desperately. I was his mother, how could I have been so unconscious of his pain? Guilt ridden and frantic, I was determined to stay by his side to help him through this terrible ordeal. Assuming they would let me come with him to the psychiatric hospital, I was dreadfully upset, a second time, when the doctor’s told me I wouldn’t be allowed to come there.
“But how can I leave him alone in a place like that?” I cried in tears, as the doctors prepared me for Daniel’s transfer. I stood at the window, wringing my hands.
“For his best interest, Daniel needs to be away from his family and friends so we can get to the heart of what is troubling him, Mrs. Larsen.” They spoke calloused to the suffering their words injected, as though it was a customary part of their daily routine; all the while my head was reeling and my mother’s heart was bleeding.
***
“Help me, Heavenly Father…” Daniel’s week in the hospital had dragged by, but the day had finally arrived when he was returning home. The attending psychologist had instructed me to gather up, and remove from the house, anything he might use to make a second attempt at suicide. As I numbly wandered through my home placing kitchen knives and matches, medicine and electrical cords into a large black plastic garbage bag, I suddenly dropped to my knees in despair. The process was morbid and sickening and my soul quailed at my sense of incompetence at knowing what to do to keep Daniel safe; it terrified me to think he might try to take his life again. Facing this horror by myself was more than I could bear.
“Please… take this nightmare away...” Writhing on the floor in the hallway I faced the torment alone. The flood gates of my emotions exploded--discharging a torrent of anguish, fear and suffering that I had born over the previous years. As I rolled in crushing agony, I sobbed until I was drained of every last groan.
After awhile, curled in a ball as I lay in silence, I heard the ticking of the clock behind me mocking, in syncopated pulsing, the beating of my heart. Exhausted and tear-less, my throat throbbed in raw pain. Lying on my side with my fingers intertwined in front of my eyes, I knew no peace existed for me in the world. Instinctively, I retreated to the inner wealth of faith I had long relied on. And God did not fail me. I sensed His tender, reassuring presence; I felt Him near, as near as the fingers in front of my face. His sweet spirit whispered that I was not alone in this challenge; He was close and would carry Daniel and me to a safer, happier place. Lying in the hall, that somber morning, I felt wrapped in the warmth of His arms.
Though horrifying, Daniel’s suicide attempt was a turning point for me. Previously incapable of permanently pulling myself out of the reoccurring depression I had suffered since my divorce--I realized, for my children’s sake--I couldn’t afford the self-indulgent luxury of wallowing in my suffering, nor allowing our challenges to overshadow the many blessings in our life.
For the reality was: we had a warm and lovely home, we had each other, and we knew that God loved us. The Spirit whispered to me that if Heavenly Father truly had sanctioned my decision to divorce, He surely must know a way for me to find the strength to handle the resultant challenges. The words of a wise man came into my mind: “Live your life in such a manner that when there is a pressing need you will qualify for the immediate assistance you desire.” I knew in my heart I had always tried to do everything I knew to do to live a moral and upright life. I felt the spirit of God tell me I did qualify for the blessing of Mark’s return to health and that I should be confident that God would hear and answer the desire of his mother's heart.
What I did during the uncertain weeks that followed was simply cast my burdens on the Lord. I told Daniel how much I loved him, took confidence in the strength I demonstrated by living an honest and moral way of life, and got on my knees each day, with Daniel, in fervent gratitude. These simple acts, along with periodic counseling sessions, made it possible for us to ride out the following months as my son healed emotionally.
As the year progressed, Daniel’s cheerful, easy-going disposition slowly began to return and when his oldest brother, Garth, came home from his mission several months later, things were better than they’d ever been. We were delighted when Garth married his fiancée, Michelle, a few months after his return; Daniel needed a nest of siblings and that’s just what Garth and Michelle’s support provided. Though the newlyweds arranged for an apartment for the first few months of married life, Garth and Michelle made tentative plans to move in with Daniel and me later that year, which would allow them to save money to attend school. Our family life began to feel fun, secure and comfortable.
I remember driving across the Fremont Bridge after running errands in Portland one day, shortly after Garth and Michelle’s wedding. My kids were in a great place and Daniel was happy, so the world seemed wonderful. I savored the warmth of the sun shining down through my windshield, caressing my face; the sensation awakened all the joy of my tense and frightened heart. Music on the radio wafted gently through my head; the melodious strains—though familiar--sounded more beautiful than any song I ever remember hearing. Life stood still as I gazed across the sunlit skyline of the beautiful city I had loved for more than three decades. Seeing Mt. Hood, rising sentinel-like above the bustling metropolis, I enjoyed a singular moment of perfect peace and understood the implicit wisdom of “plucking the joy from each moment of strife.”
Though I continued to struggle financially, and I knew my challenges weren’t over, I embraced the commitment to treasure life more, having gained a renewed sense of how precious it was.