And I spent it in Colorado with my sons. Owen, Max, and I climbed rocks for a beautiful waterfall view, played our third round of mini golf, and snapped photos of a bull elk outside our cabins.
Pictures forthcoming. I promise.
Many folks have already read the article in yesterday's Lawrence Journal-World, but for those who haven't, here's the link: Lawrence Father Recounts Wife's Eight Year Battle...
Thanks to Karrey Britt and Nick Krug for their professionalism and care in putting Aimee's story together.
Showing posts with label postpartum depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label postpartum depression. Show all posts
Monday, June 18, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
On Being Powerless
Aimee's death has taught me a hard lesson about the nature of power:
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Crushing Stigmas, Smashing Stereotypes, Remembering with Courage
This is the big one. It's been brewing for a while.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
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