Interrupted by Compassion

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Stepping onto the doctor’s office scale, I was too exhausted to remove my shoes or sweatshirt.

As the nurse announced my weight, I stretched out my left arm, expecting to see through it as if I were a ghost. Turning my arm as I gazed, I was relieved to find the emaciated limb still solid in appearance. As a mother of four, including a one-year-old, how did I weigh less than I did in 7th grade? Still in my mid-thirties, with chunks of hair falling out constantly and my skin appearing paper-thin, I no longer recognized the hollow and haunted old woman taunting me from my bathroom mirror each morning.

Moments later, still dazed, paper crinkling under my jeans, I sat in the unfamiliar office reflecting on the events of the previous hour. The baby had been sleeping, and two of our other children were playing happily while I cleaned our kitchen, when I suddenly clutched my heart, sure I was having a heart attack. Crawling toward the children and falling to the dining room floor, I lay curled into the fetal position while my six-year-old called his dad. “Mom needs help.”

Ten minutes later, my husband arrived home, and I drove myself to the only clinic I could find that had time for a walk-in.

The doctor entered the room, interrupting my thoughts. After conducting her physical examination, she asked the usual questions, including, “How is your stress level?”

There is no way I shared everything that was going on in our family with her, as that would have taken hours. Probably, I told her how I was raising four children, and that their wonderful dad had a ridiculous commute and an intense job that kept him from being available most mornings, and that he returned home after the kids were sleeping. I might have mentioned that I was homeschooling my five-year-old because he had been struggling with sleep when he was in full-time school, as he knew he wouldn’t receive much parental attention when all the children were at home. His needs were real and not urgent in light of his brothers’. That scenario worked for about five months. Then, one day, when I picked up another of our children from school early, I found him sad, alone in a remote corner of the playground during recess. When I questioned his special education team, they told me, “That’s what he does every day. He likes it.”

Knowing my child was crying, knowing that he didn’t have the language to tell me why he was sad, and admitting that he had been regressing in school anyway, I gained another homeschool student. As he worked things out through experimenting, he was often a threat to the structural integrity of our house as well as his brothers’ safety. I could not leave him unsupervised for even a moment to run downstairs to switch the ever-musty, never-folded laundry. While all of this was happening, another of our children was suspended 17 times. His teacher, who was and remains unmatched in her brilliance and compassion, worked with me to help him feel safe enough to stay in school as much as possible and learn while he was there. Because his teacher was so intellectually curious and an excellent problem solver, she was happy to put in the extra effort to make it happen. I was working what felt like a half-time job to help her get to know him, so the whole class was safe. Loading our minivan with four children for a trip to the optometrist was a regular occurrence because one of my kids lost or tossed away his glasses nearly every week. Once, I fled the optometrist’s office crying and physically ran into our foster care/adoption social worker, whom I apologized to, head down, pretending not to recognize her, and hoping she hadn’t recognized me. My neighbor from across the street came over twice to tell me a child was hanging from one of our second-story windows. For meals, I had to serve food to one of my kids without him knowing I’d prepared it so he wouldn’t be afraid to eat it. To get him to go anywhere we needed to go, I had to pretend I was indifferent or even that I preferred he not join us. We had seatbelt locks in our minivan in response to previous violence. Oh, and I was still nursing a baby, and wearing him most of the time to protect him.

My children were acting reasonably, given their early life experiences. Keeping them safe was complex. For most of the children’s waking hours, everything was on me, and I knew taking a break would mean a vulnerable child getting hurt.

After hearing the story that led me to clutch my heart on the dining room floor, the doctor asked if I would please excuse her.

She returned with the clinic’s social worker, and during the conversation that followed, both clinicians were trying to help me get what I needed. While it was obvious that I was struggling with anxiety, I don’t recall the doctor suggesting medication or even therapy. I suspect that she saw my impossible circumstances and wanted to know if there was any way for me to get the practical help I needed before suggesting any further medical or therapeutic intervention. From what I shared, it was clear that I did not have the capacity to attend therapy for myself.

After answering the social worker’s questions, she gently relayed that our family did not qualify for the support that the doctor knew I needed. As she walked me out of the office, the doctor’s shoulders sagged, defeated.

When I recall the stress I was under as I was losing my hair in clumps, wasting away, and eventually having an anxiety attack, I have a hard time remembering how I parented each day. When I was constantly wondering if our family would survive, how was I meeting my children’s violent behaviors? I might have taught them skills they needed to develop, or I might have collapsed in discouragement. I wish I could say definitively that I was curious and patient, but it is just as likely that I anxiously hoped for my children’s compliance so we could get through each day.

My parenting behavior was most likely a mixed bag.

Parent wellbeing and behavior impact children’s wellbeing and behavior. So, what if, during that season, I was only full of judgment, frustration, and anger toward my children? What would have helped me grow in compassion? If I were hopeless, burned out, and stuck in a cycle of blocked care, how might friends or professionals help me break the cycle? Should they point out how poor my behavior was? Did I need more judgment? In the absence of relief, did I need more shame to motivate me to do better?

Typing the above questions, I notice tightness in my jaw because I would never suggest that the best road toward improved behavior and relationships for children is to shame them.

Parents deserve the same compassion. My gut feeling is that children need their parents to experience compassion.

Now, when I reflect on the doctor’s appointment over a decade ago, I am finally able to realize that even though the medical team was unable to provide me with practical help, I left the office unburdened. While I can’t remember what my behavior toward my children had been like the days leading up to my anxiety attack, I do remember seeing my husband and children with fresh eyes when I walked back through our front door. Immediately, I dropped to my knees, and children melted into my hugs. As I held them, I realized how very precious they were and even how hard they were trying. I had left a cold and desolate house, but I returned to the same house two hours later, and it was full of warmth and love.

What changed?

Upon my return, I saw my lovely family members as precious people and noticed they were facing insurmountable obstacles, trying their best, and they deserved compassion. My compassion grew because a team of empathetic adults had, an hour earlier, acknowledged the insurmountable obstacles I was facing, saw that I was doing my best, and were compassionate towards me.

My experiences that day highlight the reason I decided to coach parents in the first place. My coaching practice has very little to do with my having a specialized set of parenting skills, and it has nothing to do with my being a superior parent (I’m not). I show up for parents because when parents don’t receive understanding and compassion, it is nearly impossible for them to gain the understanding they need to show up with compassion toward their children.

I hope my compassion for parents will help interrupt the shame and hopelessness that block them from experiencing the meaningful family connections they deeply desire.

After I returned home from being listened to and experiencing compassion from people who wanted to help, and being overwhelmed by the preciousness of my family, I excused myself to the kitchen to prepare a hefty snack.

My presence mattered, and I was no longer willing to fade away.

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