The Encouragers Life

Disclaimer Please be advised that the following article has details and description surrounding surgery and childbirth which some people may find upsetting.   I lay on the operating table as nurses and doctors buzzed around me.   One male nurse stayed with me.   I had had an epidural, a top up and then when it failed to numb the necessary, a got a spinal tap. Although I couldn’t feel my feet, or much else for that matter, I began to feel a burn.   They had retrieved my son from my stomach.   The hard part was over.   They had wrapped him and gave him to my husband.   I had even fed him whilst lying there open to the room full of people.   But I knew something wasn’t right.   I was there far too long.   The female doctor who had performed the caesarean looked panicked.   They nodded to each other from across the carnage that was my belly and one went and picked up the phone.   I was surprisingly calm.   Maybe it was the drugs?   Maybe it was shock.   But I remember feeling very clear

  I sat on the stairs in disbelief.  I was shocked at what I had just heard from the person on the other side of the phone.  I was so disgusted that I had to pull the phone away from my ear, look at it for a reason I will never understand and then return it to answer the woman on the line with, ‘Yes it is important that I know that I can attend my mother’s funeral the day after tomorrow.’ In the beginning I thought fostering was the answer to prayers.  An instant family that involved me supporting children and their families in times where they just needed helping hands.  The reality however was shockingly different and the brutality I was facing from those that were designated to support was growing. We had a young person who was severely triggered around death.  My mother had been sick for some time and unfortunately, we lost her.  I set aside my grief.  Swallowed my emotions so that I could protect the child in our care.  All I needed was the day of the funeral.  That’s all I wa

  Sitting on the carpet at my parents’ store, I remember the fibres poking through my school tights as I watched them work.   I observed my family negotiate social situations and talk like pros.   The subtle shifts in stance.   The smiles.   The tender tones. And the occasional expression that accompanied holding a tearful customers hand.    They had it all together.   They knew what they were doing.   But I felt just like the carpet I rested on.   I was waiting to feel useful.   I was ready for someone to look at me and say, that’s the one I want.   It's perfect. I desired that in friendships.  I desired that from teachers.    I desired that from someone.  Anyone.    I knew I had something inside me that was different.    I saw the world a little deeper than others that I came in to contact with. I processed life differently to my peers.   I often didn’t understand them.   I found that I understood the older generation better.    I could get on board with their work ethic.   I alw

Disclaimer- I share this personal story as it gave me a revelation in a dark time.  It happened in a controlled environment and also is an individual circumstance.  I am not offering this story as a method of assisting your child in a similar circumstance and I ask that you use your own judgment.  If you need medical intervention for you or your child I advise you to take that rather than perform procedures that could cause more harm.  I was born in the 80's.  Parenting was different back then. I was quite young at the time.  Maybe seven or eight years old?  I don't know how I had hurt myself but I had practically pulled my fore fingers' nail off.  It was hanging on my the last stitching of flesh to nail that it could secure.  And, it hurt. I hadn't told anyone but my mum walked in on me as I was silently working on it trying to release my skin without crying, which meant, I wasn't being successful and the nail wouldn't release.   We showed my Dad and he immedi