Planet Molly is a happy place!

My life shattered on October 20, 1989 when my grandma died.

My maternal grandparents lived next door to us for most of my childhood and I was extremely close to them. I was my grandpa’s shadow and “helped” him with gardening. I “helped” my grandma in the kitchen. I’m sure my “help” made everything take twice as long at first, but it eventually paid off. I worked as a gardener in college, and I still love to cook. Both of them were diagnosed with cancer the year I turned twelve. My grandpa first. He postponed his surgery because he refused to be hospitalized on the day of my twelfth birthday. I think my grandma had been sick for much longer than she let on and put off her own health concerns to care for my grandpa. When she was diagnosed later that year, her cancerous tumor was the size of a football.

A few months after my grandma died, I attempted suicide.

I spent most of my fifteenth year on crutches. First, I sprained my left ankle in a dance competition, which I, of course, lost. It was such a bad sprain I was told I would have been better off if I had broken it. As soon as it healed, I fell down the stairs at my high school’s theater and sprained my right ankle while I was working backstage for a performance of I don’t remember what. Someone actually went to the audience to ask “Is there a doctor in the house?” There wasn’t, so two friends, one who was six feet tall and one who was five feet tall, and yes, that was as awkward as it sounds, helped me hop up the stairs so my dad could drive me to the emergency room. I found out later my step thumping could be heard throughout the theater, and the drama teacher/director was not pleased with my interruption of the performance. Since my left ankle was still weak, I had a very hard time. My school building had a zillion staircases and no elevator, and we had to have my classes moved to lower floors, which did not go over well with anyone, including my friends. I had to shower in my parents’ bathroom because I couldn’t climb into the tub in mine and it seemed to anger my mom. My mom and I constantly screamed at each other, but my needing to use her shower seemed to exacerbate the situation. We were having one of our pre-shower screaming matches when she hit me and I wanted everything to end. While in the shower, I grabbed my mom’s razor and repeatedly sliced at my wrist. My mom’s razor was extremely dull because while I had multiple lacerations, I was not going to bleed to death. I remember thinking I was such a failure I couldn’t even kill myself properly, but the pain woke me up. I realized what my death would do to my grandpa and dad and I couldn’t cause them so much pain to end my own.

My life shattered on June 20, 1991 when my grandpa died.

I loved my grandpa just as much as my grandma, but his death was not as hard on me because I was with him, holding his hand when he died. I had not been with my grandma. I was sitting on the floor by my grandpa’s bed in our guest room, holding his hand while we watched a TV show called “Over My Dead Body.” My dad was sitting in an armchair near the bed. I saw him reach over and check my grandpa’s pulse. My mom was horrified my grandpa died during “Over My Dead Body” but I thought it was the sort of mischievous thing that was just like him. My grandma and grandpa both had a practical-joker humorous streak which I inherited. The humor completely missed my mom. My dad reached for the phone to call Nurse Sue, who confirmed my grandpa’s death when she arrived. Nurse Sue had cared for my grandparents for almost six years, but of course with my grandpa’s death, we lost her, too. I had anxiety attacks from the time my grandma died, usually while I was driving. I was not on medication or receiving any sort of treatment. It was the 1980’s and nobody talked about mental health, especially in my family. When my doctor tentatively suggested to my mother that a therapist would be a good idea for me, she hissed at me as we left his office, “Can’t you just pull yourself together?! We can’t afford that crap!” The only counselor to whom I would have access was my school counselor, and I didn’t like her. She taught a class called “Values” (which was essentially sex education) and she had a plastic half of a uterus with velcro fetuses at various times of gestation. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to someone who played with velcro fetuses.


My life shattered on July 12, 2000 when my husband and I experienced a house fire

I came home from work to find firefighters at our home putting out a fire. One of our neighbors broke down the door and rescued our pet cockatiel Sam. We had eight offers from neighbors and church members for places to stay. Neighbors brought me snacks and beverages. Our church refused a contract on a house they were selling and gave it to us to live in for as long as we needed. Dozens of people were comforting and helpful and supportive for about two months, but we were not OK in two months. The first question people asked, “Did you lose all your stuff?” was the last thing on my mind. I woke up the morning after the fire in terror with no idea where I was. After a few minutes of panic, I remembered I was at my boss’ house. His wife offered one of the eight invitations. We accepted because their children were at camp and we would not be taking over anyone’s bedroom. I woke up for probably a couple of weeks with the momentary terror of not remembering where I was. I was overwhelmed by dealing with the insurance company and all of the paperwork, and the contractors and tending Sam’s injuries. Sam hurt his wing flapping in terror before he was rescued. We had to put cream on the laceration twice per day. I had such a come apart one morning, I called the vet sobbing and they treated Sam for free. Twice per day, every day until he was better. We had to drive him back and forth, but it was a lot more effective than doing the treatments ourselves.I was taking care of the majority of what needed to be done because I worked fewer hours than my husband and had a five minute commute to work while his commute was half an hour. As the months dragged on, my boss was no longer patient and helpful to me. He became verbally and emotionally abusive, belittling me at every opportunity, blaming me for anything that went wrong, even if I had had nothing to do with it.

My life shattered on September 10, 2001 when I finally realized I needed help, and on that same day, gold began to pour into my life’s cracks and put them back together.

We moved back into our home nine months after the fire, but that didn’t mean everything was suddenly perfect. I was still dealing with insurance paperwork and difficulties with my boss, and I was certain I was losing my sanity. When we moved into the new house, I suddenly couldn’t reach the cabinets when I could before. I called the contractor and learned they had raised the ceilings. I couldn’t find the thermostat and called the contractor to find out where it was. Light switches had moved, and I was constantly hitting the wrong side of a wall. I was out of town for a conference and my husband called asking me where something was. I don’t remember what he was looking for but I remember what I told him. “It’s in the guest bedroom closet on the left side of the shelf.” I waited for him to go look. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “You will have to move things to find it. There’s the red needlepoint bag with a Scottie dog on it, and behind that is the leather bag that was my grandma’s and says “Harrod’s”, and what you are looking for is either behind or under the Harrod’s bag.” There was another long pause, and I asked, “Do you see it or not?” He responded, “Sweetie . . . that closet no longer exists.” I didn’t say anything for a moment, realizing I had described the closet in exquisite detail before it had burned in a fire. All I could say was, “Then I have no idea how to find what you are looking for.” When the first anniversary of the fire passed, a dark storm cloud took up residence over my head. No matter what I did, I could not escape the darkness that fell over everything. I still kept going through all of the motions, kept trying to do everything I had always done, and I was failing at everything. I never considered suicide because I loved my husband too much, but it was becoming apparent to him and to me I needed help. We went on vacation for a close friend’s wedding, and the cloud dispersed! We had a wonderful time and came home, and for the first time in my life, I was not happy to be at home. September 10, 2001 is when I finally called a Licensed Professional Counselor and sought help.

I met my psychiatrist the next week, and loved her instantly. I confessed to watching thirty hours of Star Trek: The Next Generation after my realization that I needed help. She made the Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” sign and said “Star Trek is awesome! If you watched thirty hours of Gilligan’s Island, I might have to worry about you.” I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Clinical Depression. I began taking medication and having (at first) therapy sessions several times per week. I did not share the diagnosis with my church. I should have been able to. Part of me wanted to. I had a medical condition! I would ask for prayer for any other medical condition. But mental health was still a taboo topic, and I did not have the energy to be the poster child for depression. It didn’t help that I worked at the church and my boss, the church’s pastor, told me if I had enough faith, I would not be depressed. I told him depression was an illness that had nothing to do with my faith, and if I didn’t have faith, I wouldn’t get out of bed. Even though I had not told my church about my depression, a handful of people sought me out, seeing in me what they had experienced themselves, and knowing they had in me someone who would listen without judgment. Once I was better, I began speaking openly about PTSD and depression and encouraged others to get help. My husband and I have reached out to every individual we have heard of who has experienced a house fire and offered to be listeners who have been there for people who want to vent. We have tried to help others by sharing what helped us.

More shiny gold filled the cracks and brought wholeness and usefulness on January 17, 2013 when I was hired as a hospice chaplain.

I decided when my grandma died when I was fifteen I was going to work for hospice to help other families with terminally ill loved ones. I spent my teenage years caring for my grandparents, and I do not regret one minute of that for it shaped me into who I am today. I visited this week with a close friend whose mother is on hospice, and she asked me how I can do what I do. I told her about my grandparents. And as I talked about all I learned from them, my healed cracks glistened with gold.