Parenting Through Poverty vs. Pandemic

During this very week, in the years 2013, 2014, and 2017, our family of six accepted the challenge to experience food insecurity.  Inspired by the documentary, Living on One Dollar, filmed in the highlands of rural Guatemala, we committed to limiting the quantity, quality and choice of the food that we would consume over a five day period. It was hard, both physically and emotionally, and I find myself – in this moment of quarantine and caution – comparing the motherly stress of parenting through poverty vs. parenting through pandemic. For our family, poverty was the harder test.

Full disclosure here… We are all healthy, and we are fully engaged in both work and school. Miraculously, we have not been economically impacted. And, as an added bonus, we are not missing out on once-in-a-lifetime events like graduations or weddings, nor are we mandatorily separated from a family member who is at high risk or ill. Truly, we are abundantly blessed, and we are surrounded by a significant percentage of families whose biggest debates, like ours, revolve around which new dinner recipe to try and what movie to watch on Saturday night. We, collectively, are so darn lucky.

What is the instinct of the mama bear?

To comfort and protect.

Last week, one of my kids told my neighbor that I was being an extra good mother… and that it was weird. I think she may be right on both counts. Like no other time in my parenthood journey have I been more attentive to my kids. I’m baking and cooking on the daily (homemade pretzels… twice)!  I am being fun and funny, patient and accommodating (or, at the very least, I am consciously trying harder). I have returned to nesting mode and am slowly tackling projects and experiencing palpable joy with each achievement. Together with my beloved, we are wrapping our children in a blanket of security and reassurance and hope. Light and love are at home here… along with a new trampoline.

So how does living in the midst of a pandemic, gifted with all necessary resources, compare to living below the line of poverty? During those three distinct weeks of our food challenges, I have never felt more vulnerable and inadequate. I remember welling up as I counted 9 small pretzel sticks for each child’s school snack. And the sawdust taste of the generic cheese blend that we used to flavor our plain pasta. And the craving for protein and fresh fruits and vegetables... and treats. And the statement by my daughter that she didn’t wish to invite a friend to our house because we were poor that week and she was embarrassed by what little we could offer. And the worry that they would not do well in their studies because hunger was impeding their concentration. And witnessing their willingness to share when one needed more than the other… and feeling unworthy of their love for not being able to provide enough. And returning to the market at the end of the challenge, weeping as I savored each choice and relished no limitations. Be reminded that, during these three weeks, only our food intake was impacted. We still had shelter, clothing, access to medical care and transportation… we still collected income and attended school, and yet I felt like I had entirely failed my family. The weight and the darkness of those three weeks sits especially heavy on my heart, because I am now experiencing gratitude on an entirely new level.

Privilege

There was a time when I felt resentment toward the word “privilege,” like it somehow discounted the value that I had placed on attaining stability and that it begrudged the random chance that my soul was placed in a vessel that had access to every advantage. Now, I use it as a reminder to withhold judgement and offer grace.

I have experienced only short, temporary moments of economic disadvantage. Plentiful resources are at my fingertips and, should adversity strike, I have rainy day options. In case of downpour, a network of peers will, with certainty, captain our rescue boat. I have privilege.

And so I will not judge those whose economic footing is shaky and who fall asleep each night worrying about how to feed their children’s empty bellies or how to pay their bills. I will not argue with them, from the comfort of my couch, that we should stay inside until September and keep non-essential businesses closed indefinitely. I will not take away from them their potential to be the strongest mama bears that they can be… to have the means to offer comfort and protection to those they love. I simply will not.

My observation has been that actions taken and words chosen in this moment are simply a reflection of each individual’s values and fears. And so it entirely crushes me to watch fellow people of privilege use every platform available to belittle, to name call, to threaten, and to bully… as if their own well-being is worthy of elevation over others. The measurement on the rating scale for self-importance and self-preservation is dishearteningly through the roof. Thank goodness for the countless acts of kindness that serve not only to lift up but also to wash away some of the shame.

Like many, I’ve had considerable time to think over the past month, and – other than the utter disappointment in humanity – I am in a solid emotional space. I recognize my privilege and express gratitude in ways that makes my heart sing and has positive impact on others. I am doing my part to provide “quarinspiration” and to toss little nuggets of love out into the universe. I know it's my calling, but I also feel that it is my duty. "To whom much is given... "

Next Tuesday is #GivingTuesdayNow, an opportunity to financially support local, national and global service providers and their outreach to the most vulnerable among us. I hope that you will recognize an organization whose work you admire with a donation that is meaningful to you.

And, for those who are looking for your next great Amazon Prime pick, please consider watching Living On One Dollar and meet a few of my remarkable friends. Maybe you, too, will find yourself inspired to personally experience living below the line.

Pandemic or Poverty?
Everyone is worthy of rescue.
We are all in different boats, aren’t we? But if you’re floating in one that has any sort of dinghy attached to it, then you truly must count your blessings… and perhaps gently toss out a life ring to the many who are simply trying to tread water. Peace and love and compassion to all.

@bethechangebeth

COVID-19 Cancellation Suckiness Curve

On my trips to the market to replenish supplies for the 6 people and 2 dogs living under our roof, I undoubtedly bump into someone I know who asks how our family is holding up. And, each time I’m asked, I think about how truly blessed we are.

Yes… We have two high schoolers who are engaged with online lessons from 8am-2pm each day, and we have a college student who has moved home from out-of-state to complete her semester virtually, and we have a fully employed daughter who has taken over our home office and is working remotely. (Let’s not forget the husband who is bouncing between home and office.)  And the second dog… She’s a 10 week old puppy. (Dog humans: Need I say more?) The house rarely sees this much activity, and – I’ll have to admit – we’re not always the kindest and most thoughtful crew, but we are weathering this storm together.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the impact that the COVID-19 virus is having on the universe, especially as it relates to our interactions with one another and everything that has been outright cancelled or postponed in order to flatten the curve. It seems to me that the “suckiness” factor of the cancellation falls into one of three categories: (1) inconvenient, (2) depressing, and (3) life-altering.  I’m here to share my personal opinion that, if you haven’t been impacted in a life-altering way, then please… take a seat.

The grid below is certainly different for each and every one of us, but this is my take. Was I bummed that I won’t be the March Madness winner in my family this year?  You bet.  And was I really looking forward to our family cruise (no joke) departing from Rome (yes, the one in Italy) in June?   I sure was.   But, if we continue to be blessed with health, there will indeed be future opportunities to travel and I will – yet again – pick the perfect brackets based solely on how much I enjoy the state (thank you, lovely people of Utah) or saying the name of the college (Gonzaga, Gonzaga, Gonzaga).

My personal interpretation....  Yours would be different, for sure and certain.

How are you looking at our current situation? Have you taken up residence in the bitter barn or are you counting your lucky stars and doing your part to keep your community safe?

Is it likely that you will come out on the other side of this pandemic with health and hope? Then that, indeed, should be enough.

Perspective. May we all have it or be open to finding it.

@bethechangebeth

When Suffering is a Good Thing

$57 worth of food (and our dog, Daisy)

It goes without saying that I’m not a doting mother. Many assume that, because I adopted many of my children, I must be a saint who wants nothing short of heavenly experiences for my brood.  In fact, the opposite is true.  I want them to suffer.

I want my kids to experience disappointment.  I want them to be the last of their friends to get the latest technology.  I want them to receive a very conservative amount of gifts for celebrations (or – in some cases – no gifts at all).  And, for one week each year, I want them to feel the pangs of hunger.

With limited enthusiasm, we registered to participate in the Mayan Families One Day 1.90 food challenge. You see, this wasn’t our first rodeo. We had participated in the Living Below The Line challenge on two previous occasions, so we knew all too well what our week would be like.  It’s not fun.  For anyone.

But, because of our absolute love and commitment to Guatemala AND because of this mama’s obsession with “Be the change you want to see in the world…”, I essentially guilted my four children into accepting the challenge yet again. (Thank you, sweet husband Jay, for standing in solidarity with me, as always.)

So, what exactly is this challenge?  Simply, it is to survive at the International Poverty Line of $1.90 (per person) each day for five consecutive days. For our family of six, this equates to a Monday thru Friday budget of a mere $57. As a reference, a dine out night at Chili’s typically runs us about $100, and our average weekly grocery bill is a very conservative $250. Because this week’s challenge budget is extra tight, it translates to… no bottled water, no fast food, no social eating, no restaurants, no fancy coffees, no baking, no purchases of school lunches, no beverages other than tap water, and no treats/desserts of any kind.  Lots and lots of no’s, nopes, and nuh-uhs.

I won’t lie. This week has been hard for all of us.  I think our boys, Luke (13) and Will (12), have been hit hardest, as their typical appetites are insatiable and our Lucas loves his protein. That said, they have been real troopers.  They have even refused food sharing offers from their friends at the school cafeteria lunch table. Now that’s commitment!  And how sweet of their friends to offer.

What have we learned this week? (Prepare yourself for our Top 10 List!)

(10) We have learned that, when you are poor, you shop the aisles rather than the perimeter of the store. (Those of us who have attempted healthy eating plans have often been told to avoid the aisles and shop the perimeter in order to achieve better nutrition.)(9) We have realized that there is no room in a poverty level budget for brand name items (bye-bye Skippy, hello store brand), and don’t even think about cage free eggs or organic produce.(8) Speaking of produce… Cross it off of your grocery list, because you can likely only afford bananas and onions.
(7) And bulk… Buying in bulk saves you pennies, and every penny counts. Individual snack packs – though they are cute and fun and easy to grab - are not an option.(6) We have experienced lack of variety in our meal plan. Same breakfast each day (bulk cereal). Same lunch each day (sandwich on white bread with 20 pretzel sticks). Two alternating dinners (pasta and canned sauce or chicken/beans/rice/corn). Our palates are craving something new.(5) And I think we have all been dehydrated this week. Tap water tastes gross when you are accustomed to the options of juice or soda or iced tea or coffee OR spring water. We definitely have not been drinking enough, and I have had caffeine withdrawal headaches all week.(4) Oh… And our blood pressure may be a bit on the high side because we are salting EVERYTHING.(3) We have been sad to decline lots of social opportunities this week as well, because we don’t have funds to meet a friend for lunch or a cocktail or even an ice cream cone.(2) Interestingly, we have created far less trash this week. Not much extra packaging to toss when you buy in bulk. (You’re welcome, planet Earth.)And the #1 thing that we learned this week…

(1) When you are poor, you are better at sharing. I can’t fully explain it, but our kiddos – who normally help themselves to generous portions of food – instead took a modest serving of each meal to ensure that everyone had enough. It wasn’t until all of us felt this week’s version of “satisfaction” (never, ever a sense of proper fullness) that anyone inquired about second helpings. A beautiful sight to behold.

The Benefits of Suffering

So, why is suffering a good thing?  You know the answer, silly! 

“To understand the man, you must first walk a mile in his moccasins.” ~ Native American Proverb

It isn’t enough for my children to learn about hunger… to read the statistics that 750 million people live on less than $1.90 every single day of their entire lives… and that our beloved Guatemala, birthplace of our youngest child, has the fourth highest rate of childhood malnutrition in the world… We wanted our children to FEEL it… to SUFFER like they suffer… to indeed WALK in their shoes.

Don’t pity us.  We had but five days of this experience, and our $1.90 only covered food and not all of life’s other expenses.  The McFadyens had clothing and shelter and transportation and education and medical coverage and everything else that makes one feel secure.  We simply experienced hunger… not fear and desperation.

Suffering with hunger this week helped my children to understand how ridiculously blessed they are (even if they can’t have a cell phone until age 13). It made them better “carers and sharers.” It educated them with a physically and emotionally altering experience that cannot be found in a text book or even on a mission trip. This week, their personal suffering helped them to grow as Citizens of the World.

At least a dozen people this week offered praise and gave us credit for attempting something that they claim they could never do themselves. To those people and to all who read this, I offer you a modified food challenge… Maybe five days is too much for you. Perhaps counting pennies feels overwhelming. But could you guesstimate the amount of money you spend on dining out for a week, simply abstain from it and then donate that equivalent to the hungry?  Or skip Dunkin’s and Starbucks on days beginning with “T”?  Or pack your lunch for the week? Or buy store brands vs. name brands? Could you make one simple change for a short period of time and donate those savings to fight hunger?  Hey… And, if all that seems unrealistic, maybe you could make a straight out donation instead.  (Here’s the link.)

It’s dinnertime now. We’re on Day 5 of our challenge and the two 1 lb. boxes of 0.89 pasta are coming to a boil. We made it through the week with four slices of white bread and a can of tuna to spare. Some of us have lost some weight. Others of us have super confused bodies that are somehow holding on to all of those carb calories. We’re grouchy and have headaches and can hardly wait until our breakfast feast.

After dinner, I will trek to the market on this appropriately rainy night to buy food for the weekend. The kids have made all sorts of special requests, mostly for fresh fruit and desserts and General Tso’s chicken. I expect, as I have in years past, to get a bit teary as I peruse the aisles AND perimeter and am able to add anything of my choice to the basket. Today, I will be carrying those 750 million people who are not as fortunate in my heart.

I hope that reading this post inspires you to take some action of some sort. Be it a grand gesture or a simple modification, you too have the opportunity to…

“Be the change you want to see in the world.”

God Bless Those Who Hunger…

If you would like to make a donation to the Mayan Families One Day 1.90 Challenge, please visit this link. 

Christmas Mission Trip 2014

 

Be The Change...

Auntie Joan

I can’t remember when I first read the life affirming quote from Ghandi, “Be the change you want to see in the world,” but I can quickly tell you the name of the person in my life who has most exemplified it.  Her name is Joan Dunlevy and she was my Aunt.

Auntie Joan was a rebel.  She had spunk and charisma and passion and the cutest rosy cheeks… all of the necessary traits required to get things done.  Over the years, I was blessed to watch her “work her magic” as a leader not only in our family but in our community as well.  I was simply in awe of her, and I am ever so grateful for the influence that she has had on my life.

She was mother to eight children, a registered nurse, our town’s first female Chairperson of the Board of Selectman, and so much more.  Whenever an opportunity presented itself to make something better, she never hesitated to take action… creating Tewksbury’s first drug awareness program, building a new school and fire station and police station, welcoming my Nana to live with her as she battled Parkinson’s disease, coaching me on strategies to convince my Dad to quit smoking… She had a hand in so many amazing transformations.  She was, indeed, “the change.”

I always loved my visits with her.  Auntie Joan had a wonderful memory and delighted in sharing the details of all of her adventures.  Her laugh couldn’t help but warm your heart as it sprang from her soul.  But she had lessons to share, as well.  She was the first to tell me that, “God gives the heaviest burdens to those who can bear the cross.”  At first, I saw it as a message about sheer strength… that our Almighty would only give us as much as we could handle.  But, as I reflect upon the exemplary life that my Aunt led, I now know that it is about responsibility.  God expects us to do good things in this world, and those of us who hear His call are charged to rise up.

No one “rose up” better than my Auntie Joan.  As we say our goodbyes to her in the coming days, I feel all the more committed to living a servant life, as she did.  God bless the change makers.  God bless Joan Dunlevy.

Remembering Dad on his Birthday

Richard Patterson, 1941-2015

We're experiencing another "first" today... Dad's first birthday since his sudden passing in January. He would have been 74 years old today.

Like many of you who have lost a parent, I find myself still in disbelief that he is gone.  Last year, on this day, I was preparing for his lobster-themed birthday party at my house.  He LOVED a good meal, and I always tried to impress him with a new recipe or an old favorite.  His rating scale was "not bad" to "that was excellent, Bethy," and the fact that there were fewer of the latter was his way of coaxing me into making more goodies for him.  There was no one that I wanted to impress more. No one.

Today, almost six months after his passing, I am aching for the comforts of home while I am living abroad... I want to be in my Tewksbury kitchen baking a cake for my Dad.  I want to visit the cemetery and have myself a good cry.  I want to hug my Mom and Brother, knowing that we all share that same deep sense of emptiness today.  Instead, we'll be honoring Dad today with a trip to a local farm where we will pick berries, just like we did with him most every summer.

I never shared our Eulogy to our Dad, but today seems like a perfect time to do so.  If you knew him, I hope that you feel like this captures his essence, and - if you didn't know him - I hope that you feel as though you now do.  He was indeed an amazing man and a wonderful Dad.  Read on to learn more...

Remembering Our Dad

Ask anyone and they will tell you that Richard Patterson was a great guy.  If you are a friend or family member from his early years, you may have known him as Rich or even Richie.  Once he entered the working world and married life, he became Dick or – to dozens of children who are now adults – Uncle Dick.  And, although he had every intention of eventually becoming Grandpa, his eldest grandchild named him Papa instead.  No matter how you knew him or what you called him, he was truly one of the most likeable people we all ever knew.

Our Dad had an amazing life and, although we are all deeply saddened that he left us too soon, he would be the first to remind us how grateful he was for each and every year.  Just last week, as we sat together in his hospital room and discussed his heart problems and the possibility of lung cancer, he said… “You know, Bethy, I have a unique perspective from most people.  I survived cancer and have been lucky to enjoy twenty years of my life that I thought I’d never have.”

And enjoy them he did…

As many of you know, Dad was offered an early retirement from the Gillette Company after his successful battle with colon cancer.  In their early 50s, he and Mom wasted no time enjoying all of the things that so many people must wait until their late 60s and 70s to do.  They were able to travel together and find special destinations that they would return to year after year.  Dad volunteered his time to serve on Wilmington’s Conservation Commission and loved doing site visits and prepping for his hearings.  He was also incredibly passionate about childhood cancers caused by pollution, and he was instrumental in advocating for compensation for local victims.  Dad was never a boastful man, but when we spoke about his meetings and the outcomes, I could see how proud he was to be part of the team that was making things right.

The top item on his fun list, of course, was golf.  Dad loved to play with his Gillette pals and would print out the tally of how many beers he had won after every game.  His cardiac doctor joked that most of his patients would come to their appointments with papers outlining their blood pressure and medications, but Dad would simply bring his golf card and a smile.  He inherited his love of gardening from his own Dad and was quick to complement me on how well I grew my weeds and the search and rescue mission that was required to find my cucumbers.  He had a great sense of humor, didn’t he?

Since becoming a Papa, one of his greatest joys was spending time with his seven grandchildren.  He absolutely loved to watch the kids play sports and simply glowed when they hit a homerun, scored a goal or shot a basket.  Nana and Papa’s house is famous for sleepovers and you know one is in progress when he answers the phone saying “Disaster Control.”  The non-stop fun (and mess) includes things like making potions in the kitchen, building tents, playing whiffle ball or soccer, swimming, coloring in Cosmo’s Place, painting, baking… you name it.  There was no doubt that he spoiled his grandchildren, but he was careful not to spoil us.

When our Dad was studying at UMASS Amherst, his father had a heart attack and Dad strongly considered quitting college and returning home to Woburn to support his parents.  He was so grateful to be able to continue his education, but that fear stuck with him and inspired him to be financially secure.  As we were growing up, Dad instilled in us a very strong work ethic and taught us how to be responsible with money.  He insisted that we significantly contribute to the cost of our college education, and he explained that credit cards absolutely must be paid in full each month.  Dad was always interested in hearing about a promotion or a job interview or a new opportunity… both for us and our spouses… and you could almost see in him a sense of relief that we would likely never experience the fear that he had experienced as a young man.  We truly credit his wisdom with helping us to be able to provide for our families, and we expect to pass those lessons on to our own children.

Our Dad was a low-key, easy going guy who took great delight in striking up conversations with friends and family and even strangers.  Unless you were a telemarketer (God help them), he genuinely enjoyed a good chat.  Many of you have fond memories of a particular topic that he would revisit time and again.  For Ellen Money, it was the perpetual request for her to make him a jelly roll, and for Sheila Burke it was always talk about Boston College, and for our dear Auntie Janet, he was constantly angling for some of her world famous meatballs.  For a long time, I would roll my eyes and think that he sounded like a broken record, but then I realized that that was not the case at all.  He valued his connection with you, and it was his unique way of making you feel special.  We hope you did.

It seems almost criminal that this memorial service should be held on the day before his beloved New England Patriots win the Super Bowl.  He watched the championship game from his hospital bed less than two weeks ago and was incredibly excited for tomorrow’s game.  Although he treated his grandchildren to several Patriots games in Foxboro, his preference was to watch the game alone – uninterrupted – with his sleeves rolled up and his pants hiked up to his knees.  Football was most definitely his favorite sport, and everyone knew it. 

Two of Dad’s sweet nieces, Joy and Julie, traveled down from Maine on Monday with a Patriots fleece blanket that they had made especially for him.  After a series of ups and downs since being readmitted to the hospital nearly a week earlier, Dad took a turn for the worse that morning and was quickly declining.  When we saw the cozy blanket, we immediately placed it over Dad and shared our messages of love with him over and over again.  We played a beautiful song called “Seagull” and – in the last few seconds of the song – our Dad peacefully passed away.  We share that image with you not to make you sad, but to help you to understand how simply perfectly our Dad left us to go to an even more wonderful place.  There is absolutely no doubt that he felt our love surrounding him and that he was grateful for what he considered to be an incredibly full and blessed life.

There are countless lessons that we have learned from our Dad, but among the most important are to be thankful for each and every day, to take time to enjoy the people in your life and make each one of them feel special, and to always, no matter what the controversy… be a loyal Patriots fan.

Three cheers for Richard, Rich, Richie, Dick, Uncle Dick, and Papa Patterson. 

We love you, Dad, and we will proudly carry on your legacy.

Following Our Hearts to Guatemala for Christmas

McFadyen Family Christmas Service Trip, 2012

 

In case you hadn’t heard, and you probably have, the McFadyen Six will return to Guatemala next week for our second Christmas Service Trip.  There is much to do as we prepare for our journey, but a different kind of energy is now sustaining us.  The nervousness of 2012 has been replaced with genuine excitement and anticipation.  There are no unknowns this time around. The kids have experienced the landscape, the culture, the language, the food, the heart of the people…. all of the things that make Guatemala unique compared to their lives in the Boston suburbs.  And, although not speaking the language or understanding the traditions can be a barrier at times, it only adds to the depth of the experience in serving others.

I remember, two years ago, being so afraid that the kids would panic when someone tried to talk to them in Spanish or in Kakchiquel, or that they would somehow offend others if expressing their displeasure when seeing the living conditions of the indigenous Maya, but they were true champs.  They smiled, they were respectful, and they engaged with both children and adults, despite the communication obstacles.  Needless to say, both Jay and I are carrying a lighter emotional load as we pack our suitcases and discuss our itinerary, thanks to the overwhelming success of our first Service Trip.  (And, this time around, the kids know how to say “chicken fingers” in Spanish.  Pechugitas de pollo, if you must know.) 

Again, we have decided to forego receiving Christmas presents and have asked those with whom we usually exchange gifts to instead share those funds with Mayan Families for their Christmas Tamale Basket program.  In Guatemala, the tradition – for those who can afford it – is to eat a meal of meat filled tamales and hot chocolate at midnight on Christmas Eve to celebrate Jesus' birth.  Because most families do not have the means to purchase the special ingredients required to make the tamales (especially the chicken), Mayan Families assembles Tamale Baskets that each feed up to 10 people, and they ask their donors to consider funding one so that their sponsored student can enjoy the Christmas tradition.  As you can imagine, the need is always far greater than the supply, so hundreds of families who did not receive a basket from a sponsor line up outside of the Mayan Families offices with hopes and prayers that one may have been donated for “general distribution.”

We were delighted in 2012 to supply 150 tamale baskets, feeding upwards of 1500 Maya, to those for whom a basket had not been dedicated.  This year, we set a goal to match that glorious amount, and we have been blessed beyond words to exceed it.  As I write today, our friends and family have generously donated 178 tamale baskets on our behalf, and now we’re closing in on 200.  Wouldn’t that be amazing?

We expect to be working hard alongside Mayan Families staff and other volunteers to create and distribute the baskets all next weekend, but the first stop on our itinerary on Thursday is to assist with the Christmas Party in the agricultural village of El Barranco.

About a handful of years ago, on what was my first trip to the Lake Atitlan area, I visited the village of El Barranco and truly fell in love with its people.  It is a small community that sits on a patch of farmland and does not enjoy the spectacular views of the volcano-shored lake.  The people, though, are hard-working and hopeful and are careful to maintain the culture of their Mayan ancestors.  Children in this community learn and perform folkloric dances that tell beautiful stories of the rich history of the Maya.

At that time, Mayan Families had wished to have a presence in the village so that they could offer support to some of the most needy residents.  As is their model, they hoped to establish a pre-school that would not only serve as a teaching center but would also provide the children with a healthy meal once each day, a vitamin to supplement their nutrition deficits, a teeth brushing activity to maintain dental health and, from a safety standpoint, the supervision that many toddlers simply don’t experience as just slightly older siblings offer care while parents work in the fields.

When a property became available for rent, our family offered funding to cover the monthly rental expense for Mayan Families and we have continued that commitment for several years.  But, great news came at the end of last year as a piece of land adjacent to the current school was advertised for sale.  We were very pleased to be able to contribute toward the construction of the brand new El Barranco Pre-School which we will see in its near completed phase on December 18^th.  It makes sense that it feels good to have a hand in something real and tangible, but it somehow feels extra special when you are able to give back to a country that has helped you to create your forever family.  Nothing will ever compare to the blessing that our son Will has been in our lives, but it feels absolutely necessary that part of our legacy reside in his country of birth.  And now it does.

And so, our service week will be spent distributing stuffed animals and small toys to children, touring the new school, visiting our sponsored students and elderly women (oh how I adore Maria and Guadalupe) and assembling and distributing the coveted Tamale Baskets.  Oh…. And let’s not forget that we’ll be participating in the Panajachel Christmas Parade too, wearing reindeer noses and tossing dulces (candy) into the crowds of people lining the streets.  (Super fun!)

So what are we giving our kids for Christmas this year?  We’re giving them the gift of being Santa Claus to a people with true needs.  We’re giving them the experience of sacrifice and the understanding that giving feels way better than receiving.  We’re building their character, shaping their values and providing them with the opportunity to be good citizens of the world.  They themselves told us last Christmas, after opening their gifts and playing with their new toys, that they far preferred the Christmas Service Trip over Traditional Christmas.  Who knows what future holidays will hold for the McFadyen Six, but – this year – we’re following our hearts to Guatemala.



If you wish to offer a tax-deductible donation toward the purchase of a $40 Christmas Tamale Basket that feeds 10 people, you can do so with a credit card (or via PayPal) through this link to the Mayan Families website.  Simply enter the dollar amount and add "McFadyen Christmas Service Trip 2014 - Tamale Basket" in the text block marked "What is this donation for?"  (Ignore the prompt that suggests that you didn't indicate a designation for your gift.)  Mil gracias!

Stepping Out of the Bariatric Surgery Closet

Exactly one year ago today, on August 21, 2013, I had Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery.  Today, therefore, is my 1st “surg-iversary.” Perhaps this is old news to you… but it’s not one year old news, because this secret was mostly under wraps until recently.  Why, you ask?  I’m still asking that question myself, but this indeed is my first public “outing.”  Read on if you’d like to satisfy your own curiosity or indulge my need to finally share the story.

I was starting to write, “It all began last May,” when I realized that that’s not at all when it began.  Truly, the story starts at my first Diet Workshop meeting, 36 years ago, when I was 9 years old and in the fourth grade.  I feel a deep sense of sadness when I remember that chubby little girl stepping onto the check-in scale for the very first time, surrounded mostly by middle-aged and senior women seeking wisdom and fellowship on their weight loss journeys.  Not a single peer in sight, I realized in that moment that I had a problem reserved for grown-ups. What a fat, ugly, worthless little girl I must be if I, alone, was given this burden in childhood.  And so truly begins my story….

I have ALWAYS had a weight problem.  Even the photos of my toddler self in a ballerina tutu predict what was bound to be a life-long battle of the bulge.  Over the years, I’ve tried it all: Weight Watchers (at least 25 times… I’m a Lifetime Member!), gym memberships, my ill-conceived Facebook diet, HMR, Woman’s World, Zagorra hot pants, cleanses… you name it.  I had occasional success, in fact losing 60 lbs. in my 20s on the Weight Watchers at Work program (thank you, Lotus Development), but my lost pounds always found their way home.  At 44 years old, I was ever-so-close to accepting my fate as a forever fatty when I decided to pick up the phone and call a friend.

At the time, of course, I didn’t know that the conversation would be step one in changing my life forever.  My call was to a pal who had chosen gastric bypass surgery four years earlier and who appeared to have had quite amazing success.  And, even though I clearly remember telling my husband how absolutely crazy she was to risk her life for weight loss surgery and how I would never, ever, in a million years consider such a drastic step, I now found myself out of options and wondering if this might be the answer for me too.  I asked what I thought to be rather intelligent questions about her experience with both the surgery and the recovery, but it was this statement that unlocked the gate for me…  “Beth, I do a lot of things really well, but weight loss isn’t one of them.”

Freedom.  That’s the only word to describe the gift that was found in her words.  I had made hundreds of valiant attempts at weight loss with genuine confidence that I would finally be able to defeat the dragon on my own.  It hadn’t worked.  Each and every time I failed, the only thing I lost was another chunk of self-worth.  Perhaps I too could surrender, take someone’s hand and ask for help?

With a sparkle of hope in my heart, my husband and I attended an information session to learn more about weight loss surgery.  Together, we decided that I’d complete the evaluation process and trust that the results would lead us down the right path.  The summer of 2013 was spent meeting with bariatric surgeons, neurologists, cardiologists, nutritionists, and psychologists.  And, after thorough inspections of, literally, my heart and soul, they deemed me a qualified candidate.  Now the decision was fully mine.

I’ll admit that, during the months of May, June and July, there was no question in my mind that I would move forward with the surgery.  As I learned more at my doctor’s visits, talked with other friends who had chosen bariatric surgery (thanks, ladies… you know who you are!), and researched the subject online, I was convinced that this was the solution for me.  And then the call came to inform me that my surgery had been approved and we were ready to set the date.  In that very moment, uncertainty washed over me. Was I risking too much? What if I was one of the 0.5% who die as a result of the surgery?  How could I possibly leave behind a wonderful husband and four awesome kids… a family that was incredibly hard to build… simply to lose weight.  Would my friends and family judge my choice? Would they think me the ultimate failure? What if I went through with the surgery and it didn’t work?  What if?  What if?  What if?

And then I asked myself… What if your blood pressure continues to rise?  What if your sleep apnea can never be controlled?  What if you have a stroke?  What if you have a heart attack?  What if you develop colon cancer?  What if you live your remaining days feeling entirely overwhelmed by your size?  What if?  What if?  What if?

Saying “yes” to bariatric surgery was simply the most selfish yet most generous gift I ever gave to myself.  In the end, I was convinced (and I still am) that surgery would afford me a longer life with my family.  It would improve the quality of my declining health and, as a bonus, it might even help me to buy back some of that self-worth that I had lost along the way. I said “yes” and then an entirely new wave of questions hit me square in the face.

To tell or not to tell?  Throughout the evaluation process, only a handful of our nearest and dearest knew that I was considering surgery.  In fact, for fear that they would disapprove, I didn’t share my surgery date with my parents until two days prior, and – as predicted – it was not met with a positive response. They begged me to wait 10 years, until the kids were out of school and mostly independent.  They called me selfish.  They told me I was stupid to choose elective surgery.  They sent me articles quoting death rates.  And then, six hours after my surgery, they entered my hospital room with tears in their eyes and told me that they loved me and that they were afraid they would lose me.  Isn’t it interesting how much fear plays a role in the decisions that we make and the words that we choose?  It was both fear and shame that would keep me from sharing my surgery secret for many months to come.

Recovery was equally hard and scary in the first thirty days.  The liquid diet slowly transitioned to soft food like scrambled eggs and greek yogurt, and I was eating small protein-rich meals by the end of week six.  I tried to avoid events that would require food or beverage intake as I evaluated what my body could or could not handle.  And, on a few occasions, like in the North Street School parking lot, after a parent/teacher conference, I raced to find a private space where I could throw up.  The scary part wasn’t managing the food, though; it was managing my expectations of the scale.

I assumed that the weight would just fly off of me.  Haven’t you seen Star Jones or Al Roker?  Didn’t they go from fluffy to flat in a matter of weeks?  Well, that wasn’t my experience.  My surgeon, the nutritionist, the nurse practitioner and my own primary care doctor all assured me that losing slowly is the healthy way to go… that I may experience less hair loss, that my body will heal faster, that the nutrients will absorb better, that yah-dee-yah-dee-yah.  I didn’t want to hear it.  I had said yes to major surgery and if this damn procedure didn’t work, I was going to be pissed.  The end.

They were right.  The losses started and stopped almost cyclically, and once I got below the magic number (we call it “One-derland” and you can probably figure it out), my sense of panic subsided.  At this point, some people noticed my weight loss and offered their congratulations.  I accepted it but felt it was entirely undeserved.  Some went so far as to ask how I was losing the weight.  With 100% truth but not 100% full disclosure, I explained that I had significantly changed my eating habits, that I was on a high protein diet and that I had broken up with my beloved Diet Pepsi. (Bariatric surgery = no more carbonated beverages.)  My husband joked that soda sales were going to plummet thanks to my half-truth, but I still wasn’t ready to share my story.

During the psychological evaluation that was required prior to surgery, I was told that it was not uncommon for people to feel depressed after surgery.  What?  Depressed?  After achieving something that seemed unachievable?  After going off of meds?  After buying new clothes?  After walking up a flight of stairs without feeling winded?  That’s just crazy, I thought.  And then came the blues.

I’m not sure what played the biggest role.  Guilt about not coming clean about my surgery?  Fear that I would be judged?  Shame that I couldn’t lose weight (and keep it off) on my own?  Or was it that, now, at a shrinking size, people seemed to approve of me more.  If they liked how I looked now, they must have hated how I looked then.  Even when my husband hugged me and said, “you feel so good,” I wept, because all that entered my mind was how I must have repulsed him for most of our married life.  I was in limbo… not embracing my new shell and feeling betrayed by my old one.  Between months two and eight, I was in a very dark place.

One of my most telling moments came in month seven when I participated in a group service trip to Guatemala with my mother.  It was February and new t-shirts and capris were in order for the 70-80 degree temperatures that we were anticipating.  Dressed now in size medium from head to toe, I was not feeling at all like myself, so I found it quite interesting, in retrospect of course, that by day two of our journey, I had revealed to my new traveling companions that I had undergone bariatric surgery the previous summer.  It was as if I was saying… “I’m an imposter.  This is not the real Beth.  You could have met her last year when she was wearing size XL.”  Why would I find it nearly impossible to tell my friends and family about my surgery and yet feel absolutely compelled to share it with absolute strangers?

I guess it’s because I’ve ALWAYS been an open book… until now.  After struggles with fertility and the ups and downs of adoption (both domestic and international), I truly considered myself to be the “go-to” girl for information.  “Ask me anything,” I would say.  But my weight loss struggles seemed somehow more personal than my family building ones.  So, unless you were one of the dozen people who asked me if I was dying, I likely didn’t “come out” to you until recently.

So what’s it like to step out of the bariatric closet?  For one thing, it doesn’t necessarily happen in an organized way.  What I had hoped would be a methodical unveiling with those closest to me learning my secret first turned into something entirely different.  You see, it’s not a subject that’s easy to broach, so there were plenty of planned outings that never happened because I simply chickened out.  Or, there were times when my friends had stuff happening in their lives that was clearly much more important than my news, so it seemed insensitive to share.  For lots of different reasons, I didn’t necessarily honor the placement of people in my life with the timing of our eventual conversation.  And the good girl that I am feels rather crappy about that.  I’m sorry if you feel betrayed.  And I’m also sorry that I have spent so much time worrying that you feel betrayed.

I tend to think that my weight indeed “shaped” (no pun intended) the woman that I became.  You see, I’ve always liked the person that I am on the inside.  I’ve been a people-pleaser for as long as I can remember, and I’ve essentially dedicated my life to serving my family and my community, near and far.  Would I have (often desperately) sought the approval of others if my self-esteem was fully intact?  Has my life been full of do-gooder actions because I wanted you to like me… to really, really like me?  I think we all know the answers to those questions.  I’ve been looking for love and validation every darn day of my life… ever since my nine year old self stepped on the scale at that Diet Workshop meeting so many moons ago.

And now for the burning questions…  Are you indeed healthier now?  Yes, I’ve been off of my blood pressure medication and CPAP machine since last November.  Did you achieve your weight loss goal?  I truly never had a number in mind.  My only two goals were to sit higher in the water than my husband in a double kayak and to be able to wear the wedding ring that I had to have cut off of my finger 17 years ago.  Yes and sparkly yes.  And how much weight have you lost?  Well, I won’t tell you the number, but I will tell you that I’ve lost the equivalent of an average fourth grader. (You can Google it.)  Yup… I was holding her inside of me for 36 years, but – with these words - I’m finally ready to set her free.

One final story… About a month ago, I was snuggling with my 10 year old son and he mentioned that he could wrap his arms all the way around me.  So, I took the opportunity to ask him how he felt about my surgery.  His response?  “Happy.”  “Why are you happy,” I asked?  “Because you’re happy now, Mom.”

Sometimes, the greatest gift you give yourself turns out to be the greatest gift you give to those you love the most.