It's been a while since I've written a new blog post. I've had a million and one ideas and somehow not made the time to write a single one. I've been jotting these ideas down because there are so many of them, and I'm bound to forget a few. Among the ideas are some topics that are probably expected: getting through the holidays, a recap of Harvesting Hope (which was VERY successful, by the way), and a general update on my emotional status (don't worry--it's pretty good, considering...). There are also a few that probably are not expected: a message from the mom of another Max McFall, a renewed friendship with a high school classmate who recently lost twins. The one that I am sitting down to write today falls into the "unexpected" category, and I wish I weren't writing it. It is about the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings.
I was out and about the day of the shootings, so I only heard about them a few hours afterward. I was visiting friends at Shawnee Mission South, and my former principal told me about the shootings. I decided right then and there that I didn't want to know any more about this tragedy. I know that sounds selfish, but I am more affected by sad news stories, especially those involving children, since Max's death. I try to avoid them at all costs. I read an article a few months ago involving a newborn baby boy and something so horrific that I haven't shared it with anyone. I wish I'd never read it, but I wish even more that I could stop other people from knowing about it. I know I'm not alone in this either. I had breakfast with the aforementioned high school friend this past Saturday, and we discussed this very issue. We both agreed that we are just more emotional affected by stories of death, namely children's deaths, than we ever were before. Don't get me wrong--I've never enjoyed hearing about children dying, but I wouldn't fixate on them for months and months. I think I have always been a pretty empathetic person, but my mind and my heart weren't trained to think about anything beyond the sense of loss that these families must be feeling. Now, I know better. I think about these poor parents going home to a house full of belongings with no child to possess them. I think about the reminders that will surface months and years from now--a phone call reminding them of a dental check-up scheduled for their child who no longer exists, a birthday card with a 20% off coupon from Toys R Us, the question on forms at their doctor's office and in every conversation with a new acquaintance: "How many children do you have?" I think about the dead children's stockings still hanging above the fireplace and the gifts already purchased and wrapped sitting under the Christmas tree. I think about the horror and helplessness that they feel at knowing that their children's bodies sat on cold autopsy tables where they were methodically cut open, organs removed and weighed, while a stone-faced doctor jotted down numbers on a sheet of paper that will become the final autopsy report. I think about them today. About how their world felt like it ended all over again when they woke up and realized that their children really are gone. I think about how hard, maybe impossible, it will be for these parents to drop their other children off at school, to let them learn how to drive one day, to let them spend the night at friends' houses, and eventually let them move out and fend for themselves in the world. If your child wasn't safe at school, or in my case, at home, then how can we possibly let them out into the world again?
Of course, my desire to not know any more about the shootings quickly vanished when I wondered what would have happened if people decided they didn't want to know any more about Max dying. As soon as I got in my car, I turned on NPR and listened to all the horrific details. I still listened as I sat in the carpool line waiting to pick Ethan up from school that day, and I thought about just how lucky I was to be doing something as normal as picking my son up from school. I thought about how easily Sandy Hook Elementary School could have been Stanley Elementary School, or any other elementary school in the world. I thought about how that first grade class could have been Ethan's first grade class and how those brave teachers and administrators could have been the very ones who I have chatted with and handed my son's life over to every day since school started. I was watching when the Connecticut State Police released the names of all of the victims, and I watched as the MSNBC news anchor attempted to read each one through tears. I don't know what it's like to lose your child to an act of violence and evil like these parents did. I don't know what it's like to think about your child's last moments and just pray that they were one of the first ones killed. I cannot imagine how it feels to be told that your fragile little six-year-old child was shot three or five or eleven times at close range with an assault rifle. I do know what it feels like to have your child ripped from you for no reason, though. And I know exactly how it feels to be left with so many questions, none of which will ever be answered satisfactorily. I know how horrible it feels to know that your child was an innocent victim and that he, you, and the world has been robbed of his life.
In the weeks and months to come, the talk of the tragedy at Sandy Hook will continue to morph into debates about gun control, school safety, teachers' rights to arm themselves, and a variety of mental health issues. I have tried to avoid most of that for now, but I recently read an article that I think is worthy of attention now. Here is the link: http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/ It is written by the mother of a mentally ill child who displays violent tendencies, and it is brutally honest. The author brings up many valid points worthy of discussion in this country, but one really stands out to me. It has to do with access to quality mental health care in the United States. This mother has tried everything to get help for her son, but nothing has worked. He has physically threatened his family with knives, harmed himself, and vowed to seek vengeance on others. Despite the very real threat that he poses to himself and others, nothing has been done to truly help this boy. His mother writes about the expense of quality mental health care, about insurance companies' refusal to cover treatments (despite his escalating violent behavior), and about her decision to return to work simply to draw benefits from a group insurance plan that will cover at least part of the cost of her son's mental health treatment. I can't imagine what it must be like to live with a child who you both love and fear greatly. And I can't imagine what it's like to not only know that your child is capable of walking into an elementary school and doing what Adam Lanza did, but also to know that no one will help you try to prevent something like that from happening.
I'm going to share my own little story about mental health and insurance companies. It is personal, and some probably think it is in bad taste for me to share it. While I don't disagree, I do think that it needs to be shared. The point is not to turn the Sandy Hook tragedy into my own, but rather to demonstrate that if it is hard for someone like me to get the care that I need, then you can only imagine how difficult it must be for the Adam Lanzas of the world. I have been very open about the fact that I sought professional counseling after Max died. I met with a grief counselor once a week on my own, and Scott and I met with a counselor together once a week. I was lucky to be covered under a group insurance plan that covered mental health visits at 100%, so I never paid a cent for my private counseling sessions. In September, Scott and I decided that we were ready to start trying for another baby. I made an appointment with my gynecologist to discuss a few concerns that I had. I wanted to be sure that there were no concerns about genetic predispositions to SIDS and that I would physically be okay to carry and deliver two babies in such close proximity. In the past, my gynecologist had also run a battery of blood tests prior to me becoming pregnant. Obviously, the topic of Max and his death was bound to come up since all of my questions and concerns centered around some aspect of his life or death. My doctor asked me if I felt depressed. I very clearly remember my answer: "My son just died. Yes, I feel depressed." She asked me if I had thought of hurting myself, and I said no, that I didn't have any desire to harm myself. She then asked me if I was seeing anyone to help me deal with my emotions, and I told her that I was in counseling twice a week. We moved on to my other questions, she assured me that it would be fine physically for me to get pregnant again, and then I left and didn't think another thing of it. I became pregnant very soon after that, and I didn't see my gynecologist again since her practice does not include obstetrics. When I took a leave of absence from teaching, I lost my benefits. I applied for an individual policy with the same insurance company, Blue Cross Blue Shield, thinking that I could get pretty affordable coverage. I was completely wrong. The monthly premium that I was quoted doubled after my application went through the underwriting process. Why? Because of that visit to see my gynecologist. It turns out that she coded my visit as a "mental health" visit and diagnosed me as "major depressive," a diagnosis that she never shared with me. And in case you are wondering, neither my grief counselor nor my primary care physician (who I saw the day after Max's funeral for my 6-week postpartum check-up and then at least once a month starting in October when I became pregnant) ever diagnosed me as major depressive. Unfortunately, my gynecologist had retired a few months prior to this discovery, and the receptionist at her office told me that "they don't work for Dr.____ any more," so there was little I could do to clear up the situation. I spoke with several people at Blue Cross Blue Shield and at the coding agency that my doctor used. Many of them were sympathetic to my story, but guess how many of them offered to actually do something to help me? None of them. I posed several (in my opinion, valid) questions to Blue Cross Blue Shield: Do you commonly pay claims for doctors to practice outside of their specialty? Should I make an appointment with a cardiologist next time I get a blemish on my face? Can I schedule my next pelvic exam with my podiatrist? Why didn't the mental health professional in charge of my care diagnose me as major depressive if it was so obvious to my gynecologist after a three minute conversation? Did they realize they had paid out a claim for me to see my grief counselor that week in addition to this "mental health visit" when I was only allowed one mental health visit per week? Why would I make a counseling appointment with my gynecologist, whom I had seen only once in the year prior to that appointment? Besides that, why would I be punished for seeking help, assuming that I did want a counseling session with my gynecologist? In the end, I got nowhere. I am a healthy 30-year-old woman who has never had an illness more serious than a sinus infection, never visited the emergency room or been hospitalized for anything besides totally routine labor and delivery visits, has no chronic conditions, and takes no medications. But because I answered a few questions that I assumed were being asked out of personal concern for my well-being, Blue Cross Blue Shield expected me to pay over $400 a month for a high-deductible, high out-of-pocket cost insurance plan. I doubt that my gynecologist knew or will ever know just how much her error has cost me. She will probably never know that we might have to give up on having more children because I don't have maternity coverage on my temporary insurance plan, and she will never know that I wouldn't go to the doctor right now unless I really thought I was dying because it would be way too expensive if I wasn't.
I know that this has turned into a little rant, but I hope that no one sees it as a "poor me" declaration. I don't pity myself or feel sad that I can't get affordable health coverage. I feel angry, and I'm not sure who I'm more angry with: the doctor or Blue Cross Blue Shield. And honestly, this experience scares me and makes me feel pretty hopeless for our world. If I can't get affordable coverage because of one stupid visit, imagine what it's like for people who have had cancer or people who have a child who has a diagnosed mental illness. We will never know if the shooting at Sandy Hook could have been avoided, but it is a guarantee that we will see more Sandy Hook-type incidents if the care that could prevent them continues to be inaccessible. I realize that this is my attempt at finding some sort of purpose in such a pointless tragedy, but I also think that is a rational reaction. I've been trying to find purpose in Max's death for the past eighteen months, and I'll probably spend the rest of my life searching for it. Ultimately, I've done some pretty good things along the way, so maybe it's not as fruitless as it seems. Nothing that comes out of the Sandy Hook massacre will make me forget the beautiful faces of those children, and nothing will make me forget the selfless acts of the teachers and administrators who sacrificed their lives for their students, but I do think that tragedy has a way of inspiring hope and change. My wish is that the idle talk and debating that is going on right now will cease to be just talk and at some point become real change. Shame on us if it doesn't.
Here is a link to a slideshow with pictures of the victims and brief biographies: http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-connecticut-school-shooting-victims/story?id=17984685#
