Happily Ever After: The Life-Changing Power of a Grateful Heart Page 2

  Do I enjoy bits of pampering as an annual tradition on my birthday, treat myself to manicures so that my temptation to nibble at my nails is curbed, and take advantage of date nights when we can get a sitter? Heck, yes! But my days are not full of long, luxurious bubble baths, hours relaxing with a bowl of popcorn and the latest chick flick in a glamorous home theater, dinner parties catered by my personal chef, shopping sprees, or even massages.

  Above all else, I’m proud to be a mom, wife, daughter, and friend. Maybe if I won the lottery, I could focus on those roles alone, but since that has yet to happen, I’m also required, as so many of us are, to take on the additional roles of housekeeper, travel agent, psychologist, spokesperson, peacemaker, chauffeur, accountant, secretary, teacher, chef, manager, nurse, designer, and cheerleader.

  And while I may have found my prince and landed at the center of some extraordinary moments, I have also suffered and struggled through my fair share of disappointment and pain.

  The universe has taught me so much, and undoubtedly will continue to do so. The main thing I’ve learned about what makes for a happy life, right up there with good health and lots of love, is gratitude.

  My intent here is to share not only the lessons I’ve learned, but also those of my friends and family, those of strangers, and even some of the teachings of some of the world’s most enlightened authors, philosophers, poets, and educators. I will never claim to be an expert, but you won’t have to take it from only me; there is plenty of research out there to back up the benefits of a grateful heart.

  I just hope that after reading these pages you will walk away with a positive outlook on life and all it has to offer. Then, if you’ve taken anything I’ve said to heart, you will lay your head down at night feeling the same way I do: like the luckiest person on the block, thankful for all the little blessings that make up your world.

  A Conscious Choice

  I am not what happened to me.

  I am what I choose to become.

  —CARL GUSTAV JUNG

  CHAPTER ONE

  EVERY MORNING, I WAKE UP AND WONDER WHAT THE day will bring. Every night, whether I’ve had one of those days, a day I would love to completely forget, or a day that made my cheeks hurt from smiling, I make it a point to remember my favorite part of the day. I’ve been posting these thoughts, my own personal expressions of gratitude, almost every night on Twitter and Facebook under the hashtag #favepartofday for the past four years. It may sound silly, but it’s my way of focusing on the positive. As Olympian Jesse Owens once said, “Find the good. It’s all around you. Find it, showcase it, and you’ll start believing it.”

  My days aren’t always perfect, but I believe wholeheartedly in what Jesse said. By actively noting my favorite part of each day, I make myself more receptive to the joys of life—from the second I wake up until just before I send out my nightly post. This simple act makes me accountable to searching for and sharing shining moments, and helps me realize through a changed perspective that I have so much to be grateful for.

  On May 10, 2009, that was certainly the case. It was about a month after I had welcomed a beautiful baby girl, my second child, into the world, and it was a day of celebration. Blakesley Grace Sutter was celebrating five weeks of life, and I was celebrating Mother’s Day for the first time as the proud mom of two. It was a day I had dreamed about for most of my life, and I cherished it that much more because the path to reach it hadn’t always been an easy one to follow. Looking back, though, I see that all the pieces found their place in my life at just the right times—each piece adding more and more meaning along the way.

  Finding someone to walk hand-in-hand with down the path was the piece that eluded me the longest (thirty years), but thanks to a network-television matchmaker, producers who saw something in me, and an open mind, I found Ryan. Crazy? Definitely. Worth it? You bet!

  After saying “I do” and taking a couple years to enjoy our newlywed status, Ryan and I were ready to add the next piece of the puzzle to our lives: parenthood. Like the children’s playground song says, “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage,” we believed that nature would automatically take over after we were married and we could throw caution to the wind. No birth control = new baby, right? Yeah . . . not so much.

  But we were determined to start a family and actively pursued our goal.

  Did sex become a chore? Yes. Even with a husband as good-looking as I think mine is, when sex is a requirement, it becomes more like a duty and less like the stuff you see in the movies.

  Did frustration rear its ugly head? Yes.

  Did we undergo painful and embarrassing blood tests, semen tests (Ryan), acupuncture, and intrauterine inseminations (me)? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

  We did everything we could until we couldn’t do anything new. We finally came to grips with the fact that we needed help, so we sought out Drs. William Schoolcraft and Eric Surrey at the Colorado Center for Reproductive Medicine. They have one of the most successful fertility clinics in the country and, luckily, they are practically our neighbors. (Okay, it takes two hours to get to their office from our house, but when you live in the mountains, two hours is practically your backyard.)

  Before we could start the process, there were more tests and a particularly excruciating procedure involving one of the things I truly hate: needles. The good news: After the procedure, our options (aka my cervix) literally opened up. Ryan’s guys were able to reach their destination and get the job done. We were pregnant!

  I couldn’t have been happier, but my body didn’t feel the same way.

  For the first sixteen weeks of my pregnant life, I was on the couch, feeling much the way I had back in college after a night like my twenty-first birthday, when I lost my sanity and attempted twenty-one shots (I made it to nineteen, and yes, I know, I was an idiot). Every second of every day was an ongoing battle with nausea that wouldn’t disappear, no matter what I tried—and I tried it all. I ate raw ginger and Preggie Pops, Popsicles, and boxes of Froot Loops—sometimes all in one sitting. I was also reminded to drink what felt like gallons of water each day, but I’ve always struggled with downing glasses of water, especially when my stomach is queasy. To make matters worse, I didn’t brush my teeth or change out of my pajamas for what seemed like months (official apologies to both my husband and my dentist, Dr. Haerter). I felt like life was draining out of me rather than growing inside of me.

  Thankfully, the torment of an unsettled stomach finally resolved. For a few months, I was able to put a smile on my face, get out of the house, and quit complaining.

  But wait: after an oral glucose test at twenty-nine weeks, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. One minute I was guiltlessly indulging in all the sweets I was craving and the next I was pushing one of those needles I dreaded into my skin three times a day to make sure that the few indulgences I allowed myself didn’t put me over my prescribed glucose limits.

  Then there was a fainting spell one morning on my bathroom floor (and my pregnant belly) at four o’clock, intense Braxton-Hicks contractions throughout my pregnancy, admissions to the hospital for self-induced-although-unintentional dehydration, a diagnosis of Group B Strep toward the end, and weight gain that put lots of unfamiliar and painful stress on my five-foot, two-inch frame.

  In the grand scheme of things, I realize these were all teeny-tiny blips on the “poor me” scale. I survived, just like billions of other women had before me and would after me, and none of these inconveniences harmed my unborn baby in any way. It wasn’t an easy thirty-six weeks, but it was a time frame I wouldn’t trade for anything—ever.

  With the difficulties I had throughout the pregnancy, I figured the obstetrical gods would sprinkle me with easy dust when my delivery day arrived. Let’s just say I was wrong. The day we welcomed Maxwell Alston Sutter into the world was one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  It was July 25, 2007. I was thirty-five weeks and six days into my pregnancy. I started
the day off as I usually did—literally rolling out of bed. As the day went on, the pings on my worry radar got more and more intense. I just didn’t feel right. My doctor had always told me to tune into my body’s signals, and the unnatural level of nausea and intense abdominal pain told me loud and clear that I needed to get to the hospital. My doctor happened to be out of town (the only week that summer she had plans, of course), but I managed to reach her on the phone, and she agreed that when Ryan got home from a short bike ride, I should get checked out. As soon as he was back, we were on our way to the Vail Valley Medical Center.

  The triage nurses in the emergency room determined that I needed to head upstairs to the labor and delivery department, where I was admitted immediately. The nursing staff went to work strapping a fetal monitor to my belly, taking my vitals, and ordering up blood work. My blood pressure was normally about 100/70, so when it consistently read about 135/90, the on-call doctors were a tad concerned. My blood work wasn’t any better. Thankfully, the combination of all my concerning symptoms didn’t require delivery at that point, but it did require an overnight stay for observation. I was more than happy to oblige, knowing I was in good hands.

  When I woke up the next morning, the doctors told me I would be delivering a baby that day. Even though it wasn’t unexpected given my test results, I had really hoped to go full term. In my heart of hearts, I knew that babies were more than viable at thirty-six weeks, but after having worked in the neonatal intensive care unit at Miami Children’s Hospital, and knowing that the decreased oxygen levels at our Rocky Mountain altitude would impact our little peanut’s lungs, I was a nervous wreck.

  A nurse applied Cytotec (a drug to induce labor) and we started the waiting process for “natural” childbirth to begin. Over the course of the day, I started showing signs of preeclampsia and a life-threatening complication known as HELLP syndrome, which is characterized by a low platelet count and elevated liver enzymes. When my blood work came back with these results, the medical professionals around me were having a hard time containing their anxiety. They had tried to wait for labor to kick in, but as the lab work got worse and worse, the ambiance in my room turned from semi-peaceful anticipation to frantic chaos. My failing body didn’t have the luxury of time, so they handed Ryan a pair of scrubs and explained that we were heading to the operating room for a C-section. What I didn’t know was that they were doing this to save my life.

  I was wheeled into the OR and given an epidural in hopes that I could remain awake and Ryan could stay by my side. The doctor waited a few minutes for it to kick in and then attempted to make an incision. Big problem, though: I could feel it! With my condition growing more dire by the minute—I was in danger of falling into a coma or being wracked by seizures—the doctors couldn’t wait any longer for the epidural to take effect and I was told I would be put under general anesthesia. Then the doctor turned to my husband and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Sutter, but you’ll need to wait outside.”

  I don’t remember much that followed, but I do remember that the anesthesiologist had injected something into my IV that made it so I couldn’t breathe or move, although I was still conscious. I was gripped with fear. From what I understand, they were unable to give me the drug that would ease me into unconsciousness until Ryan let go of my hand and left the room. It felt much longer than the milliseconds it took for him to leave, but when that happened, my fear finally disappeared and the surgeons did their magic.

  Whether my trip to dreamland was filled with blossoming meadows or turquoise ocean views, I’ll never know, but I won’t forget that I never got to hear Max’s first precious cry, hear the doctor happily announce, “It’s a boy!” or see Ryan cut the umbilical cord. However, had my doctors not been so dedicated, educated, and quick to pull the trigger, both Max and I could very well have died that day. Instead, at 8:50 p.m., our healthy little guy came into the world, and soon after, I was able to bond with my baby boy and bask in the glow of my newly expanded family as if nothing had gone wrong.

  For the next year, we focused our attention on the miracle that was our firstborn, and we would’ve continued that focus had we not been unexpectedly blessed so quickly with the final piece to our family puzzle: a baby girl. If only she hadn’t felt the need to make her grand entrance during a storm the news stations called the “Blizzard of 2009.”

  At thirty-seven weeks pregnant, I had spent the previous night nervously driving around our neighborhood searching for our Siberian husky, Natasha, as Max was sound asleep with a neighbor watching guard. Tosh had escaped through our fence (for the thousandth time) and hadn’t returned as she always had before. I was so stressed out that Ryan got someone to cover for him at the Vail fire station and came home to help scour the neighborhood for her. For at least an hour, he trounced through snowy yards and every open space around us searching for her tracks. No luck. Finally Ryan returned to work, and I returned to fretting.

  Later that night, I learned that Tosh had been picked up by a modern-day dogcatcher and could be “rescued” in the morning. I called Ryan with the news and hit the sack.

  I woke up the next day with a plan to conquer the usual tasks of life with a twenty-month-old and then head to the Humane Society to bring Natasha home. Blakesley had other plans.

  Throughout the morning, I was experiencing more intense contractions than usual and a strange sensation I had never felt before. I called my doctor and she told me that I most likely had lost my mucus plug (not nearly as gross as it sounds) and needed to pack my bag and meet her at the hospital. I found a trusted friend to stay with Max and headed out into the storm with my friend Evin, who offered to take me when I explained that Ryan was stuck at work.

  The problem was that in our little town, I-70 is the only road to the hospital from our house. The. Only. Road. And it passes through an area called Dowd Junction, which is constantly plagued with accidents. That day was no different. In fact, it was much worse.

  After multiple cars had slid off the road, a state trooper was given orders to block further traffic from getting through. If I hadn’t been told that I had to get to the hospital and known from past experience that I was in danger of developing life-threatening preeclampsia and HELLP syndrome again, we would’ve waited out the storm with the rest of the annoyed drivers. We would’ve had no choice. After talking to Ryan, though, and hearing that an ambulance behind us couldn’t even get through, we knew we needed to make a move before our options disappeared into the whiteout.

  As Evin pulled up to the officer, we heard lots of angry drivers behind us blaring their horns. No matter how loud it got, that noise didn’t stop us. I explained the situation to the trooper. I couldn’t help but feel awful for the poor man. You could tell he was terrified and in no way ready to break out his latex-free gloves and first-aid kit. Thank goodness he didn’t let his fear get in the way of his wisdom and he let us proceed.

  Evin cautiously inched the car forward foot by foot, passing dozens of accidents along the way. It took us at least ten times as long as it normally does, but eventually we got past all of them and made it safely to the hospital.

  Ryan met us there and was immediately given a spiffy cap and scrubs. With our team of doctors prepared for a recurrence of what had happened to me during my first delivery, we headed straight to the OR. This time, though, the spinal worked, and I was conscious the whole time. I still had to get a C-section, but I got to hear the extraordinary sound of Blakesley’s first cry. I was now the very proud mother of two.

  With thirty-six years under my belt, I had everything I had dreamed of (except maybe a closet full of Louboutins and Shop ItToMe.com outfits, Dr. Oz’s phone number on speed dial, no debt, a personal chef, the ability to fly, and the angelic voice of Carrie Underwood). From then on, I knew that a daily public acknowledgment of gratitude would be a necessity in my life.

  I had been introduced to the idea of acknowledging personal blessings of the day by one of my idols, Oprah Winfrey. It was the year 2000, and I
had tuned in to her show after a few months in a hole of depression. That day, she encouraged viewers to take a moment every night to write down five things they were grateful for, and I took her advice. I wanted to focus on what my life was blessed with instead of what my life was missing.

  Shortly after Blakesley was born, I remembered that show and decided to start a daily exercise in gratitude via my #favepartofday posts. They didn’t have to be about monumental milestones or pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming moments, but with the help of social media, they became the way I shared the teeniest Sutters’ everyday events with loved ones and friends living hundreds or thousands of miles away. They reminded me that it’s the little things that matter most. They helped keep my chin up when my day was less than pleasant and continue to keep me grounded in my reality: life as a stay-at-home-and-work-full-time mom, wife, daughter, sister, and friend.

  Above all else, they became a daily reminder to be grateful for all the blessed pieces of my life . . . big and small.

  PERCEPTION IS REALITY

  Gratitude is a way of seeing, a way of being, a way of giving back. Gratefulness is part of the little, everyday things as well as the major, life-changing experiences. It affects the way the world sees us, and the way we see the world. In fact, a research study conducted by Dr. Robert Emmons, a psychology professor at the University of California–Davis, found that people who actively practice gratitude can increase their happiness levels by 25 percent.

  Being grateful isn’t just about acknowledging the obvious blessings. It should also be about seeing positive value that may be hidden from the surface.

  Imagine a messy living room strewn with child-size dump trucks that have taken loads of toys to the landfill (otherwise known as the couch). If that were my home, and it often is, the pessimist in me would focus on the fact that as soon as I tidy up the mess, the kids and I will most likely be right back down on the floor putting everything away again later that day. What a waste of time!