Lemonade Stories

I've been thinking about lemonade and grandmas lately. Somehow they seem to go together, even better than kids and lemonade stands do.

My paternal grandmother has been on my mind. She had bipolar disorder, and unfortunately, hers remained untreated for most of her life. Whenever people talk of her, it usually includes a comical yet tragic story, like the time she purchased all of the worn out dolls at the thrift store because she felt bad for them. Or the time she nearly paved her yard so it wouldn't require mowing. I will say, that one's tempting! Or the time she decided playing her harmonica dressed in a clown costume downtown was a good business plan. Or the time she shaved her head and wore a wig strictly out of convenience. Memories are not often separated from her mental illness.

In most families, stories get passed along for a few generations, sometimes over a glass of fresh lemonade. I've noticed that the further apart the generations, the fewer and foggier the stories. It makes me wonder which stories of me will be passed down to my great-grandchildren.

Maybe they'll talk about how much I love Mexican food. Or maybe they'll talk about the dozens of hours I spent making coordinating Halloween costumes for our family each year. Perhaps they'll joke about the huge variety of crafts I dabbled in from felting to quilling to zendoodle. Of course they're not the typical ones! I'm sure they'll remember my mental illness. And if the only thing they remember is my bipolar disorder, this is what I want them to know.

When I was diagnosed, it was nine months after the birth of our first daughter who'd been conceived with the help of fertility treatments. The last year or so had been a roller coaster of feeling betrayed by and impressed by the capabilities of my body. I remember sitting alone in my hospital room in the psychiatric unit feeling betrayed once again.

My faith pulled me through when I found a quote I had tucked into my scriptures years earlier.

“Everything, no matter how dire, becomes a victory to the Lord. Joseph [of Egypt] although a slave and wholly undeserving of this fate, nevertheless remained faithful to the Lord and continued to live the commandments and made something very good of his degrading circumstances.”

The next morning I was thinking about how the hospital therapist, Jane, told me that it was okay to feel sad about my diagnosis because in some ways it is a loss. As I was getting out of the hospital shower, and considering Elder Rector’s quote, I said to myself, “No, this is going to be a gain.” And the pity party phrase of why me, became my battle cry—in the sense of, “Why me? Why am I going through this—and what good can the Lord do with this?”

With those thoughts, I stepped forward to attempt to make something very good of a terribly unexpected circumstance. That is what I want those who come after me to remember about my story. That I was a lemonade maker. That I took some sour lemons of life, and with the sugar of perspective and the water of learning, I offered goodness back to the world.

Three and a half years ago, I stopped sharing my lemonade. I suppose I thought people were no longer interested in my recipe. At times I felt like I had more lemons than I could handle, and needed to wait until I could find some sugar and water. And then I started thinking about my grandma and others who have survived sourer lemons than I have. And those who haven't survived them.

I realized their stories weren't just for them.

One of my first memories of my grandma is from the later years of her stability. She gave our family a piano when I was eight so I could take piano lessons. When I was fourteen, I played a song I had arranged at her funeral. I had played it for her a few weeks prior when she'd visited for Thanksgiving and tears of joy had streamed down her face. She was so proud.

I like to think of my Grandma's life as a similar gift. My heart aches, thinking of her unmedicated daily anguish for so much of her life. However, if her life had not been the way it was, I wouldn't be able to learn from her experiences. I think of her now, free from her mortal condition, and I imagine we would all be in awe of her compassion and creativity.

And I think she is in grateful awe that her story was not just for her, no matter how poorly or well she dealt with it. It was for me too.

And so I'll write again, sharing my lemonade with anyone who wants to read.

After all, it's not just for me. Lemonade is meant to be shared.