Eulogy for Gramma Bella

When I went to write this, I looked for a few quotes about grandmothers…  The first two I found were:

“Grandmas never run out of cookies or hugs” and the next: 

“A grandmother is a little bit parent, a little bit teacher, and a little bit best friend.”

Done.   My work was done.

These so perfectly fit our Grandma Bella, that it made me feel a little deflated- those are so generic- anyone could look them up on the internet...  and OUR gram was so special…

You probably read in the paper that my grandmother had 21 Grandchildren, 22 Great grand children, and 1 great-great grand daughter.  It is remarkable to note that FIFTEEN BABIES: 1 grandson (Alex), 13 great-grand kids, and baby Mackenzie (The great-great-grand) were born in the last 9 years since our grandpa died. 

Gram experienced a lot of grief after Grandpa died, but looking back, these years were teeming with babies-

and she LOVED that.

But of course if you knew her, you know she didn’t have just 44 grandchildren.  Our spouses, our inlaws, our cousins on the other sides of our families, any one we brought to her house, anyone who was our friend… she counted all of them too… that’s literally hundreds (possibly thousands of people that knew her as

Grandma Gaetano or Grandma Bella) and she welcomed and treated everyone one of us with love and respect.

I had the idea that I might get up here and mention some of the most important things that Gram taught us.

THAT is a completely overwhelming prospect.

I mostly wanted to represent the grandkids in taking an opportunity to publicly thank her for all that she did for us.  I think we all did our best to tell her this every chance we got- to get as many hugs from her as we could…

What is hard to put into words (in the face of losing her) is that we are losing a relationship that was above all else uncomplicated. 

To be Bella Gaetano’s grandchild was to be loved and appreciated. 

Period. 

She loved us without exception and without expectation. 

She wanted to know us, and see us, and be seen by us. 

She met us where we were and asked nothing more of us than what we could (or were willing) to give. 

She bragged about us. 

She laughed with us. 

She didn’t compare to us each other. 

She just enjoyed us.  

For many of us, she was the first person we brought our grievances and heartbreaks to: When our parents took our favorite toys away or bestowed some insult or punishment, she brought out the cookies and the hugs- sometimes tough love, too- but usually not.

When we started showing up at her door with our tattoos and our more legitimate heartbreaks, scholastic and relationship failures, and other mistakes and adult struggles…

She behaved as a friend. 

She treaded lightly.

She listened more than she preached.

She offered compassion and reassurance…

She reminded us that life was hard, but it was long. 

Without minimizing our pain, she asked us to see hard times as necessary and temporary.

She worried about us when we were hurting…

She locked her blue eyes on us- daring us to see what she saw: that no matter what we did or what we didn’t do we were enough, always worthy of love.

She mostly did this without words… 

Truthfully, a LOT of the time she did it with FOOD. (She could heal a heart with a little plate of parmesan cheese and sautéed zucchini, a plate of food that your parents wouldn’t have been able to get you to eat if all of your lives depended on it.)

She might also cheer us up or distract us with a funny story, or a ride on the golf cart,

or invitation to walk with her or to help her clean up her yard.

Gram was such a good role model.

She had LOTS of friends.  Because she was so generous and so eager to help a neighbor, she collected people and racked up loyalty the way some folks rack up debt.  And her friendships were long lasting and withstood the tests of time, because she knew that giving to others did not subtract from, but only added to what was hers… 

She liked to keep busy and visit with people. She was quick to laugh and forgive small grievances.  And mostly her friendships were strong because she was a good judge of character but never a harsh judge of people.

She taught me that a life well-lived usually means losing labels like “us” and “them”.  And accepting and finding things to appreciate about everyone that wanders into your life.  She was eager to meet new people. She enjoyed watching people do things they enjoyed, even if it was something she would never be interested in doing.  She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.  She sometimes suffered fools GLADLY.  She expressed and experienced gratitude.

Gramma knew her worth and stood her ground- with her husbands, in her business dealings- but she was not immovable.  She was always willing to show vulnerability.  She would put herself out there even if it meant sometimes getting her feelings hurt.

She didn’t stifle laughter.

She didn’t stifle tears.

She was present. 

She was participatory. 

She never shied away from having her picture taken.

She made her mark on people- on purpose-

not because of what they might do for her but for what she might do for them.

In the last 2 weeks of her life, my gram attended 2 weddings.  The one I was lucky to be with her at, she would have stayed all night. 

This was not a woman who prioritized sleep over living. 

Who looked for rest over dancing or watching others dance.  

Who couldn’t keep up with the kids. 

Who would leave a lobster uneaten.  (If you know her, you know she was no joke with a lobster).

Katy and I apologized to her that we were interested in leaving before the dancing was actually over (we were her ride back to the hotel) and in her usual form, she said something like,

“Yes, you two work so hard, you’re probably exhausted.”

(She wasn’t even rolling her eyes at us when she said it).

My sister and I were talking about our sadness and we know that there has never been a moment of our lives (because we were her grandchildren) when we didn’t know that this day would come. 

But this is the other side of being loved so completely. 

This is the bittersweet nature of having been so perfectly nurtured. 

These are the tears that are shed for you when you live in such a way that hundreds of people know they have lost one of their best friends.

We celebrate these tears, because they are from and for you, Grandma.

And the most important thing is –

We will try to take care of each other- using you as a role model. 

Because, if we do our job right, people who never even got to meet you will get to feel how it felt to be loved by you.







 

If one more person says, "guns don't kill people..." I'm gonna lose my mind

Six days until Christmas...
I am gifting you with this "anti-gun" rant (though no where in here does it say we should ban all guns) that I crafted to post on someone else's FB page. I am heartbroken and I am mad as hell.

 

I will concede that "people kill people" if the other side concedes that the singular purpose of guns is to extinguish life or create a credible threat that you are willing to extinguish life (Not true about cars, or alcohol, or knives or rocks or fists or even explosives).

I will NOT apologize for wanting to lock up guns before wanting to lock up every person that is or could become mentally unstable.

The youngest and most vulnerable members of our society are unable to protect themselves and/or resist the allure of the gun culture that has been allowed to flourish. 

People are addicted to guns.
People have fallen in love with guns.
People think guns, even MORE guns can fix everything.
We are not learning our lesson, and we are living through the history that we will repeat until we learn that lesson: An unchecked gun-culture results in the unacceptable slaughter of innocents - sometimes en mass, sometimes one or two at a time.

I disagree that this is impossible... "Stopping gun violence is impossible". I completely disagree.

Nothing is impossible...
Seriously.
"Impossible" is just what people say when they don't want to do the work to figure out a tough problem...
"Impossible" is the message that gun manufacturers have spent untold dollars to imprint on our collective psyche.  Whispering into the wind, while shouting from the mountain until a made-up deterrent becomes fact.
Just sit there, 
          No need to stir...
                    This is impossible.

This country undid slavery.
This country reversed the prohibition of a women's right to vote.
This country invented child labor laws, and airplanes, and landed a man on the moon.

Do you think those things seemed possible or even plausible before they happened? Do you think that was easy? No, but there was a moral imperative, a call to action, people brave enough to look like fools for a cause they believed in.

In our lifetimes, drunk driving and smoking in public has become both legally and socially unacceptable. Ask someone in the 50s or 60s or 70s if they thought there would be a socially supported, legal mandate to forbid smoking in bars?!? [And imagine...  Second hand smoke only kills people gradually over a long period of time.]

There is no rational reason for military style semi-automatic weapons to be circulating among the general population. A woman on FB yesterday was writing about how every citizen has the constitutionally protected right to possess enough firepower to overthrow the government. (Ignoring for a moment the counter-argument that starts by pointing out that every white landowner also had the constitutionally protected right to own people of a different race as pets) That is an insane postulation based on the outdated ideology of a group of rebels (our forefathers) that unyoked themselves from the largest EMPIRE of the time.

Currently, WE OVERTHROW THE GOVERNMENT EVERY FEW YEARS by VOTING and the fact that not a shot gets fired and no one gets murdered is one of the true reasons to get choked up with pride about being an American.

Police officers and soldiers are professionals and they get to keep and use any guns they are provided with to do their jobs. But the argument that the average citizen is safer and can protect his/her family with a gun does not hold true. People who live in homes with guns are more than 4 times more likely to be injured or killed by a gun. And it's not usually the "gun-owner" that gets hurt. But there are countless accidents.

And then there are the incidents of domestic violence that would have been bad but because there was a gun available, turned tragic. People DO die in knife fights and are killed by fists and boots and plates being thrown across the room but it is easier to limp away and survive when guns are not involved.

Also, 30 bullets in a clip??? Nope. I don't care who is holding a gun with 30 bullets. Even a "good guy" is dangerous with that kind of fire power. 30 bullets in clip that can be fired at a rate of 6 shots per second, why should any private citizen have access to that? Why do we think that is a right?!?

I have loaded and fired a single shot musket, it's like 3 shots a minute at most. And the entire time you are reloading that fast, you have to focus a bit and are vulnerable to counter attack. I think it was Thomas Jefferson who said about the Bushmaster AR-15,
"Are you people fucking crazy?!?"

We are a nation of 310,000,000 guns. But this is not irreversible or impossible to fix. I am shocked to see people say, "it can't be fixed"... It CAN be fixed. Australia was an island of convicted criminals; a nation overwrought with guns. The govt changed laws, instituted a buy-back and the results included a 40% decline in the murder rate.

We need to decide to do something and we need to FIX this. We can either make our babies bulletproof, or we can fix this.

We can either lock up anyone that is mentally ill or has the potential to crack up (And by the way... You know who I'm most worried about losing their minds right now??? Those surviving teachers, and kids and parents, and first responders from Newtown, CT... please someone make sure they don't have access to guns on some of the cold, lonely nights coming up ahead for them)

or we can FIX this...

Let hunters have their rifles for hunting. And most Americans support handgun ownership with guns that hold 6-10 bullets, but if gun advocates continue to defend ownership of indefensible amounts of firepower:
assault riffles
endless ammo
one person owning dozens of guns that can be bought through the internet with no regulation
gun shows that do not follow the regulatory rules-
I think there will really be a public outcry and backlash...
I hope there will be.

People do not have a right to have whatever they want at the expense of the safety of the general public. At the expense of the health and safety of children. You can't smoke in a TIGFridays, but you can pack heat and carry enough bullets to instantly erase 2 or 3 tables of families if you feel physically threatened?!?

We can fix this. We need to fix this... We should have fixed this already.

First wake

My dad's Uncle George died the day before Thanksgiving (last week).  As I prepared to go to the wake on Sunday, Jake asked where I was going. 

Me: Papa's uncle died and TT and I are going with Gram'ma Bella to the wake.
Jake: What's a wake?
Me: Well, when someone dies, there is usually a wake and a funeral... Or some kind of ceremony where you can go say goodbye, and go hug the family and tell them that you are sorry about losing the person they loved.
Jake: Who did they lose?
Me: Well, Papa's uncle George died.  So Papa's cousins lost their dad, and Papa's aunt lost her husband.  When someone dies, we say we "lost" them.
Jake: Oh.

I absentmindedly asked Jake if he wanted to go.  It wasn't an accident exactly.  He seemed interested and there is something I want to try to teach these boys early on about life being special and about death being a part of life. And about what it means to belong to a clan of people- that you have respect and are generous with your time, and sometimes you stop what you are doing to show up and bare witness at these events. 

Jake: Maybe... I have to think about it.
Me: okay (In my head: "ut oh")

(I never thought he'd agree...
After a few minutes, I thought of a way to deter my 'soft pants' loving boy...)

Me: You know, if you go, you have to put some dress clothes on.
Jake: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, I am going to put work clothes on and you will have to dress up.
J: Like, in what?
Me: Like a sweater, or a shirt and tie, and church pants and shoes.
J: What sweater?
Me: I don't know... like the new one that TT bought you...

(After a few more minutes...)

Jake: I'll wear a tie.

Me: Oh... Okay. (pause)  So, we should talk about what it will be like...  At a wake, there is usually a box called a coffin that the person who has died will be laying in.  And there will be flowers and pictures and his family will be there and we will go through and hug all of his family- Papa's aunts and uncles and cousins.
Jake: Okay.
Me: And at some wakes the coffin is closed and you can't see the person inside but sometimes the coffin is open and you will see the person.
Jake:  LIKE A SKELETON?!?
Me: Oh, no... He will look like he's sleeping.  He will have his clothes on and of course all his hair and his skin... Maybe his eyeglasses...
Jake: (interrupting) HE HAS EYEGLASSES?!?  (The idea that he might see eye glasses seemed as shocking to him as the idea that me might see a skeleton.)
Me: (giggling) I don't know... maybe he does or maybe he doesn't...  The coffin might be closed, but it might be open.  And he will look like he is sleeping, but he won't be sleeping because he isn't alive anymore; remember how we talked about what happens when a person dies?
Jake: Yes.
Me: Their heart doesn't beat anymore, and they don't breathe, and their body is still there, but their spirit isn't inside their body...  ?
Jake: Yes.
Me: Do you still want to go?

Jake: Yeah, but I want to wear the red tie...

Katy likes to tell people that before she met me, she had never been to a wake or funeral.  And now she never stops going to them.  She is gracious about this and says that if it weren't for me, she would have had no idea how to conduct herself at her grandmother's funeral.  I almost skipped Uncle George's wake, but it was at her "it's the right thing to do" urging that I was getting dressed to go.  As a former ICU nurse, I'm more confortable than the average bear with corpses.  I sometimes have to stop and remind myself that these things can upset "lay people".  There are some funerals that children should NOT attend.  Very tragic, unexpected deaths... funerals where the adults are generally falling apart and so grief stricken that they are not able to look out for the emotional well being of kids in the room...

When our friend Liz's husband died leaving her widowed with 4 children (3 of the 4 were grade school age and younger), of all of the things she did that impressed me, none impressed me more than her plan for the kids.  After a brief appearance at the wake, she had them brought back to the house where Katy and I played with them and fed them dinner and got them to bed.  Of course they had to go to their dad's wake, but the emotions were too intense and the line at the funeral home too long to subject them to the entire event.

When my friend John died, I have this stark memory of his nieces a few feet from the coffin only 6 or 7 or 8 years old and my brain was forming the judgemental thought, "What are these parents doing letting their kids just hang around here near the casket all night?!?" when their kiddie conversation came into auditory focus:

Munchkin 1: Do you know why he doesn't look like himself?
Munchkin 2: No?  Do you?
Munchkin 1: I think it's because his soul has left his body
Munchkin 2: Yeah, so it isn't really him anymore... just his body.

I had the urge to stoop down to eye level and grip their shoulders gently and tell them that he didn't look like himself because the mortician in this joint isn't worth shit and has clearly never heard of blush or hair gel... but as I exhaled, the psycho urge passed and I realized that (of course) these children were wiser and more balanced than I.  Truthfully, kids just don't have the baggage that we do.  They don't usually bring their accumulated insecurities and fears into the room; or if they do, their accumulation is miniscule as not to even register.

When my mom saw Jake at the funeral home, she tried to hide from me that she was a little freaked out, asking several times, "Aren't you worried that he will have nightmares?"

And here's the thing.  Jake already has nightmares.  He's just like his freakin' moms.  A few weeks ago he crawled into our bed and told us he dreampt that there was a fire and he was trying to save Milo.  [A FIRE?!?! Seriously?  Where did that fear come from, Disney?!? I promise, we've never talked about fires around the dinner table...]  And last week, he was crying because he dreamed that his grandparents left without saying goodbye.  Some kids have more bad dreams than others.  I've got to try to find some books to see if there's a way to teach or talk your kids out of bad dreams, because I was one of those kids.  At a very early age, I dreamed scary, stressful things.  I still think that is part of the reason I stay up so late- Some of those dreams are sad and exhausting- maybe it's better just to stay awake.

Anyway, I've come to believe that 1) My dreams are not necessarily premonitions.  2) Bad dreams are not something that always happens because of unrest in your conscious life.  It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with your perception of safety or security.  I know this because I was a very safe, protected, nurtured, sheltered child.  And so are our boys. 

Jake is a thinker and he reasons things out.  He likes to be prepared.  And even though Milo is comparitively our "spontaneous frat boy"... He also is a thinker, and a dreamer. 

"You are not quite right" is what I've heard in response to the explanation that this first wake was a "dry run" for Jake.  He will have to see some people he loves in coffins in the coming years and decades and this was his first.  I'm sure we will have follow up conversations and clarifications, but he came through the event without a flinch or twitch or question.  This was just an experience to him.  Not positive.  Not negative.  Not even that big of a deal.  Just something to stash away in his mental filing cabinet.

My working theory is sometimes (maybe) the sheltering and protecting that we do for kids is unnecessary. Sometimes (maybe) that "protecting" contributes to anxiety and unsettled emotions.  (Emotions like, "What if I am not good enough? What if I can't handle all that I am asked to handle?") Trying to pad the sharp corners of the world isn't what I want to accomplish as a parent.  Life is full of struggle and sadness, disappointment and grief.  Our job is to teach them how to deal with downsides, show them that they can handle uncomfortable situations.  Create a time and space where they can safely learn to be vulnerable and successful in struggle.  I kind of believe that is the only way to fully appreciate joy and love.

Uncle George's wake was the perfect opportunity for Jake to see death. To see a body that was without it's spirit. Someone that he didn't know. An event that had no personal sadness or confusion attached to it.  He observed a portion of the ritual without experiencing the associated loss/discomfort.

And when a kid that cries in the morning trying to decide what pants to wear (because he sometimes has trouble making decisions). When that kid tells me he wants to put on a tie and come with me to a wake, I'll go ahead and take him at his word.  I won't tell him he can't handle it.  I will stand next to him and let him see one way death can look.  Because I trust Jake.  Even at this young age, he is so trustworthy.

And I trust myself.  I know if we stumble into a room or situation that upsets him, I will be able to talk him through that discomfort.  I know Katy will always help me with that.  I know she and I will resist the urge to remove painful obstacles so that our boys can learn to overcome difficulties (at least a bit) on their own.  It won't always be easy.  Sometimes we will fail by doing too much for them and protecting them too vigilantly and either forgetting to let them struggle or losing our steel when confronted by the reality of their discomfort.  But we're lucky...

These boys already have the minds and hearts of strong, wise men.  I'm so proud of them.

How to honor the dead

I've been following this blog.  WARNING! DO NOT CLICK LINK if you are not in the right frame of mind to read about a five year old with Cancer.  Ty Louis Campbell was born 6 days after our Jake was born.  He lived in another state. We've never met him, and I've only been reading his family's blog for less than 2 weeks. He's been sick with a brain tumor for 2 years.  His family nicknamed him "Super Ty".  And today, he died.

October 17th...

Fifteen years ago today, one of my kindred spirits died.  We were 24 years old when John died.  I've known and loved him since my senior year in HS; and we spent some intense "coming of age" time  in those tender "late teenage/ early 20's" years together...  He's been dead more than twice as long as I knew him as a living soul, but I'd be a liar if I told you I wasn't all messed up about it today.  I think about John every day, but I spent a lot of today beating myself up, and just being sad.  It's just fucking sad that he had to STOP while the rest of us had to keep going and fill the place in the garden where he was growing up near us.

Today, I'm 39 and 1/3 years old and the promise of FORTY looms over me like a laughing ogre.   I really buy into that stuff about people are only as old as we feel or act; but truth be told-

I'm feeling old.

October 17th usually does that to me.  And Stories of kids dying has a similar effect. But it's not just psychological:

My body is creaking... My gray hair is growing in, my abdomen is full and flabby.  My memory is showing signs of fragility.  I've spent a lot of exhausting effort- keeping survivor's guilt at bay, trying to be sure I did a little more than I might have otherwise in the name of he-who-is-no-longer-with-us.  (I'm not sure I've succeeded.)

I spent the early years after John's accident working hard to be sure I did not seal off my heart.  And I still do a lot of meditating on settling into and celebrating the hardships and sometimes disappointments associated with "growing up" and aging.

Feeling the weight and simultaneous levity of every birthday is intentional.  I will not lie about my age.  I will not regret this ticking off of the years.  "I've earned these gray hairs," I like to quip.  And "Not everyone gets to be this age," I repeat at least annually.

John B. Klimaszewski was about as brimming with life as a body could be.  He was about as energetic and full of possibility as any of us has a chance of being.  He was completely human, prone to making mistakes of all sizes.  But with a smile and compassion and generous spirit that makes you want to whimper about only the good dying young.  To be fair, alcohol seems to also play a role in many pre-mature deaths.  But I digress...  I use his full name here because he died in 1997, before Facebook, before Google, before the internet was useful or organized.

If you die when you're a child, or even a young man- how can all that potential be lost???  What happens to it?  What happens to all that people wished for you?!?

If you die before Facebook or Twitter, or even Google existed, did you exist at all? Where is the public record.  Newspapers and stacks of town hall documents are not being transferred to the internet, they are crumbling apart in soon to be extinct metal filing cabinets.

There is the philosophical and there is the emotional.

My heart has broken right open for Super Ty, for his parents and brother... Their story has effected me profoundly.  What will they do now?  How will they handle their grief?  Will they be okay?  My heart still aches for John.  All these years later- what I wouldn't give to be retweeting his hilarious tweets and harassing him via text right now... Comparing notes and stories about our children.

I've been shy about putting posts up about John on this blog- not because there's a huge volume of things I want to write about him, necessarily, but  because it somehow doesn't seem to be "MY" story to tell anymore.  My story contains a different cast of characters.  And I'm not sure whose permission to ask to keep telling John's story (or at least the part of his story that I am privy to).

But I guess at this late stage in the game, I'm happy to have that conversation/debate if someone comes out of the woodwork and says I can't talk about him.  I am desperate for stories about him to be told.  No matter what you believe related to an after life, it seems to me that you can only exist here- in the world- if there is a shared understanding of you- If you stay alive in the memories of others.  If the stories about you are told.

I went into my basement... to look for pictures... of him... And found the most amazing thing- a love letter from my wife.  It was written just after we had first fallen for each other.  Her love: sweet and exuberant and described to me in generous, flowery, metaphorical detail; in her own lovely handwriting.
- Way before we imagined how children would enrich our life and exhaust us and deepen our love for each other.
- Way before we could comprehend the hard work required of us by marriage.
- Way before we learned to rely on each other's strengths and encouragement.

I think it's okay to spend a bit of time wallowing in grief as long as you try not to get lost in it.  I think the most important thing we can do for our dead is to acknowledge them, bring them with us, (sometimes slap their pictures up on the internet and tell a few stories about them) while we carrythefuckon... 

RIP Super Ty
RIP Johnny K

I love you Jake and Milo.
I love you, Katy

I'm on the edge of Glory

For those of you that don't know, that is a Lady Gaga song... Edge of Glory - a song that our family is a bit obsessed with right now. I have an entire essay (vaguely outlined) inside me about how much I respect and adore Lady Gaga, and how if I can feel this way (as an older, mature, fairly "formed" female) I imagine you can multiply that by a million and barely score the surface of the desperate adoration experienced by millions of 12-20 year old women.

But that's a story for another day. Currently, I live with a (3-days-shy of) 2 year old who may simultaneously be Lady Gaga's biggest, youngest fan... and the ruin of her in my eyes. Milo*** won't let it go. He loves her. Her NEEDS her. And the little monster drives a hard bargain. When it comes to nagging us to play her music, he has the attention span and tenacity of Jane Goodall in the jungle. All he cares to listen to is Lady Gaga. And he is insistent. And I know you are thinking, "How can he know??? What does he really know about it???" But he does and he gets pissed if we try to listen to any other music. He acts heartbroken as if all other music is a compilation of dissonant chords and harmful to his dance-party way of life. For now, his parents are equally stubborn, and when we can't take another 50 rounds or 50 miles of Lady Gaga at the audio helm, we are getting used to listening to all other music with Milo screaming in the background:
LADY GAGA... LADY GAGA... PLEASE, MOMMY, MAMA... NO... NOW... GAGA...GAGA...WAAAAAAAAAHHH

(It goes on and on).

So, the title of the post also relates to my mood these days. I'm a little off-kilter; not sleeping enough; doing my best to balance. Finding myself needing to write more, but not writing. Finding myself needing to eat less, but eating like cRaZy. Finding myself wanting to exercise, but not turning the machine into high gear.

Despite what you just read, I'm pretty damn content with this life we are living right now. I am full of gratitude. I am amazed by my wife and our sons and basking in their glow. BUT... I am experiencing a fog of apprehension, and that familiar angst that comes with waiting too intently for the other shoe to drop.

The summer is fading, but it has been quite wonderful. Despite the fact that we experienced an earthquake (my first) and a tropical storm in the span of 5 days, we've had tremendous weather.

We’ve spent a lot of time this summer swimming and playing (and eating food) with friends and family… Some of that food has been seasonally fresh and healthy, and some of it char-grilled, processed, fried, and yummy (but very much the opposite of “good for you”- unless you are counting the “good for the soul” excuse that I keep coming back to.) We've had some terrific vacations: Ohio in July, Rhode Island in August...

This last week, though has found me in a bit of an angst-y, Don't-look-down-you've got-too far to fall melancholy.

To be fair, it's about to be autumn and I have a history of angst-y autumns at various times in my life. At this latitude, in this hemisphere in September and October, there is a very specific change in the angle of sunlight. The time of sunset sprints back toward the afternoon. It is still “summer” during the day, but the temperature plummets 20 degrees by a few hours after dark. You can close your eyes and smell the air (before more than a dozen leaves have changed color) and know you are breathing the first breaths of autumn. You could be in 80 degree sunshine, but know that shifting glare on the horizon means that the summer warmth will dissipate after dark.

Today is September 11th. I just finished watching the season finale of True Blood (a totally f'd up TV show that I can't quit) and about 2 hours of 9/11 "never forget" coverage. And I can't help but wonder, who is that slogan for? Isn't forgetting required a little in order to heal. I got my first glimpse of the WTC memorial and I just sort of burst into tears- it was the visual of the pools- water plunging down into the footprint of the original towers. I couldn't help but think of those people that jumped. I'm not one to get overly sentimental, but something about firefighters dying will always cause me to come a little unglued I think.

It's not just Sept 11th...

Last week, a 4 1/2 year old boy (a friend of a friend's kid) drowned in a neighbor's pool. The parents are a lesbian couple. The kids were with a sitter at the time of the accident. Feel the weight of that devastation for a moment.

Next week, the trial is about to begin for the second man who was caught in the act of, and then confessed to, robbing, pummeling, sexually assaulting, and murdering our friends one summer night in their own home FOUR years ago. But until the end of this trial we have to keep saying he "allegedly" did these things. His team of lawyers seems even more desperate and untrustworthy as he has shown himself to be. I know they have their job to do. But this guy is the one that is going show himself to be some kind of real SOB and I know you are going to have to put up with a little ranting from me in the coming weeks...

Then, there's Jake*** and Milo*** with their impressive, end-of-summer tan lines, and their ever-expansive brains and sharp observations of the world, and their little perfect bodies growing out of toddler-hood and baby-hood respectively. I know they are still young, but they are already growing up. And it's hard to imagine how we will continue to keep them safe when we know so much about how things can go wrong in the world.

There was a festival in town this weekend- food, fun, crafts, music (sorry, Milo, that the Marching Band, did NOT have any Gaga). One tent set up by a local insurance company was producing "kid ID kits". While you waited there, they took photos and fingerprinted your children. I wanted to do this because I can't imagine anything scarier than needing this data and not actually having it available. The entire time I was under this tent (probably 20 minutes for both boys) I felt like I might burst into tears. It was so anxiety producing to complete a kit that would help us if one of the boys disappeared, that it was actually hard not to mutter "never mind" and just run away from there. I felt as if someone was choking me and telling me a really sad story at the same time.

But you should see Milo*** in gymnastics class... and you should see Jake*** in ballet and tap and t-ball. It's a trick of the mind to worry about what bad might happen, when there is so much good happening all around. And I think it's a fool's choice to give into worry, when there is so much celebrating to do. These are the heroic lives we lead- planning a little for the worst, but doubting it will ever come and doing so with such loving intention that, that you make your kids feel all the safety the world may or may not offer.

Not COOL!

So, Um, I deleted the blog today.

It was one of those things where you're trying to take care of business and you are trying to do it with efficiency, say like- while thinking of several other more complicated notions and processes.

Well let me start by saying, I am an author of a few blogs that I don't post to anymore. One of those is the original GSO. But that URL contained our last names, so I created this URL (that you are reading right now) and moved the GSO here. That original blog became a "THE GSO HAS MOVED" page.

SIDEBAR: I made these changes over a year now and I've gotta tell you, it never ceases to amaze me how many of you (according to Google Analytics) are still hopping over here from there!!!
I mean, that must get tired... no??? For the love of Pete, change your bookmarks, people!!!

So, I'm at work and I'm finishing up like 5 things... and for some reason, I'm thinking, "let me scratch that 'DELETE OLD BLOG' thing off my list".

Why?

i do not know.

And I check about 6 or 7 times that I'm looking at the correct page and then someone calls me and asks me a question and I click DELETE and YES, I'M SURE I WANT TO DELETE...

And then, it's there- the old one: "GSO has moved" but "GIN-SOAKED OLIVE" is gone.
In it's place is a tiny message:

your blog has been successfully deleted!

There are a few moments in life that take your breath away.

When I was a junior in college, i struggled all year with Nursing 214. I am totally making that number up- I don't remember the course number- it is irrelevant, but this was the FIRST. MAJOR.BIG.SPECIALTY course that contained: biology, pathophysiology, pharmacology, microbiology, and nutrition. Pause for a second to comprehend that- they couldn't separate those?!? They had to pile them all into one 5 credit course. I mean at least give me a shot with nutrition- but if you combine nutrition with those other crap-cakes, I will always be guessing because it will be too far down on my priority list to ever get any study time.

I was 20 years old, and i had spent 2 years living through chem and physics and other nursing pre-recs. Before that, I spent a lifetime getting As and Bs in the "advanced classes" my public school, but Nursing 214 made a little gash in the tug boat of my scholarly success early in the fall of 1993 and by December we had taken on too much water. The ship was about to go down.

Truthfully, I just didn't understand about MEMORIZATION. Until Nursing 214, I achieved great success by not really memorizing, but learning concepts well and then making educated guesses during tests. I played that 'I'm an American 20 year old' card and honestly believed my own excuse: "I'm just not that good at memorizing". It's like telling your piano teacher, "My fingers are just too short" (which I did) when both of you know that you are just too lazy to put in the practice time.

If there are any 15 to 20 year olds reading this, just cut the shit and put the time in and MEMORIZE the answers. In this example, the drugs, the bugs, the muscles, bones, enzymes, hormones, and chemical names are not "concepts to understand"; they are lists and lists of crazy-sounding, somewhat vital (to a career in health care) details that you need to cram into your head b/c even if you don't use it to save someone's life someday, it WILL be on the exam.

I needed a 70 average in that course to move on in the program, and I got a 69.4.

No. I'm not kidding.

When you went to check your final grade in Nursing 214, it was listed along with 99 others next to each of our social security numbers (I'm pretty sure they can't do that to your SS# now) and there were two numbers: the grade on the final exam, and the final course grade. According to my calculations, if I got a 72 on the final, I was home free. On the final, I got something like a 71.6%. I figured that would round up, so for a few micro-seconds, it was all relief and joy, but then my eyes moved to the next column and saw the SIXTY-NINE... POINT FOUR that revealed my semester's ACTUAL numerical average.

Bullet in the heart... devastation... sudden obstructive airway disease... sheer panic... blinking... Denial. Regret. Pain. Guilt. Remorse. Sadness. Anger. Bargaining. Dry mouth. Then metallic mouth. Then urgent sweating... possible puking... walls closing in...

I walked back to my dorm and sat in the staff office of our residence hall. Head in hands, I guess I had never really failed anything before. A test or quiz maybe, but not like this. Not- "sorry, you'll be in college for an extra year" kind of failure. They didn't last long, but my feelings bordered on sheer hopelessness. My friend Lauren stumbled upon me and without knowing what was going down, she measured her words carefully. Later (when we were laughing about my somewhat dramatic, but very physical reaction) she told me, "I just assumed someone in your family had died."

There have been other, subsequent moments that caused that NOT-ENOUGH-AIR-IN-THE-ROOM-TO-BREATHE sensation:
- When I returned my dad's call that night in October '97 and got the news about John...
- That Monday morning in July '07 when Katy called me and told me "they are all gone"...
- Watching our 3 week old baby have a seizure on the CAT Scan machine...

Yeah, I know- these are pretty extreme comparisons, but that's what I'm trying to convey here.
I deleted the M-F_ing BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It just disappeared. Gone. SIX YEARS OF WRITING. Almost all of my thoughts on our marriage, our children's lives. Nearly everything I've created (except the boys)... holy'omygod!!!

Well, before I get all dramatic, it obviously didn't happen. Blogger has a plan for idiots.
There is a button (equally small) that says,
"undelete this blog"...
So, I clicked it. And here we are.

There was some extreme relief at that point, but does anyone out there know anything about "backing up a blog"; I think I need a little insurance over here.

** Let's Talk.About.Thanksgiving... Shall we?!?

Today, the world lost an amazing woman, and extraordinary nurse. I lost a friend, a mentor, and an occasional surrogate mom.

I was 23 years old when I met Deirdre. I was a new nurse, starting a new job in the MICU and everything I needed to know about her, I learned in that first shift: She was all business, no nonsense when it came to the job. At first blush, she scared the shit out of me. But you only needed to hear her laugh to know there was nothing to actually fear - she was full of life, heart, humor, mischief, giggles, and truth. Dee would tell you what was what without batting an eye. She could say to you "Why are you wearing that? You look ridiculous!" but make it sound like, "I've been thinking, and I have a great idea for a make over!" She was what my gram would have called a "rascal". To qualify for the label the way my gram intended it, you'd have to be someone smart, someone that intuitively knows exactly what is going on, someone that pays attention and "doesn't miss a trick", someone that speaks truth in a good-natured way, that can knock an arrogant fool down a few pegs without seeming mean or threatened, someone soulful but who truly enjoys a good joke.

Deirdre was all of this. And a real class act.

She taught me so much about what it means to be a nurse. Being a nurse means doing things the right way. Working fast but not taking shortcuts. Taking care of what you can, fixing and organizing what you can; and creating comfort and respectful solutions when things can't be fixed. Washing and rubbing a back, lotioning someone's feet, helping a person eat or go to the bathroom, listening as people talk about their lives- these are not small, insignificant things... They are usually the most important things.

I stopped working in the ICU almost 10 years ago... And Deirdre left before then. We hadn't spoken in a long time, until last year when I learned that she had been diagnosed with Cancer - stage 4.
We emailed a few times, and in November, we had a big party in her honor.



She looked fantastic! The last time she wrote me, she told me that her prognosis had improved... Today, I was caught completely off guard by the news. I hadn't realized that she had recently gotten much worse, that she was hospitalized last week and transferred to hospice.
She died last night, surrounded by her family. She was only 65 years old.

There are too many stories to tell about Dee and all that she taught younger nurses and all that she did for (hundreds and hundreds of) patients, and all of the laughter she encouraged, but these are two of my most vivid and treasured memories.

Grief Stricken Nubbie:
I worked in MICU right out of college. I had recently broken up with my high school sweet heart, my first love of 6 plus years, by BFF all through school. I spent that first year as a nurse, trying to learn how to be a competent professional, trying to recover from the break up, trying to figure out who I was, trying to make sense of it all.

I was happy though, making money, finding satisfaction in my work, developing really amazing friendships. All the people I met that first year, never knew me as John's girlfriend. Never knew me as any one's girlfriend. I didn't have a significant other, wasn't really looking, and maybe some guessed it, but I don't remember telling anyone that I was searching for a way out of the closet. It was complicated inside of me, trying to figure out a way to break the news to lots of people that I wasn't straight.

It must have been really confusing to my colleagues how devastated I was when John died in October of 1997. When people asked what was going on, I first had to explain about John and then had to try to convey the terrible grief I felt. Words were inadequate and so I used few of them. After trying on a couple detailed explanations, I shortened the tale to "He was my best friend" and now he was dead.

Those first few weeks, going to work was awful. You don't realize you work in a place that is all about death until grief settles in you like a magnetic field and the tiny, metal shavings of death (that lay like fine dust in a modern ICU) fly from their resting spots to coat your skin. I was a wreck. And it took several weeks before I realized that people there were watching me. People like Deirdre, looking out for me, moving obstacles before I bumped into them, intervening on my behalf- "You go help with this admission, and I'll do that" I'd be told when it was time for me to prepare and "bag" the corpse of one of my patients that passed away.

One night, I caught the Jay Leno show, and he had a clip from this new comedy called "South Park". Watching it, I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I taped it and watched it over and over and realized, it was the first time I had laughed- really laughed- in almost a month. I brought the tape to work and showed several people (trying to figure out if everyone thought this was funny or if I was cracking up.) Dee was in that first crowd of people and she laughed even harder than I did. Hearing her laugh made me laugh even harder. The laughing felt good. She and I watched that clip a dozen more times that night. We set the TV and VCR in an empty patient room and every so often, we would go in there and watch it a few more times... getting more silly each time. After that night, I would have done anything for that woman- that experience really helped me start to heal.

What would your mother say:
The second story: I had started dating a woman that we worked with. She was a travel nurse and started on our unit a few months before, expecting to stay 3-6 months longer. She was colorful and funny and a good nurse. She was popular, but not quite comfortable in her own skin and had a tendency to be erratic- not at work, but when she wasn't working. Again, I was not really "out", but I wasn't NOT out. Anyone that asked a question, I told the truth to, but this was like 12 years ago, Will and Grace wasn't yet on TV, not a lot of people brought it up.

Still, even though people weren't asking me about it the way they would have if Dana had been a man, we had told several of our friends and there is no doubt it was probably the worst kept secret on the floor (maybe in the hospital). One night, Deirdre pulls me aside...

D: What's going on with this Dana girl?
Me: what do you mean, what's going on? What do you want to know?
D: She's no good for you.
Me: (laughing, slightly embarrassed) what?!?
D: I'm not trying to get into your business, but you are going places and she is not going anywhere you want to be- this isn't about her being a girl... you want to be with a girl, that's fine, this isn't the girl for you...

Thing is, she was right. Not that the girl wasn't good for me, necessarily, but she was right to bring it up. She was right there for me... not letting her possible discomfort or fear of not being politically correct distract her from attempting to care for me. She was there to treat me and this relationship with the respect that comes from someone who tells you to "Pay attention!!!"... who reminds you not to shit where you eat... I wasn't even considering if Dana was "the girl for me" or not, but hearing that said out loud made an impression on me. I wasn't estranged from my family or anything, but there were no "parent-type" members that knew about this relationship (or if they knew, they didn't bring it up to me; and I didn't bring it up to them). Unless you count my MICU family (which I do...).

When you needed a mom or mother figure (whether you knew it or not) Deirdre was there. When you needed a mentor or a friend, same story.

The thing I'm having trouble describing in these memories of her is the love and vitality that Deirdre brought to every interaction. The perfect balance of salt and sweet. She would bust your balls, but it wouldn't be to break you down, it would be to build you up. She was a hard ass, with a heart of gold. She could be serious, but her laugh was seriously infectious.

When I got the news today, I felt sick and I felt sadness wash over me. For a few minutes, I thought I might start shaking with sobs at the loss of someone I haven't spent more than an hour talking to in the last 10 years. It's just this: As is true of most of the people who are our teachers, she is so much a part of special and important things inside of me, that she is kind of with me all the time. And intellectually, that's reassuring because that means (if she is living inside of me) I can never really lose her to death; those parts of her that she planted in me will still always be with me...

But...

That doesn't dampen the ache I feel knowing I will never hear her laugh or see her smile or her wise gaze again.
Sleep well, sweet-tough-nurse, funny-soulful friend.
You are loved more than you know and I miss you already.

**

What doesn't kill us makes us...

Sicker
Stronger...

Yesterday, I spent the better part of 7 hours up on our roof, shoveling and clearing ice.
It was a nice warm day (42 degrees when the sun was out) and the sun kept going in and out.





It was a little brutal, if I am honest. The snow was literally up to my thighs. Like the rings of a tree, there were all the layers of the storms we have had. I am well aware that we have had over 55 inches of snow this January, but somehow, standing up there, I could not get over how much shoveling had to be done. I wanted to quit so many times, but I knew if I got down and took a break, I did not have it in me to climb the ladder again. So I stayed and did the job as best I could. I used a hatchet at the edges, near the gutters where there was 4-6" of solid ice on roof near the gutter in the back yard (the South side of the house) and 10-12" of ice in the front yard (on the North side).

While I was up there, I seemed to be experiencing the stages of grief

First I was like, "this won't take long at all... it's a beautiful day! And getting up here at all is really the hardest part."

Then I spent a few hours sputtering a fuming inexplicably- pissed at Katy somehow (WHY wasn't she checking on me more often?!? Why hasn't she figured out a way to play some music for me?!?). Then turning the anger towards other members of my family- and friends that aggrieved or abandoned me (both living and dead).

I turned to Jesus a few times... "Help me out here, Lord, Please, I'll do anything..."

Then I got sad.

Really sad- strangely sad, thinking sad things as if I were alone in the wilderness and not on the roof of my own home. It was then that the events of last week (weather and baby's illness aside) came back to me... That we experienced the 2nd death of 2011. A friend of our family, Kevin. And then the "stages of grief" exercise that my brain was taking on didn't seem so totally strange.

Kevin married into the Tabor clan - whom I've spoken about here when G'pa Jim died and countless other times (especially when talking about the pool in the summer). The tabors are our family. The family we chose, choose, and continue to choose. My parents grew up with them and so did my sister and I.

They are some of the few people that know me now who also knew me when I was a shy, skinny kid. They helped me grow up. They encouraged my budding sense of humor, my musicality, my athleticism, my intellectual pursuits, and that I be honest and follow my heart. There's a stagger in the generations and sometimes I have more in common with the "adults" and sometimes I have more in common with the "kids" (we are all adults now so the gap is getting more narrow...) but I used to babysit for the kids of my babysitters and now those same kids, I occasionally call on to sit for my kids. It's a little convoluted, but it works. When I need advice or help, I call on my aunts, uncles and cousins in this "adopted" family as much as in my "real" family.

Kevin married one of Jim's daughters and they had 2 daughters of their own. They had a wonderful life, but at some point, the marriage stopped working.

Kevin was in NYC the day the towers fell. He called home to say he was okay and on his way home, and then he disappeared for 6 or 8 hours. The "radio silence" was in part due to a lack of phone service, but it turned out his "escape" was delayed when he was distracted by helping rescue workers sift through rubble some before making his way out of there. I remember getting a call that told me he was safe. And then I got a call saying he was missing. I remember hours and hours going by and I worked hard pushing the thought out of my head that we would never see him again. Then he came home, but he was never really the same after that. I only saw him once or twice again. His marriage had started falling apart before September 11th, and took some time to completely crumble. But even when we were all together, he always found a way to disappear from a crowded party after that.

Up on the roof yesterday, I couldn't help think of him and all this stuff I either hadn't thought of before, or hadn't thought of in a long time. He died last Saturday, January 22 at the age of 57. He died of natural causes after quite a few years (and reportedly several consecutive days) of abusing his body with not-so-healthy substances. He leaves behind 2 beautiful, strong, and heartbroken children. And a mess of us that miss him- what he was, what he could have been; plus the sadness that comes from knowing he experienced a lot of emotional pain and/or psychological anguish that couldn't be extinguished.

When I heard of his death, I had a very intellectual reaction that essentially amounted to, "That's so sad." When I went to the memorial service, and saw photos of him and saw his family- family that my heart recognizes as "my" family... i had a very emotional reaction. It surprised me. To suddenly be weeping and missing so urgently, someone I hadn't seen or spoken to for most of a decade...

Up on the roof, in the clear, cold air, I realized I was a bit of an emotional basket case. I was angry that this had to happen to him. Angry that he couldn't figure out a way to make himself whole. Sad and disturbed that the chance he could somehow make things better or right was gone forever. Sick that sometimes in the world, things just don't work out. Sad for my childhood and a time when there was less gray area in all aspects of life... I was glad to have all that physical labor to help me work it out.

Today, I am either sick, or just exhausted. So many parts of my body are sore: fingers, toes, arms, legs, neck, back; my throat is raw, my sinuses constantly draining post-nasal drip, my stomach full of mucus, my head pounding.

The weather forecast is not mild- the winter machine is starting again... the next three days might entirely erase all my hard work on the roof. But I feel I've done something to try to protect our property and our family, and that is something, at least.

Bean

This is a re-post from 2 years ago... the time gone by has changed, but not the sentiment.

-------------



Just a shout out to our Bean. We can't believe it will be 5 years this summer since you died. We keep you close every day and try to live up to and honor your zest for life, your love for family, your willingness to jump under a car hood to help a friend.

You would'a loved these kids, Bean. Hope you;re watching them.
I think you are right here with us, the very sparkle in their little eyes.


XXXOOO!!! Happy Birthday, Bean!

Today begins the reign of the 112th congress of the USA

And here are some other highlights.

It's taken me three full days to believe that I'm back at work after the wonderful couple of weeks we've had:

1. Week before Christmas = STAYcation. Katy and I were off from work together without traveling anywhere for the first time in at least 5 years. During that time, JB got his third set of ear tubes surgically implanted (3rd in 3 years). He did great. We were home by 10 AM. He watched more TV that day than any other day of his life and quite possibly more TV than any other WEEK in his life.

2. Christmas at TT's and Bill's house. We spent the better part of 14 hours there, eating, playing, opening gifts, and eating. Did I say that twice? I meant to...

3. The grannies came for a visit. They were able to avoid wintery weather during the long commute to and from Ohio, but got to enjoy a good ol'fashioned CT blizzard while they were here. JB and ML got to build their first huge snowman and go sledding around the yard with them. (JB's had a few winters, but none where he ever wanted to TOUCH the snow before.)

4. New years weekend was relatively quiet and Katy and I enjoyed some special times alone with our boys.

Today, Katy and I went to our first wake of the year.
Tomorrow, a funeral. Not someone we know, but the dad of someone we love.

-------------

Looking back, as I said above, we had some wonderful times over the holidays.
I feel so lucky and blessed, but I have to say, the holidays beat the shit out of me this year.
I spend a lot of time worrying. Anxiety-ridden might be a more honest analysis of the scene.

It was the first Christmas that "Santa" mattered to JB and the number of times I forgot that I didn't get something at "toys r'us" but "Santa brought it" was too many to count. He's easy to fool right now, but I've gotta get into this game, or the jig will be up by the time ML is 3...

So, I was worried about not being a good enough Santa.
I was worried about not being a good enough wife.
I was worried about money and time and family- not living up to the expectations of everyone. Or rather, not living up to my own expectations and not feeling like everyone judges me as harshly as I judge myself. I was worried about JB's impending surgery on the 21st of December. I was worried about getting the "right" gifts and not just getting gifts for the sake of getting gifts. I was worried about not being able to get done the "special gifts" like photo calendars and cookies that we planned to get done. I was worried about Katy and I not agreeing on all of these things related to gifts and how to celebrate the holidays (after all these years together, it is only now that that are kids are starting to understand a world that does not end at the tips of their fingers that Katy and I have to really start communicating about what we want the holidays to be for us and our boys). I was worried that the ways that Katy and I try to answer these questions and compromise for each other will not make sense to all of our parents - who we desperately want to be with and be respectful of but who we don't always agree with. I was worried about how I can possibly instill a sense of peace and joy and zen about Christmas (and life in general) into my children, if I am on the verge of panic all the time at this time of the year.

I was worried about work and projects that were very time sensitive and I had set a high expectation of success that would be a direct reflection of my work and require me to call in a lot of personal favors. I was worried about the weather and the house in the winter and getting the cars in the garage, and decorating, and keeping the house neat and clean, and warm! And spending enough time with the kids and trying to balance these two desires to 1) expose our kids to a lot of wonderful of people and things, get them out into the world to see lights and celebrations, and have them know family and friends that are family and 2) have quiet times alone at home with them, keep them grounded in a safe and reasonable schedule, and not drag them all over creation for things that they do not really need or understand right now.

It was a lot. And it started for me at the beginning of November. And I tried with some success to stay in the moment and did have some beautiful moments, and did (I think) manage to take care of my wife who was experiencing similar things herself... I think we did a good job with it all, but I feel like some of the (mostly self-imposed) pressure is off now. To be honest this week, I let out a big sigh of relief.

I'm going to work on this. I don't want every year to feel oxygen flushing back into my lungs with the prospect of the holidays ending. Yet, feeling a rush of Oxygen in your lungs is a good feeling, no matter how one comes by it.

So now back to the business of governing the nation...

Elizabeth Edwards (July 3, 1949 – December 7, 2010)

The United States of America and the world (to say nothing of progressives and the GLBT community) lost a true hero today.



It almost makes her husband not seem likes such a schmuck- that this woman chose him and loved him.

Respect, Mrs. Edwards.
R.I.P.

-------
btw, my mom told me and I balked that it could not possibly be true (until she was proven correct by the almighty internet) that Elizabeth Edwards had a baby when she was 48 and another one when she was 50 years old... Maybe not "hero" so much as "superhero".

Justice is not vengeance

A jury sentenced a killer to death today in Connecticut on all 6 capital felony convictions.
The result was the only one that could have been reached.
It was just and as Dr. Petit said, "Justice is not vengeance."

Still, this result means nothing. It will not undo one thing that was done.
Nothing will bring back J, H, or M.
Nothing will change what was lost.
Nothing will give back what was taken.
Nothing will fix one of the thousands of things that was broken.

sign. uggh. yuck.

1148 days

3 years and 2 months...

In our lives, since that day:
- one house sold
- one house purchased
- 3 anniversaries
- two children born
- three family surgeries- 1 c-section, 1 tonsillectomy, 2 sets of ear tubes
- Stitches put in all of us except the little one who needed a head CT, MRI, several lumbar punctures, and a whole bunch of other nonsense.

1148 days and nights of life and love and laughter, stress and grief, hunger and fullness, exhaustion and rest...
Countless conversations...
Weddings and vacations...
Drinking and dancing...
Playing, tickling, swimming, and nights at the pool...
Breast feeding, potty training, falling down and getting back up...
Tears of sadness and of happiness...
Many injuries have healed and scars formed,
but still, there is one big, unresolved, sucking wound...

We try to stay back from this. We try to have faith, have hope, and not get caught up in the fear and sadness that a tragedy like this leaves behind. We pray- for peace, for justice, for the man that survives- the man that exists but does not really exist, since that day...

There are things that can never be explained, repaired, or forgiven...
We are not vengeful people, but there are things for which vengeance was invented...
Senseless things for which there is no satisfactory atonement, nor any appropriate emotional response...

The next few weeks should be filled with joy: There are many things to celebrate in September. But our emotions will be layered, textured, and likely raw in the coming month...

The first trial is scheduled to start tomorrow.

Grateful

In the last couple of days, We've received word of a lot of sad news.
Several deaths of people peripherally connected to us:
The father of a friend from high school.
My boss's nephew.
My cousins' other grandmother.
The former associate pastor of our church.
Katy's dad's boss.

It's like every time the phone rings there's another death notice to check out. Yuck.

Also, Katy's uncle had a stroke which scared all of us and significantly effected his speech.

Still, the last few days have felt really peaceful for me.

Our beach vacation last week was a lot of work (4 kids under five years old, and three days as a "single parent"- though not really b/c I had a lot of grandparents and TT/Uncle Bill back up).

Let's just say a 'day at the beach' is not the "Day at the beach" it used to be at this point in our lives. BUT, To me, it was quite perfect*... The beach, the sand, the salt air, the sounds and smells of the shore, the suntan lotion, the walking and lugging gear, the outdoor showers, the commune-style living, the good food, the Bananagrams... Something in me is "patched up"; something I must have inadvertently torn over the last year, something I didn't notice was missing until I got a taste of it again. (sigh) My heart feels safe and content- all wrapped in a big warm beach towel with its hair drip-drying in the salty breeze, and its toes exploring the sand- still now, days later.

Sunday, it rained all day. Quiet, steady, awesome rain. And yesterday, there were some amazing chilly winds for the first time in months (not exaggerating). I've decided that 2 stormy, cloudy days are the perfect way to experience "home" after a week on the beach. It promotes naps and laundry and meal prep and strategic plotting of the coming work week.

JB, after spending a few days exhibiting unprecedented defiance, has relocated many aspects of his gentle self. Today in the car on the way to drop off, he said so many adorable things, I didn't even tax myself trying to remember all of them. ML has continued his beach-learned habit of 3 hour afternoon naps.

Tonight I got a facial and pedicure. It was pretty luxurious and self-indulgent for a Tuesday. When I finally got home, a "ready for bed" JB smiled and sniffed at me, "You smell so good, Mommy."

If gratitude were melted butter, I'd be that first forkful of lobster that gets dunked and swirled around and dunked again before held up, dripping to someone's eager lips .

*Thanks Mom and Dad

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Sent from my iPhone

INFESTATION

WE'VE got some ladybugs at this here new house of ours...

I've got a thing about ladybugs, because when I came back to my parents house in the summer during college, my old room had somehow become infested with them. They were everywhere. I would wake up in the bed and they would be on my blankets and pillow and skin... EEeeeeeeee eeek yuck!!!

When they started to crawl up out of the woodwork, here at the new house, they seemed to be taking the "radiant heating" train thru the walls. They came up kind of dry and crusty. Now, they seem to be more on window sills and I'm getting pretty close to calling an exterminator. We've had to give JB a quick lesson on death and dying which I have to admit is not an easy thing to do with a 2 year old... when it comes to something that is dying at this high rate. I don't want to NOT talk to him about death (natural part of life) but I also don't want him to think of death as this casual thing that gets us excited to run and get a tissue (not to wipe our tears, but to enact a quick tiny carcass cleanup.)

It's like walking a tightrope: Don't say something like, "They are sleeping" or "They got sick." 'Cause this kid sleeps every night and he is "sick" almost as often. I don't want JB getting the idea that his life expectancy matches that of a ladybug.

Like a game of Taboo with a developmentally delayed partner that has a limited vocabulary, it is tricky. We have to get him to understand what the hell is going on with all these crunchy, immobile ladybugs, but there's a list of words we can't say: sleep, sick, injured, tired, etc. We have no problem telling JB they are "dead". But the follow up is where we get into some circular reasoning:

JB: What's wrong with that ladybug? Why he not moving?
T or K: He's dead.
JB: What dead?
T or K: He's sick... sleeping... injured... not moving...
JB: Why?
T or K: (Craftily answering a question with a question) Is he crawling or not crawling?
JB: Not crawling.
T or K: Some ladybugs crawl, some don't. The ones that aren't crawling are dead, they need to be cleaned up.

Now we've got a 2 year old running around with a small dustpan.

It is quite common in our house to hear:
"There's a ladybug, Mama/Mommy!"
(pause... tiny footsteps running... pause)
"HE NOT CRAWLING!"
Then the sound of inefficient dustpan sweeping.

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UPDATE: He figured out himself another way to put it...

Words to live by

My friend- Laurie's dad died a year ago today.
She shared with me an email she sent to her siblings this morning asking them to join her in visiting memories of their dad and the things they learned from him.

Here's her list:

- Always root for the underdog, “Go Saints!”
- Be proud of driving an old car
- Dress conservatively while you act radically
- Make a contribution to the world
- Change the world for the better
- Believe in science
- Human beings are flawed but we still love them
- Strive to find out what makes people “tick”

It touched me, this list.
Each are things I want to teach my kids.
Each are things I'm proud to have been taught along the way.
RIP, Wagner - still touching the lives of people that never even met you.

Bean

This is a re-post from last year... the time gone by has changed, but not the sentiment.

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Just a shout out to our Bean. We can't believe it will be 5 years this summer since you died. We keep you close every day and try to live up to and honor your zest for life, your love for family, your willingness to jump under a car hood to help a friend.

You would'a loved these kids, Bean. Hope you;re watching them.
I think you are right here with us, the very sparkle in their little eyes.


XXXOOO!!! Happy Birthday, Bean!

How nurses lose their muffins

A former student of mine keeps me laughing with his status updates on facebook.

Yesterday, he sent me an email:

I took care of a 69-year old man, a 5-year resident of (long term care facility). Last night he got hungry, reached over the counter of the nurse's station, and stole a muffin. He aspirated on it and arrested, and now he's brain dead.

Death by muffin. Greatest story ever.

I replied:

It would be the "greatest story ever" if he was dead dead, but he is in fact only brain dead, and that makes the story just "sort of great" and alternatively kind of gruesome.

I am more worried about the nurse manager of (long term care facility) and the "safety" protocols that are now going to have to be written and implemented about pastry consumption on the premises by staff and patients. I wouldn't be surprised if they have to implement a q 15 minute "muffin check" on every patient or a "pat down" of all visitors to the ward, or a change of shift "baked goods count" for the next several months.

Do you see what my job has done to me, I admit I'm dazzled by the death by muffin headline, but it just seems like a lot of paperwork to me...

I've told the story twice, and both times was asked to put it on the blog... sick senses of humor these healh care providers have!