Shhhh.....

Don't talk about your grief.

Don't talk about your grief.

Don't talk about your grief.

This in my inner monologue when someone asks how I am.

Don't talk about your grief.

Don't talk about your grief. 

DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR GRIEF.

0% of the population wants to know that you feel so incredibly grieved that there aren't adequate words in the English dictionary.  No one knows what to say.  Nothing can be done anyway.  Talking about grief is futile.  Literally nothing comes from it. 

No one wants to hear that I miss Goose so much that thinking of him suffocates me.  I drown in it constantly.  I parked next to a truck that was almost identical to his last week when I picked up my dinner.  I just sat there for 20 minutes.  It was indescribable.  I have never, in my near 42 years on Earth, ever felt so devastated over losing someone as I have for him. 

No one wants to hear that I miss my step dad so much.  That I feel such tremendous guilt.   It's like water.  It takes the shape of every vessel that will hold it.  It finds every single crack and fissure.  I read through his medical records.  I got to the end.  I got to his code sheet.  I can only imagine his final thoughts.  Where do I put that now?  How?  HOW do I close my eyes again and not envision it? I can't tell anyone.  This must be borne alone.  You cannot pass this intimate knowledge to anyone else who loved him. 

Don't talk about your grief.

Go to the desk and plot out your next project.  Overwhelm yourself with work because then you can't hear yourself think.  You can push it aside because you have a mission.  This is your bandage.  This is how you patch up a gaping hole.  You busy yourself until enough time passes that it's manageable.  But I've worked and dodged and dodged and worked and I still can't. 

Because I work so much that I exhaust myself so that I can crash from the weight of all of the projects.  I'll sleep better if I'm so tired that I can't keep my eyes open. 

Only, when my eyes are shut my brain creates beautiful scenes where I hear Goose's voice and see his face and he cares.  And I can walk into Gavril's apartment door and he's laying on the couch with his bible in his hand and he is smiling that famous, huge smile.  I wake up because I know it's not real.  Then I wake up with those sounds and images and  it's torture. 

Don't talk about your grief. 

There's a fucking pandemic.  And I'm crying over a not relationship and a dead stepfather.  This is ridiculous.  The world has bigger problems.  So I do what I can to help.  So much so that I forgot Gavril's birthday.  Now I feel guilty because I didn't make a cake or toast to his name or honor it in some way.  I couldn't figure out why that date kept sticking in my head.  When I figured it out, 3 days too late, I hated myself.  He's in my living room, on a shelf, in a pathetic black box.  I can't go sit in there right now.  Don't talk about your guilt.

Don't talk about your grief. 

Facebook isn't the place to air your dirty laundry - according to a bunch of know it all's who have support systems.  You have your husbands and friends and mom's and dad's.  My therapist is closed because of the pandemic.  My friends don't have money or security.  I have both.  SO DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR GRIEF. 

Don't talk about your grief.

But, everyone is there for you if you'd just ask.  Tell people you're fighting to get out of your bed every day again.  Reach out.  I'm here for you.  We're all here for you.  Just don't talk about your grief. 

It's okay to be on medication.  But my doctor's office is overwhelmed and there's a line.  And, I can manage a week or so without my antidepressants, right?  As I type with unrelenting tears and a monstrous need to go lay in bed again.  Forever.  Just don't talk about your grief. 

Don't talk about your grief.  DON'T FUCKING TALK ABOUT YOUR GRIEF. 

It's trivial.  Don't you know that so many things are going on?  Where are your fucking priorities?  There are sick people.  Your friends are out of work.  And your pathetic ass is crying about a guy who didn't give a fuck about you and a dead step father that no one knew you had anyway.  So don't talk about your grief. 

Work 40 hours.  Help 3 kids with school work.  Run a business until your fingers bleed.  Be there for your friends and if you can't then the least you can do is not talk about your grief. 

They will think you aren't okay.  They'll tell you to count your many blessings.  You'll get annoyed because you are okay.  You just aren't always.  And you are usually okay because you have counted your many blessings.  Then they won't talk to you again for a while until they think the coast is clear and we can go back to memes and jokes or cats.  And you don't talk about your grief. And you'll be hurt because you just needed to cry but now you've made it weird.  You can't explain that you're simultaneously holding the world up by yourself and being completely crushed at the same time. 

It's all okay, as long as you don't talk about your grief. 

Seems Like It's Been Forever That You've Been Gone

I don’t remember the exact moment or what day it was when I lost myself.  Was it before? Was it during? I’m sure if I retrace my steps I’ll find it.  But it’s a waste of time, to a degree. Looking back on the last 4.5 years or so I can see the mile markers now. 

I’d been through a hell that I don’t think I fully recovered from.  In spite of myself and outward actions of vomit mimicry and an occasional (constant) hex or hiss - I am a hopeless, deep, thorough romantic.  I believe in love at first sight and waltzes in the kitchen while making dinner. I believe in giving your heart so fully to another person that your outlines start to blur (but simultaneously enjoying separate interests).  I believe in love so deep that flaws and quirks are parts of a whole person and you love them unconditionally and unwaveringly. I believe that you love someone how they need to be loved, not how you want to be loved. That means that every up, down, fall, setback, hurdle, accomplishment, stressor, success - every thing is supported unequivocally.  You want to become a race car driver? What do WE have to do to get you there? You want to go back to school? I’ll hold it down while you study or quiz you on whatever it is you’re working on today. Teammates, tag team, crutch, shoulder, partners - I helplessly believe in all of it. I shudder at it because that means giving over complete vulnerability to someone else and trusting them with every cell in your body.  And that, my friends, instills debilitating fear in my normally fearless soul. That is giving someone total power to annihilate you and hoping with all that you are that they don’t.  

I minimized who I was because I so wanted those things.  I settled for things because I justified it as “I can’t realistically expect someone to see past my previous broken relationships and the ‘baggage’ of children.”  Logically, at the time, I’m not exactly a catch. I was pushing 40, I’d been married twice, and I have 4 kids. Anyone who wants me is probably fucked up. I sold myself short.  But I did it because I was blinded by affection, attention, loyalty, and love. I consider myself an intelligent being. But I get straight up STUPID when it comes to those things.  If my mom was alive, she’d tell me because I’m a Taurus and ruled by Venus. Seriously, I have no vices or addictions. I have never had an addictive personality. Love is my heroin.  Once I succumb to it - that’s it. My brain is fucking gone. And I want so desperately to feel that with someone I will ignore each and every red flag and find a way to justify it and empathize.  I will look for the good in every situation and sometimes that is my Achilles Heel.  

So, when my music tastes were not shared - I didn’t hesitate to change the station before I was finished listening to that song.  If the show I was watching wasn’t a mutual like - I had no problem turning it off and handing over the remote even though I was still watching that.  When I started to put on some weight from recovery and got a bit bigger than I was when we met - well, I can handle dropping a few pounds. When the outfit I was wearing didn’t match (it’s my thing, I don’t like matching!) I would quietly go upstairs and change.  It didn’t matter to me if that breakfast request was going to take 3 hours of prep - I loved you. You had a long day and didn’t want to hear me - I can wait because I’m sure my day would just bore you anyway. Oh, the kids are too loud so I can just send them to grandma’s.  Your dad is an asshole, so I will go ahead and run interference for you. Things went bad with your ex and kid, let me take that fight for you because you work hard and it’s too much. Sure, I’ll cover all of the bills with my check - they’re my kids and it’s my responsibility to cover their expenses.  I’m not big on shopping or buying things for myself anyway and I’m a penny pincher on top of that so it won’t bother me. I can just stop talking, or feeling, or expressing, or being - Because I can handle that better than you can cope with me doing. It’s easier to change who I am entirely than for you to accept me for who I am.  My accomplishments were merely the result of the direction of someone else. The talent that I have in my two hands and my artistic ability - I owe to someone else and they are not mine. I wouldn’t have done what I did without the strict instruction of someone else.

There were times I drew the line - I will not quit my volunteer gigs or my business to focus on chores or maintaining a household.  I held on to that part of me. I think it’s what got me through the day. Then I had a breast lump and swollen nodes that couldn’t be explained.  I walked into appointments alone because work schedules clashed and my appointments were early. I was always used to doing those things alone - this wasn’t different.  I mean, I spent an entire pregnancy and had a baby alone, so this is a cakewalk. Only, it wasn’t. I was breaking inside. But I thought that if I just loved a little more, a little harder - I’d get all those things I was looking for.  They never came. And then the dam broke. He crumbled under the weight of all the things that I tried to shoulder for him. Unfortunately, it was at my child’s expense. Then it was at our marriage’s expense. I turned to my loyal friend - Anorexia.  Then I broke. I was sick and everything I touched turned to shit in my hands. I found something that I longed for but sick me can’t make rational decisions.  

All the things that were promised were broken.  That professed love and adoration was poured into a younger vessel that he worked with.  Every person in my life replaced me with something or someone else. Work, volunteering, friends….. I was worthless and expendable.  This is not where I wanted to be. And, this was all my fault. This was both implied by me and expressed by others. My fears were all validated.  No one wants a 40 year old woman who’s “been around the block.” “Those guys just see you as an easy target.” “I am all that you will ever get.” For a while, I bought into it hook, line, and sinker.  

I quit Anorexia.  I had to pull it together.  If I’m ever going to find what I was looking for again, I cannot be like this when it comes.  My thought processes CANNOT include withering away to nothing as a means to resolve conflicts.  I cannot accept responsibility for every single thing in another person’s life. I will not assume blame for things that happened before I even got in the room just because I tried to help fix it.  Not everything is my fault or responsibility. I’ll help get you through the tough stuff. I’ll be supportive and have your back - but in the end, your shit is your shit. I’m cleaning up my own mess and not asking anyone to make it all go away.  

I changed who I was for someone else to love me and they didn’t love me.  I sold myself out and lost anyway. I think that was the hardest realization to accept.  I lost anyway. The last 9 have been about me finding my worth. Maybe I never really knew what that was before. I do now though, more than I ever have. I have to teach my children that love is not fundamentally changing who they are, it's not making someone fit your mold, it's not following them, tracking their calls, cutting off their communication with friends or family, it's not diminishing someone or being threatened by their successes, making someone bear your burdens, or threatening suicide if they want to leave. Or vice versa. If someone wants to leave you, you let them go.

It's been a hell of a ride. Hopefully, it's almost over.

They Say It's Your Birthday!

My hand felt so small in his.  He led me from the car to the grassy spot next to the pond.  He'd have a paper sack filled with fries in the other hand.  She'd take a seat on the concrete bench a few feet away.  No sooner than we got there, we'd be approached from all sides by dozens of hungry ducks.  They knew we had food.  They knew it was for them.  I'd drop fries in the pond and wait for large fish with big mouths to swallow them up.  I remember being so excited.   He'd go sit next to her and they'd talk about their day while I spent my starchy currency on giggles with feathery fowl.

Sitting on that bench now seemed so distant from that memory.  But I still felt so small.  This time, older and wiser, I didn't feed the three ducks that approached me.  I did take their photo but we didn't interact.  Those people are so far away, this old cemetery is my version of connecting with them.  And, because it's also a cemetery, it was perfectly acceptable to sob uncontrollably while talking to people who weren't there.  No one looked concerned.  I let the tears flow and was uninterrupted.  I thanked them for leading me here.  I hate it when people try to comfort me.  Sometimes, I just want to be sad and I want to feel it.  But being an orphan crying for your dead parents makes others uncomfortable.  They want you to stop. Either because they don't know how to react or they don't want to face that their fates will someday be the same.  Or, it's just awkward.

Sitting in a cemetery, having a meal, taking a stroll, taking photos, walking, giggling, smiling, feeding ducks - those are usually met with sour looks or shock and disbelief.  Or accusations of morbidity.  For me, it's just how it was.  It was and is natural.  My mom introduced me to the practice of picnics in cemeteries.  Later, when I became a volunteer for that same cemetery I learned how normal the idea really was.   learned that so many others share the idea that cemeteries aren't "dark" at all.  That cemetery has been a part of my life since I was still in the low end of the single digits.  And, I hope it always will be.

I took a drive through and stopped at all of our favorite places.  Johnny, Stickle, McMillin... Angels made from various stones for myriads of reasons are people to me.  Each place brought different memories.  This tour was different.  It felt different.  I started in the spot I shared with my parents and ended in the spot where I wed my favorite person.

I left and headed to get some fryer fresh donuts.  I passed where she worked even though the building she worked in has been replaced.  I went down Brown Street where I walked with my friends and brought the Oldest to buy video games.  Drove past my old haunts.  The feeling of being connected again was cathartic.  It was necessary.  It was where I grew up.  And, on the eve of my 40th Birthday, it just seemed right.

It got kind of late.  I got in my new-to-me car (a gift of debt to myself) and started to drive home.  There were 3 ways I could have taken.  The route she always drove, the highway, or the road less traveled.  I chose the highway, to get home faster.  Instead, I took a wrong turn and took the route I needed the most.  Soon, I was driving by places that I had forgotten with memories deep in my brain.  They all lit up like Christmas as I rolled past each one.  The Keyhole restaurant that served delicious bread and had Monkeys dressed like famous people on the wall.  Their old house on Salem.  The hospital where I had my Oldest and Youngest sons.  The store where we used to buy chicken.  Hara Arena where I shared oxygen and a roof with Kurt Cobain, Chris Cornell, Dimebag Darrell, Jeff Henneman, Trent Reznor, White Zombie, The Breeders.... so many other bands that I can't remember at the moment.  I shared those moments with friends who are traveling among the stars now.  I drove past my first apartment, my first home, my old doctor, our dentist, our store.  All these memories overcame me.  That accidental wrong turn was really a much needed sprint through Memory Lane.  (Thanks Mom)

The vast gratitude that I have for every single moment - it's powerful.  How lucky I am that life has taken then turns it's taken.  Even the excruciating days.  I'm grateful for every hardship, every tear, every tragedy.  Just as I am grateful for every smile.  I have seen so much and there is still so much left. 

Mick "Feisty" O'Malley

He sat there, snuggled into the corner of the box opposite his brother in May of 2000.  He was teensy tiny.  Their mother had been hit by a car and died a short few weeks after birthing them.  Seeing them, I instantly melted.  Losing his mother so soon didn't bode well for the runt of the litter.  No one expected him to live.  No one expected much of anything from him.  Even I didn't expect what came from this precious kitten.

His days were spent playing "King of the Chair" with his bigger brother and another rescue that we took in.  He was named for Mick Foley, the hardcore wrestling legend.  He fought spots on the wall, the vacuum cleaner, and feet.  He attacked me in my sleep and nestled himself in my hair to catch his own zzz's.  He really was the smartest of them all.  And the most loving.

A few months in, my landlord decided that cats were a "no".  So, we had to re-home all 3.  Mick went to live back at home with my little sister and parents.  Our dad always proclaimed his undying hatred for cats and dogs.  Which was ironic because we always had so many.  He secretly loved them.  I would walk into my parents home and find Mick relaxing on my dad's lap.  My dad would make an elaborate scene where he pretended like he didn't know the cat was there and put him on the floor.  Much to Mick's confusion and chagrin.  Eventually, my dad confessed that Mick was the best cat he'd ever known.

Shortly after Mick's first birthday, my 'ma passed away.  I moved back home to care for everyone and I was reunited with my Mick.  But my dad decided to sell the family home and move to an apartment down the road.  Mick was none too happy with this decision (much like the rest of us).  He took matters into his own paws and walked back to our house.  Somewhere along the path, he became entangled in a fox trap.  He was found by house painters with the trap on his foot.  They, in turn, called the police and the humane society came to get him.  They removed the trap and boarded him.  When he didn't return home, my sister knew something was amiss.  She insisted upon finding him.  Miraculously, they did.  However, the paw was in serious pain.  He had become infected.  So, the week of Thanksgiving, he had his toes amputated.

We changed his bandages.  I'd hold him down and tell him how much I loved him and how we were just trying to help when he'd fight.  He'd calm and let us work.  Sadly, the infection had traveled too far.  He had to have his entire leg removed or die.  At 1, he lost one of his back legs.  For months he was depressed.  His playful self had been tamed.  He didn't do much of anything.  My dad and youngest sister moved away and Mick went with them.  Within months, my dad was gone.  His last days were spent with Mick on his lap.

Mick got bounced around but went wherever my sister went.  He befriended a kitten, Sally, who was missing an eye.  They looked so much alike.  He took her under his wing.  Of course, stability isn't anything our family has ever known.  My sister was living with my aunt and was forced to let go of her pets.  Mick came back to live with me again.  By then, The Middle Son was a baby.  Mick adapted to the household and the move well.  He was always there.  Crapping in my dryer or the bathtub in the winter and spending summer days and nights catching whatever was slower than him.  His feisty side was always there.

Mick was a formidable hunter in spite of the missing leg.  Once, he took care of a pesky rodent that The Oldest kept in a cage in his bedroom.  You can never get the visual of finding half of a hamster in a cage out of your mind.  Really.  You can't.  It's upsetting.  Another time, he caught a rabbit and let it loose in our living room - still alive.  Mostly, he would bring us mice or moles or bugs.  Sometimes he would eat them whole and puke them back up on the floor.  Cat ownership is pretty awesome.

He got very sick once right before I had The Youngest Boy.  I remember begging him to eat something.  He just laid on my bed, uneating, unmoving.  I resorted to force feeding him.  The thought of losing him physically hurt.  He bounced back, though.  He never left the immediate parameter of the house, no matter where we lived.  The Oldest and I think that losing his leg so early in life saved him.  He always stuck close to home after that.

He was kind of an asshole.  Knocking water over onto guests.  Attacking my feet while I slept.  Sleeping on my face.  Barging into my bedroom every night.  Stealing the last piece of bacon.  Demanding to go outside but not actually going outside.  Begging to get in the front door so that he could immediately go to the back door to get out.  Like walking around the house was a chore.  He wouldn't kill the mice in our garage.  Pee on every bathmat I ever owned.  Puke everywhere on everything on everyone.  Finished my hot fudge sundaes.  Beat the shit out of bottle caps.  Knocked down every cup in the house.  Peed on my house slippers.  Peed on kids' back packs.  Ordered $667 worth of Hello Kitty memorabilia on Amazon.

He was also gentle and loving.  If you were sad - he would comfort you.  He'd come right up to you and rub your face with his head.  He'd nudge you.  He would let you hold him.  He'd snuggle you at just the right time.  Like he understood that your tears meant that you were hurting and he knew to love on you.  If you were sick, he'd bring you chicken soup for your soul in the form of purrs and pats.  He loved popcorn and potato chips.  He loved ice cream and whatever you were drinking.

When we made our move to our current home 3 years ago, he moved in with The Oldest in his room.  Peas in a pod, they were.  They began speaking the same language.  The Oldest knew when Mick needed something.  They had a very regimented routine.  The Oldest gave Mick his all.  They kept each other company.  They were best friends.

In the last year, his age started to catch up with him.  The last several autumns he'd get really sick and I'd think it was the end.  It wasn't.  But, he wasn't bouncing back like he used to.  Last summer, some jerk of a kid hurt his back leg.  We thought for sure it was the end.  I put him in cat diapers just to try to do something.  Back then, I thought it was the end.  He pulled through, in true Mick fashion.

Trips down to his basement were too painful.  He moved upstairs, onto a heater vent, to warm his bones.  He'd sun himself under the tree or in the flower bed.  He loved the outside during the summer.  Eventually, he stopped trying to catch everything.  He began to watch the wildlife around him.  I'd come home from work and he'd get up from whatever spot he'd found and come in with me.  He'd wrap around my legs and I'd yell that he was trying to kill me.

He'd had several near death, close calls in the last few months.  He got so sick that I'd made "THE" appointment.  I'd sobbed on him the whole night before, praying for more time.  On our way out the door, I noticed an area on his leg and touched it.  He bit me.  Minutes before being euthanized in March, we discovered an injury from fighting a raccoon.  He missed death again.  The infection was stubborn though.  More stubborn than we thought.

His face swelled and wounds at his neck seeped.  The vet said that he didn't back down - since the injury was to the front of him, it meant that he put up a hell of a fight.  The infection overcame him though.

I came home from work early to find him comatose on his spot on the couch.  The Oldest took him out under his tree for the last time while I called our vet.  Together, we carried his limp little body in for the last time.  We hugged him and rubbed his head and told him that we loved him.  We held him until his purrs stopped.  He hobbled along Rainbow Bridge.  He took my heart with him.

17 years is a long lifetime for a cat but it wasn't enough.  Especially the little one that no one expected to survive.  He used all 9 of his lives, and then some.  He made every single day better.  It's been 3 weeks now and the pain in our hearts is still very raw.  He's home now, in a box on the shelf.  Next week, we are taking part of his cremains to my dad so that they can be together.

He wasn't just a cat.  He was never just a cat.  He was a small little furry person with a loving soul and hilarious personality.

Until we meet again key, I love you.

Parents Just Don't Understand

My youngest son started playing for a local, recreational soccer league when he was in Kindergarten.  He's ending 4th grade this year.  He has been a winner (undefeated season - yay Grasshoppers!) and a loser.  He's played with a ruptured appendix (DOCTOR APPROVED - and I have proof!)  2 seasons a year since Spring of 2013.  That's a lot of soccer!  He learned so much and gave his best every time.

2 years ago, we got a call from his coach and that was pretty much the only contact we had with her.  She either didn't show up for practice, didn't tell us where practice was, or came for the last 10 minutes of the session.  And parents just stood there watching their kids kick a ball around, waiting.   I made some calls because this was unacceptable.  The division coordinator told me to step up.  So I did.  I'm not a soccer laureate and never will be.  But, I decided that doing my best was better than nothing at all.  8 little boys were watching.

Those few weeks were so hard!  I had no clue what I was doing.  I stayed up all night reading rule books, looking up drills, working playbooks.  I didn't want to let them down.  They were a great set.  I know one, in particular, is going to be in the newspapers someday.  We lost like crazy though.  There was so much. politically speaking, that I didn't know was a thing.  Like - other coaches will purposely play more men on the field when they know that your team is short but also better.  Or one coach lady that insisted on being an asshole at every opportunity.  And for what?  She won't be accepting any World Cups. Some refs are rude and on power trips.  The only thing they can do for jollies is be mean to a bunch of little kids and unpaid volunteers.  I also learned that adults really do ruin everything.  Listening to moms belittle their 8 year old boys on the field.  It broke my heart.

Somehow, I'd always end up with the short team or the team where another coach accidentally took 2 of my players.  I met a lot of boys with enormous hearts.  There's one set, my Fall 2016 set, that will forever be my all time favorite set.  No offense to any of my other kids.  But this set had this electric chemistry.  They were HILARIOUS.  Practices were a blast.  They were kind - to each other, to other opposing teams, and to me.  They took all things in stride.  One little guy broke his arm and couldn't play the first few games.  He never missed a practice or a game - even in the rain.  He still supported his team.

After 4 seasons - this last group broke me.  The kids are awesome.  They aren't the problem.  The first game, a woman didn't know she was sitting next to my husband and started gossiping about me and my parents' business.  My parents have been dead for 16 years.  I worked in their store when my dad was diagnosed with cancer.  I left my printing career to help them.  And 18 years later some parent is talking shit about it at the soccer field next to my husband and kids.  The next game - a dad started saying awful shit to my kid during a game.  Did I mention that these parents are parents for MY team?  They didn't realize that I was/am friends with everyone they were sitting around because I have coached many of their kids.  I asked the dad, and anyone else who wanted to shit talk on the sidelines, to step up.  Show up to a practice.  Help me coach.  Not a single one bit.

But this week was the final straw.  Another dad was yelling during a game.  He was yelling so loudly that he got into it with another parent from the other team.  Parents from our own team were upset with it.  What's worse is that the boys on the field stopped looking at/listening for me because he is so much louder.  Thanks dude.  Thanks for not stepping up when I needed help and only running your mouth when it was show time.  The Board asked him to stop.  I asked him to stop.  He refuses to listen.  His inability to control his mouth is more important.  He is ruining a game for boys under 12.  Including mine.  I'm not just a coach - I'm the mom to one of these kids.  Young men need role models - not more yelling.  One of these guys is a teacher at a special school.  Not for kids with special needs.  Extra smart kids.  Not Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.  When I mentioned that I work in a foster care agency, he assured me that none of our "riff raff" would qualify to go to his school as they have an application process that weeds out kids like ours.

I have 2 jobs.  I work for a foster care agency where I put in as much of my brain as I can to help improve lives of kids I'll never meet.  I try to do a small part to help the office run smoothly.  I'm a small cog in a beautiful machine.  As an abuse survivor, I do have an understanding of what they have gone through.  My second job, as a paralegal, is something I picked up again to help an old friend.  Honestly, I do not *need* to work.  I'm fortunate to not be struggling anymore.  But, my friend needed me and I get to work from home for him.  So, I don't miss out on time with my kids.  I have a business that is finally flourishing!  Business is at a nice, steady pace and I'm doing what I love.  I volunteer in my daughter's class.  I help her teacher with whatever she needs.  I helped at lunch.  I help with parties.  I help wherever my hands will be useful.  I volunteer at The Middle Child's school.  I get to listen to history projects and speeches.  His teachers are phenomenal.  Recently, I became affiliated with an organization that dresses up as super heroes for charity events.  I get to be Wonder Woman!  Yesterday, I attended an event in honor of cancer victims and survivors - some were not even 3 years old yet.  So, yes, I did the Chicken Dance as Wonder Woman for charity.  I still teach the world about my hometown via a local cemetery that homes some pretty big names in innovation.  Not only that but I am actually a mom to 5 really great kids.

I come from a long line of volunteers.  Their obituaries read like novels.  Their work impacted hundreds of thousands.  I want so much to take the life I was given and do something meaningful with it.  I wanted to show my kids that "I can't" isn't a thing.  I took hours out of my week, away from my own children, to coach 10 more boys.  And, my thanks is some guy who can't shut up.  We are always going to be met with opposition.  That's not a reason to give up.  But sometimes it is a reminder that you can do good somewhere else.  So, I'm packing up the cleats, the nets, the cones, and my megaphone.  The Youngest Boy is boxing up his jersey collection and his shin guards after our final game today.  We're off to our next adventures.

Disposable Teens

Another member of my pack passed on, just before Christmas.

Ron was the glue.  Most every event that ever happened in the history of all the things - he was the integral part.  Whether he drove us there or provided the party location - he was the key.

I met Ron on a chilly September Friday night.  Thinking on it, I can still feel that moment.  I feel the crispness of the air.  I can smell the Fall.  I remember that I was wearing a black shirt and black pants with black combat boots.  My hair was in a pony tail to show off my 1993 undercut.  He walked in - in all of his 6'4" intimidation.  He was wearing black jeans and a black and purple windbreaker.  Ron was a huge guy.  Like, seriously huge.  He wasn't just on the football team - he was the football team.  He was 18, the oldest of us all.  He was so quiet.  And so much the opposite of his exterior.

I'm blessed enough to have this initial encounter immortalized on video tape.  That night changed my entire existence.  That night I found my family.  From that night forward we convened in my bedroom or in Ron's van or at his house.  He had this cat, Garfield, that probably saw more than the average cat would or should ever see.  His whole bedroom was this phenomenal mural of Star Wars.  It was commissioned by his father who passed away just before we met.  He was truly a geek in the most exquisite of ways.  He tore through books and could quote just about any poet and philosopher.  He refused every offer of alcohol even though he'd procure it.  He'd deny any hit from a bowl or bong.  He'd push away the cigarettes.

He was so kind and gentle.  He showered us with lavish (in teen terms) gifts filled with great thought and deliberation.  I wish I could find the necklace he got me.  It was Egyptian styled - blacks and golds.  He was one man that could make the most hilarious of euphemisms for masturbation (Robin and the Batpole was the best) and still have the taste of a gentleman.  He was so shy and reserved... at first.  He was a puzzle that you either wanted to figure out or leave completely alone.  I loved him instantly.

He'd take us to concerts - Pantera, White Zombie, The Breeders, Slayer, Tool - And because of his size, he'd let me sit on his shoulders so that I could see the stage as I was so small.  Once, I got totally shitfaced drunk on ridiculous amounts of Mad Dog and I took my clothes off.  Gently and carefully, he covered me up and protected me.  A lessor man would have taken advantage.  For his chivalry, I planted on him his first, grape flavored, french kiss.  He was classy enough to not speak of it again.  He was the first man that I'd ever feel safe next to.

Eventually, his resistance to alcohol gave.  And slowly behind it came the pot.  And cocaine followed.  He got into several car accidents where I worried that I'd never see him again.  Now, that moment has arrived.  I can remember walking behind him through The Narrows Pet Cemetery, leaves rustling under our feet.  I remember thinking that it'd take a force of epic proportion to take him down.  And it has.

My heart hurts so much.  Similar to the way that it did when Steve passed earlier.  I can feel the lump in my throat climbing and tears are waiting for more opportune moments to break free.  My dear friend is gone.

And these are the moments where time hasn't passed.  I don't care how many years it's been.  He was still in here - in my heart, in my soul, in my identity.  He is as much a part of me as I am.  Because we formed each other many years ago.  For some, there was some implied expiration date on this friendship.  A relationship shelf life that I don't believe exists.  If I have once called you a friend - time does not prevail - love does.

I love you Ronald McDonald.  Thank you for being a formative energy in my life.  Thank you for picking me up when I called.  Thank you for giving me a chance.  Thank you for the years we shared in our rooms and cars and homes and beings.  Thank you for being safe.   Thank you for Come As You Are.  Thank you for the big belly laughs and my first hit from a 6 foot gravity bong that required me standing on your bed when I was 17 years old.  Thank you for the trips to Taco Bell.  Thank you for being there for the birth of my first child and for standing at my first wedding.  Thank you for accepting me.  Thank you for allowing me into your life for the time that I was.

I will miss seeing you from time to time and sharing a laugh and memory.  May you fly free from the pains that bound you on Earth.  Someday, I hope many, many years from now - I hope to see you, Ryan, Jason, Bryan, and Steve again.  Maybe hang out like we did for just a minute.

The Long Kiss Goodbye

Light spreads in between the the leaves of the magnolia tree and falls into the kitchen through the window.  A brown, Gucci purse, sat on the side of the table.  The walls needed painted as they bore the tell tale signs of young children.  The chairs were haphazardly spread out.  The remaining paper plates positioned at each seat indicated that tiny hands created lunch.  The tile on the floor was cold from the AC that was running.  They were patterned white squares with overlapping, black diamond shapes.  Some of the doors of the oak cabinets were open, revealing either dishes or non perishables.  The phone on the counter was ringing.  Small voices echoed through the room, ignoring the call on the line.  A man's bellowing exclamations about the, approximate, 100 lights being on as he shut the garage door behind him, drowned out the flowing, girly giggles.  He is carrying a gallon of milk in one hand and a plastic bag of groceries in another.  He reaches for the fridge to store the milk while a little girl tries to inspect the bag for treats.  Another girl appears and they ask, nearly in unison, what he got for them at the store.  A little boy dawdles in, curious about what the girls are doing.

A woman comes in, looking worn out, and asks what he purchased.  He retorts with something sarcastic.  She wants to go out to eat for dinner.  He chooses the restaurant in Lewisburg.  She hates Lewisburg.  She wants to go to Cracker Barrel.  One of the girls chimes in with a vote for Lewisburg.  The other sides with the woman.  He asks if they are all going to go out looking like that.  Now, all 3 ladies join forces to barrage him with hurt looks and whining.  They all go their separate ways and their voices trail off into different directions while they change clothes.  

They reconvene at their starting point.  They have all freshened up and they are all excited.  They haven't decided on a destination.  They argue it while determining which car to take, who gets what seat, and if she's going to be smoking those God Damned cigarettes all the way there.  One by one, they go out the front door, turn right onto the path towards the driveway.  The door closes, their sounds diminish as they approach the green van and pile in, and it backs out onto the street towards the sunset.  

Conversations with Anorexia

"These pants don't fit anymore.  They are too tight.  I'm not a size 4." - Me

She replies, "It's because you are fat."

"But, I was eating like a 'normal' person.  I wasn't restricting.  I wasn't counting.  I only stepped on that scale twice and that's because I was holding my purse and it was kind of heavy so I put it down to get a real weight.  And I subtracted 3 pounds because I shouldn't be punished because I was wearing clothes.  I just participated in life, like I was supposed to."

And she said "Now, you have muffin top.  And if you bend over in those jeans, the ass is going to rip out.  And your reunion is coming up so all of your flaws will be on display.  They will judge you just as they did before.  But, I can help you.  See those fat rolls?  See that extra chin starting to appear?  See that ring that your husband gave you that's sitting in a box because you gained 10 pounds?  See those cute pants in the closet that are too small?  I can fix all of that.  And you'll be happy again."

I know what I should have said to her.  I should have said to her - "A size 6 isn't the end of the world.  It means I need new pants and that I should clear out this closet.  It means that I really enjoyed the desserts with my family and all of the garlic bread nights.  It means that where I was at the time mattered more to me than perfectionism.  My pants size doesn't define me.  I like the taste of food.  My hair isn't falling out.  My gums don't bleed all the time.  My periods are almost normal again.   I can go outside without a jacket. "

But I let everything else speak for me.  I let 2 years of a crazy workplace speak for me.  Some stupid racist bitch, a misogynist pig of a boss, the office slut that slept her way to the top - I let them take the wheel.  I let the new boss who made rape jokes and disgusting comments about my body speak for me. I let the rejection letter for my writing take over.   I let every asshole in my life, every *thing* that I can't control, every bad feeling, every annoyance - I gave them the reins.  Because if I stood up for myself instead of letting everyone in my life have constant input and control - they'd get upset.  It's much simpler if I just sit here, quietly.  

Instead my response went more like this - 

"Maybe for just a little while.  Just until my pants fit again.  Just until I can look in the mirror and not be disgusted with the reflection.  It'll only take a few weeks.  I can drop 10 and it'll be easy.  Then, when I am back down to that, I can maintain it with clean eating and Pilates.  Just until I feel better....."

A Tout le Monde

For many years, he was there.  He was part of my collective.  He was part of my life.  He was my little brother.  He was my best friends first love.  He was a fellow autism parent.  He was kind.  He was sensitive.  He was my friend.  

I'm struggling with so many feelings surrounding his passing.  I'm full of so many words that feel so hollow and so much silence that feels so solid.  

Some people are angry with him for ending his life the way he did.  He left his son to walk this world without him.  He left his father to grieve his remaining days for another child that he outlived.  He left his friends to mourn a deeply loved person who was there one minute and gone the next.  On his way out, he left a painful goodbye on Facebook.  His agonized final words forever immortalized in those black and white letters.  

Steve was one of the people who shaped me into being me.  He influenced me.  His essence is a part of who I am.  His fingerprint is on my life.  They say that you should choose your friends wisely because you become most like those you have around you.  And I chose them well.  So many years of sitting in my bedroom, listening to music, inventing games, sharing pain, sharing laughs, sharing silence, sharing parts of books, poetry, drinks, joints, sharing who we were.  Every memory contains a part of him.  He was there for everything.  He was there every day until I divorced my first husband when I was 21.  Almost every single day from the time I was 15 until I was 21 - Steve was a staple of my every day.  Of course, we saw each other here and there since then.  We live in the same city.  We interacted on social media.  We talked about our sons' autism and the struggles.  We mourned the loss of each one of our fallen brothers together.   Our last conversation was discussing his appreciation for life after some near death experiences and the passing of other dear ones.  I didn't know that the last thing I would ever say to him would be that I was glad that he was alive.  

Some people are struggling with why he ended his life the way he did.  He walked out to the garage and in one trigger pull, he was gone.  I hid in that very garage once when I was dealing with parents who just didn't understand.  Why did he do it?  What set him off?  What drove him to that point?  What pushed him?  

Having known Steve for as long as I have in the way that I did - I'm neither angry or curious.  Because, I understand.  I almost was Steve.  I'm just sad.  There isn't a word powerful enough to express it.  I'm just sad.  And I feel guilty.  I know that anguish.  I almost put my family through it.  Knowing how this feels - to be on the other side of suicide - I'm so sorry that I ever, ever, ever even contemplated it for a second.  I feel so tremendously awful for considering doing this to my loved ones.  I feel selfish for feeling that way when my focus should be him.

But I feel so guilty that I wasn't able to do something to help Steve.  How can I call myself a friend?  I didn't know that it was this bad for him.  But I did, in a way.  I was not surprised.  Because, deep down, I knew.  After all, I knew that Steve was always sad.  He always struggled.  He had many moments of happiness when we were kids.  But, he was not ever the kind of person that would outwardly express much of what he was feeling.  He felt so much.  He felt everything.  It was like a radio on full blast for him all the time.  He couldn't shut off the sounds.  He could just go numb to it every now and then.  We just accepted that he wasn't the type to smile much.  We all met when we were going through the worst of the worst so we just kind of held each other together.  It is because we were all there together that we all made it as far as we did.  

I also just get it.  I have been so low that nothing else mattered.  I have felt that weight.  Part of me wishes that the part of my soul that understands could hug the part of his soul that was so tortured - just to say goodbye.  As much as it hurts me that he is gone - I completely just understand.  Some pain is just so insurmountable.  Some coping mechanisms just lose their potency over time.  Sometimes, your soul just grows so weary that you can't take another day.  Sometimes, the drugs aren't strong enough.  Sometimes, the volume is just too loud.  Sometimes the treble is so high your ears bleed.  Sometimes, the bass is so deep that it rattles your insides.  Sometimes, the balance is just too far away.  Suicide is not weakness.  Suicide is being strong for so long that your knees give.  There's a reason that holding up the heavens was a punishment for Atlas.  No one volunteers to carry that burden.

I just wish there was some way that I could have helped lighten the load.  Even for just a minute.  

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I can honestly say that 1993 was one of the best years of my life.  I was adopted into my unique, marijuana-addled chosen family.  This little family is where I came to discover unconditional love, uninhibited weirdness, stun guns, bongs, what an Astro van can do down a highway, how many people can fit into said Astro Van (18, by the way), Pantera, Marilyn Manson, LSD, euphemisms for masturbation, Fargunglehaas, poetry, deep thinking, sex, every flavor of Mad Dog 20/20, crowd surfing, higher plane innocence, brotherly love, sisterly bonds, and The Anarchist's Cookbook.

Ron, Kaiser, Bailey, Forgy, Cordell, Ted, Bill, Steve, and Jess - this motley crew became my inner circle that year.  It was Ted who would break the news to me of Kurt Cobain's death after a day of skipping school to get high.  Cordell would be my first love and baby daddy (though, the baby didn't make it beyond the beginning of the second trimester).  Forgy would become my brother and live with me and my family.  He left this world a few years back. To this day, Jess is still my best friend, my heterosexual life partner.  More people would flux in and out of our little collection - a few Jason's, a Jeremy, a Jeromy (passed in 2013), a Mark (stolen by cancer when he was 15), some Scotts, a Jared, a Matheny, a Ryan.  Then, a James, who would become my first husband.  The core of us tended to stick together, like thieves.

If there was something illegal or absurd to get into - we'd find it.  One time, Kaiser stuck his head out of the window of Ron's van while we were driving and his glasses flew off into Forgy's yard by accident.  Another time, Ryan got so drunk that he passed out under my Blazer in Bailey's front yard and we got a dolly and carted him into the house, shot him off of the dolly onto the floor at the base of the toilet, threw some crackers at him and advised him not to die.   One time, some skeezy bastard who outweighed me by about 150 pounds tried to rape me at a party and Jason K crashed the door down - not intentionally to save me - thinking it was the bathroom, so that he could vomit all over the floor.    There was the time that the guys had no weed nor money to purchase it so they captured a moth that was happily dancing in the light while we listened to Cake and Sodomy and then put it into a six foot gravity bong and smoked it.  Ryan passed away last year. Jason passed several days after Ryan.

One of the best memories ever was the Works bomb.  There was this horrendous pit of spiders that was in Ron's back yard.  (Ron had this amazing Star Wars mural in his bedroom spanning all 4 walls) The spiders would come in and bite Ron in his sleep.  In a moment of bored sobriety, the guys decided that they were going to do something about it.  They had a copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook and decided to put it to good use.  They'd build this Work's Bomb and blow the shit out of those fucking spiders, once and for all.  I, of course, had no part of this.  I merely observed in terrified amusement.  I watched as they created the thing in a Mountain Dew Bottle.  They mustered up the balls and headed into the back yard and I stayed in the house.  I waited in Ron's room, watching the small, rectangular window that was so high that it almost touched the ceiling.  I could hear their laughter from the other side of the brick.  I could hear them philosophize over the enormity of the pit and it's various species of arachnids.  They almost sounded intrigued.  Then Steve says "Let's blow those little fuckers up, man".  I could hear them strategize.  Then, a noise so loud that my ears rang.  The window went black.  Then silence.  That's when I decided that rather than be the one picking up chunks of my friends from the grass or wrestle limbs from the dog's jaws - I'd just leave now.  I took off out of the front door and headed towards my Blazer.  I got in and started the engine.

Then, one by one, my friends made their way to the front lawn.

Screaming.

Beating themselves.

Screaming.

Crying.

And screaming.

They were covered in spiders.

I locked my doors.

They ran to my car, begging me for help.

Steve, with his puppy dog brown eyes and his stringy, blonde hair peppered with spiders of all sizes, pressed his baby face against my window and asked me to kill him.  Saying "I've seen hell".  Then they started smacking each other.  They eventually moved on to the "Stop, Drop, and Roll" technique that was the most successful.

This will remain in my heart as one of my all time favorite moments in history.

Last night, Steve took his own life.

I have found it difficult to throttle my tears.  This was my inner circle.  He was the youngest of us all.  And by far, the most sensitive.  He was beautiful and quiet.  And I'll never see him again.

We think that the hardest part of aging is the crow's feet at our eyes or decreased elasticity of our skin.  Sometimes, I find myself picking apart my maturing body and start to feel like it's all flying by so fast.

The actual hardest part of getting older is all the goodbyes that we aren't ready for.

Rest peacefully, Sven.

Mother

Parenting is hard work. 

Even so, I usually adore every second of it, including the parts that require disciplinary action. 

This part?  

This part where I can't fix the broken pieces, the part where I can't trade places with them, the part where the pain cannot be eased by a kiss, the part where I don't have the cure and a sugary snack doesn't hold a sufficient distraction.

This part can go straight to hell.

This is the part of Motherhood that I would give up if I could.

Still no answers.

Just tests.

Just test results that are sitting on someone's desk.

Just nerve wracking agony of the unknown.

It's not comforting anymore.

I know too much.

God I just want to fix it.

Today, he was sick and in pain from the spinal tap. I rushed home. Part of the threads holding my strength together started to fray. I'm coming unglued. I don't know what to do. This fear is so heavy. I can't make it stop. His body is fighting itself and I can't fix it.

Why? WHY IS THIS HIS LIFE? WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE HIS REALITY?

Is this the beginning?
Is this the start of many terrifying moments?

I didn't sign on for this.

I signed on for the cereal box motherhood. I knew it was going to be hard. But this? No, I didn't. I didn't ask for Autism and Multiple Sclerosis. I didn't know this was even an option. I didn't know that this was a potential outcome.

No, I wouldn't trade a fraction of a second for any reason in the world.

But why did it have to get so fucking complicated?

And I thought that I hid it well. Then he points out that I am frantically cleaning the kitchen. He points out that it's because I'm a nervous wreck. He points it out. He does this because he knows. He is being the rock right now. I'm supposed to be the rock.

This rock is wearing down.

Just as they sent him to a sterile room with a sterile needle to go into his delicate spine - my phone rings. It's The Middle Son. Some little bitches are terrorizing him at school because he walks funny and wears weird clothes. And I can't rush to his side because I'm already at the side and I have to try to triage which kid I have to be there for and the same time in two places. And I want to knock the ever living fuck out of these assholes for picking on my boy and I want to cure the kid down the hall and I can't do both or either.

I didn't sign on for this.

And the hits keep coming...

Before the age of 18 The Oldest learned a lot of words that the average teenager doesn’t learn: Nevus, melanoma, bed rest, skin grafts, staples, stitches, donor site, graft rejection, mepilex, compression garment, Shriner’s, anesthesia, Bacitracin…..

That was more than enough.  Those days leading to the malignant/benign verdict were long.  So long that seconds were weeks. 

And here we are again. Feeling every second hand on every clock , in every country, in every state, in every home on Earth.

Every call makes me flinch.

There’s anxiety in my chest and I don’t really know what to do besides stand here.  I feel like I have to do something.

Research makes me crazy.  Looking at him makes me crazy.  Not because he’s doing anything wrong but because there is this beautiful person, this incredible young man and something is under the surface of his skin and I don’t know what it is but it’s bad.  Not “cancer” bad but “potentially debilitating” bad.  And I feel like we used up our dodged bullet pass.  Do we get more than one in a lifetime? 

The blind spot appeared a few months ago in his left eye.  Blood work was all negative.  We thought the MRI was clean.  Turns out, we just have a stupid doctor.  Optic neuritis is kind of a big deal.  “A little inflammation” is kind of a big deal.  It’s an indication of Clinically Isolated Syndrome, Neuromyelitis Optica, or Multiple Sclerosis. 

Those words take my breath away. 

Shock tinnitus set in.  The doctor noticed The Oldest’s feet start to shake and my face paling.  He smiled a lot.  He’s a kindly, older gentleman.  He’s probably someone’s grandfather.  He tried to be comforting, reassuring, and soft.  It was like giving us a sweet little teddy bear that was filled with brimstone. 

Now we get to learn a lot of words that near 20 year olds shouldn’t have to learn: Spinal Tap, medication regimen, relapses, flare ups...

He should be learning about college parties, poor life choices excused by immaturity, the usual rites of passage that “normal” twenty somethings get to experience. 

And he just keeps going.  He puts the one foot in front of the other with a brave face and it makes me so fucking mad that I could scream. 

I want to take beautiful things and smash them to pieces.  I want to feel something shatter and split apart that isn’t inside of him or inside of me.  I want something to pay.  I want this stolen time to be replaced.  I want him to have a different, long, pain free, wheel chair free life. 

I’m so angry that I can’t even cry.  The back of my throat hurts and my eyes water and the tips of my fingers ache.  But the tears won't budge.  Because the dam will break and I will drown.

I want to grimace when someone else tells me their story.  I don’t want to empathize.  I want to comfort, not connect. 

I want this to be some terrible mistake. 

I want this to be a nightmare that we will wake up from. 

I want this to be just a warning shot, a brush, a miss, deflected….

But all the want in the world will not make it so.

Today, we have some lab work to complete and a spinal tap to schedule. 

Today, we go through the regular motions of life and try to ignore the monster living inside of him who’s name we don’t know.  

2015

Wow, this year.....

Well....

It's been incredible.  Incredibly awesome.  Incredibly stressful.

I'm titling it: The Year I Got Too Old for This Shit (Mostly).

I'm too old for petty drama. Though, I think I was born too old for that.  I'm too old for insecurity.  I'm too old for selfies with my tits on display.  I'm too old for giving a shit about someone else's opinion (unless they put it in my face).  I'm too old for Donald Trump and his followers and their bullshit.  Ya'll are fucked up, kay?  I'm too old to apologize for that.  In fact, I don't think I ever would, at any age.  But that's why you like me, right?  Because I speak my mind?  exxxxxxxactly  I'm too old for political fights and religious arguments.  I'm also secure in my beliefs so much so that I don't need to post about it non stop. I have a fulfilled enough life that politics don't define me.  I wish that for others.  I'm blessed enough to be happy and grateful and I wish to spread that shit everywhere.

In some ways, my age has caught up with me.  I'm 37.  I have 4 (5-ish, with Bonus Daughter) kids.  I'm too old for their fighting.  And to argue over chores.  I'm noticing changes to my appearance that are starting to give to age.  A few gray hairs.  My hands aren't as youthful as they once were.  Minuscule things, superficial things.  Things I'm mostly okay with. Growing old is an honor and far too many would trade places with me.  I will do so gracefully.  And, because Carrie Fisher.

We went to a Smashing Pumpkins/Marilyn Manson show and were too told to try to mosh.  Not that there was any moshing anyway.  Billy Corgan was also too old to mosh, so it was okay.  Actually, a friend and I both had migraines and by the end of the epic light show, we both turned our backs to the stage and watched the drunk people dance.  And then, out of maturity, we mimicked them.  Because we are too old to give a shit.  Then, we went to the Foo Fighters' 20th Anniversary show in Indiana.  Yeah, 20 years.  I've seen Nirvana (October 30, 1993, Hara Arena) and I always feel like that was just yesterday.  To go see the FF's and think that it was their 20th anniversary?  When John Popper took the stage to join - I'm sure there were people (read: kids) in the crowd that didn't know who he was instantaneously.  It was an incredible show that I enjoyed with the boy I've known for almost 22 years.  And, like old people, we just picked a nice spot to sit in, watch, and listen.

I learned the value of good health insurance when The Youngest Boy's appendix popped.  Heavy words like: deductible, co-pay, maximum out of pocket, etc.  They're all in my, almost regular, vocabulary.  Because then, The Oldest developed a blind spot in one eye.  And we still don't know why.  When the initial eye doctor effed up - I was too old to give a shit about the girls lack of experience or understanding.  When some unsupervised kids knocked a bike rack over onto my head resulting in a concussion that sent me to the ER for 7 hours, I was too old to give a shit why their parents brought them to a beer festival.  I was also too old to give a shit why their mother was angry at me - a sober woman enjoying a Bavarian cream puff with my husband at an art museum whilst pondering the skyline - when her shitty parenting is what got us both in the situation.  I'm too old to want to pay for my medical bills in excess of $5k.  So, she can do it.  I got too old to jump up and knock her on her ass.  That should, in and of itself, solidify that I'm an old fogey.  I didn't hit any of the people I wanted to.

We further nailed our age down by becoming soccer parents, Cub Scout parents, Science Olympiad parents, college kid parents, then Soccer and Science Olympiad Coaches, and parents who go to bed at 10 for work in the morning.  We came up with lineup lists, sensible halftime snacks, and told boys to keep their hands out of their pants during a game.  We stood outside while The Youngest Boy sold popcorn to pizza parlor patrons.  We got up at 8 am to yell at referees who were not much older than The Oldest.  We watched The Middle Son break out of his shell and explain science to small children with ease.  We also watched as he won a Super Smash Brother's competition with expert precision. He became a teenager.  He even made his first girlfriend.  He's also writing a full video game with his own music and sprites. We watched The Oldest become a college student, majoring in history.  We watched Mini Me learn to read and write out of no where.

I'm so old that I lost 4 friends this year.  3 to drugs and one to unknown causes.  I'm too old for heroin.  We're too old for heroin.  When I think of their faces and the times we had - I still visualize them as teenagers, in the back of Ron's van, being crazy.  The fact that they never left 2015 breaks my heart in such a way that words would not justify.  Our generation, Gen X, seems to be able to party like rock stars while mastering parenthood and careers and still get up in the morning until we don't.  I'm grateful that I don't understand that life.  I'm pained that Ryan, Jason K, Jason B, and James will not be on the next leg of this journey.  There will always be empty seats in their memory. Then the thought hit me - from here, the list will grow.

I'm old enough to fly to Seattle without my parents and spend a glorious weekend with my husband.  Sightseeing, once in a lifetime opportunities, historical ventures....  I graffiti'd a museum exhibit.  We went to sit under the bridge on the muddy banks of the Wishkah river and only some people will understand the magnitude of that.  Because you're old too.  We went to Kurt's childhood home, went to his old haunts, walked around Aberdeen for hours and ate dinner in the town that inspired legends.  Then, we found the city of Olympia.  Some wish to retire to Florida.  Not me, you'll find me in the Washington State capital, sipping on some Burial Grounds coffee and walking the beautiful streets.  We peacefully strolled, arm in arm, in love with a city filled with fall colors and our favorite treasures - a record store, an antique shop, delicious coffee, a live theatre...  Now, I'm homesick for it.  Then, after my dearest ripped me away from the perfectly amazing love affair I was having with it.  We went to downtown Seattle and ventured to the Seattle Art Museum.  I'm too old for the bedpans and Ford Taurus' hanging from the ceilings. But not too old to stand in awe of a 16th century marble statue of Aphrodite.

To further drive home the fact that I'm too old for this shit - we went to the EMP Museum's 90's Nightmare Prom themed party.  We were the only ones who actually went to a prom in the 90's.  It was interesting to get the perspective of our coming of age via 20 somethings in Seattle.  I'm not sure they understand.  That's okay, I'm too old to understand their shit too.  The next morning we got up early to eat in Collections Cafe, owned by Dale Chihuly.  His work makes me happy.  He and William Morris.  It was such a supreme experience and I felt like I was home.  We then ventured into the Chihuly Gardens and my breath was taken.  We followed that up with a ride up to the top of the Space Needle where I decided that I was too old for my fear of heights and seeing the beautiful city was more important.  Plus, there hadn't been any falls from the Space Needle in a long time, so I felt confident.  We rounded out the day and trip by driving to Kurt's home where his life ended.  It was cold and dark and surreal.  And standing by the side of the only person I know that would ever feel the moment as ardently as I made the whole experience so remarkable.

I've added "Crochet Artist" to my resume.  Which makes me really old.  Only old women do that.  But, I stitch such things as Ninja Turtles, Dr. Who items, video game characters... Usually hats and my first blanket.  Now, I can say that I've done them.  And, I'm old enough to know the value of that.

We did a great many things, also, that proved you can never be too old for this shit.  Like attending Comic Con in full cosplay as Kitty Pryde and Wolverine.  Took an inordinate amount of selfies with Oreo cookies in every flavor, took the kids to see Weird Al, drove to Chicago for our second annual road trip to Godzilla (g-fest), played miniature golf, turned our house into Arendelle for Mini Me's birthday, dressed up for Halloween, did goofy shit at the store and befriended a really wonderful cashier who retired yesterday, binge watched every comic book based television series available, we fed jello and pudding shots to our adult family members and just generally had a spectacular year.

 And I'm finally old enough to appreciate every second of it.

Another One Rides the Bus

This is the email I sent to our superintendent regarding some Autism fun on the bus.  

Dear Superintendent,

On or around November 5, 2015 an evacuation drill was performed on Bus [00] that included rear evacuation procedures.  My son, [The Middle Son], a 7^th grade student at [Your] Middle School was on the bus and participated in said drill.  [The Middle Son] has Autism.  During this drill, he fell from the back of the bus and injured his knee.  [The Middle Son] struggles with depth perception and has difficulty with steps.  Students laughed at him.  No one assisted him in his exit.  He was certainly the laughingstock.  No one attempted to address the silver dollar sized, bleeding scrape to his knee.  He was wearing shorts that day and there was a substantial amount of blood in his sock when he got home.  It was noticed by a teacher later in the day.  Still, not so much as a bandage was administered.

 

When I got home from work, I noticed the injury and cleaned and bandaged it.  On Saturday, he fell at home and broke the scab.  We continued to clean it and monitor it but it started to show signs of infection.  On Monday, November 9, 2015, I received a telephone call from the school nurse.  I was chastised for the wound and its care.  She explained that she was able to clean it up and apply another bandage.  My next telephone call was to Mrs. [Principal].  I explained what went on to that point.  She assured me that she would call the transportation department and see what she could find out.  I was then told that I would receive a call back.  It is now ten days later.  I was told on Monday, November 16, 2015 by Mr. [Principal], during our annual IEP meeting that the bus driver did not know of [The Middle Son]’s diagnosis and that they do now.  This is my “assurance” of my son’s safety during future drills or a real life emergency.  This is not acceptable. 

[The Middle Son] has attended [Your] schools since kindergarten.  He did take a brief hiatus during half of 4^th and 5^th grades and attended an online school as there were extreme difficulties with staff at [Your] Elementary school.  Upon his return to the district, a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder was presented with his enrollment documents.  It was actually required before they would complete his admission.  I would go into the 6 months that it took for the district to start preparing his IEP after I requested it, the 3 years it took for his Gifted services to begin because they were “overlooked”, the being told that “we would rather other students think he’s just ‘quirky’” rather than let him explain his Autism, but those are complaints for another day.  The bottom line is that [The Middle Son], his diagnosis and needs are not unfamiliar to the district by any means.  Also, bus forms were filled out stating his diagnosis. 

Section B of 3301-83-15 of the ORC “Emergency and evacuation procedures” states that “The superintendent or designee shall organize and conduct three emergency exit drills for all students who ride buses to and from school”.  It also states in (B) (2) that all drills shall be arranged and scheduled by the transportation director/supervisor in cooperation with building principals.  The drills shall be supervised by at least one staff person other than the driver assigned to that route.  I was told that there were two staff people at the time of the drill.  Section (B) (7) states that Emergency evacuation drills of preschool and special needs children may require modification of the procedures listed in paragraph (B). 

  

In the Ohio Preservice School Bus Driver Training Manual, pages 81-84 covering Emergency Drills and Evacuations – it is suggested that a “buddy” be assigned for special needs students.  A helping hand support method for rear door evacuations is also suggested.  Following these suggestions could have spared an injury.  I would expect a scraped knee during an actual emergency.  Honestly, I would welcome that over severe injury sustained during a fire, accident, or other disaster.  But this was not an emergency.  This was preparedness.  The driver was not prepared and, somehow, lacked essential knowledge to effectively ensure the safety of a student with special needs.  The school failed to properly communicate and coordinate with the transportation staff to accommodate a student. 

I take comfort in knowing that this could have been much worse and that now the staff and [The Middle Son] are more prepared in the event of an emergency.  What bothers me is the blasé attitude about informing me of what measures were taken to assure his safety during another drill, returning a phone call, and addressing an injury that required medical attention.  Has someone actually apologized to my child?  He is a student that struggles with social propriety and we use as many opportunities to teach good manners as possible.  All that I received was two spoken sentences during an IEP meeting.  Is this the norm for all students in the district with special needs?  Is this part of the reason that [Your School District] has received a “C” rating on servicing students with disabilities?  What is being done to remedy that?  What is the barrier here for touching base with a parent who expressed concern for their child?  What can be expected for [The Middle Son] and other students like him when it comes to bus safety? 

Thank you for your time,

Angry Momma Bear

Dear Tonya P....

I started this post almost 2 years ago.  As I help plan my 20 year high school reunion with my, then unlikely, friends I am reminded of the days of yore.  Let's take a trip back, shall we?

I sat outside of our alma mater, waiting for my amazing son to leave Chinese club.  While sitting in the car, I took a selfie.

Selfies get a bad rap as self indulgent, attention seeking, vain, moments caught in dirty bathroom mirrors, laying on a bed, or (as in my case) the car.  No doubt there are those.  And who cares?  Judging a person by the selfies they take only defines YOU.  Not the subject.  I see, regularly, via social networking, people picking others apart over a photograph.  Sometimes, it makes me ashamed of what we have become.

The selfie/former high school combo inspires a Facebook post wherein I wax poetic memories of the emotional terrorism that I suffered from 7th-10th grade.  18 years have passed since I bid that school farewell and so much has happened.  13 year old me would never have posed for a selfie.  You'd be hard pressed to find more than a handful of pictures of me from those years.  My yearbook pics are about all anyone has.

That leads my train of thought to a hot August day in 1991 when I took my first step into our Junior High.

The few years before were some of the worst in my life.  (If you don't know by now, here are the Cliff's notes: Taken off the street, beaten, raped, prevented from attending school, being freed, helping sentence my abuser to prison, dealing with the aftermath)  My 'rents bought a convenience store and moved away from my "safe zone" and all of my childhood friends that I loved so dearly.  Everything I ever knew was now a blurred view from the back of their car.  This move was supposed to be a fresh start.  No one at this new school would know what happened to me.  I could start over and not have it follow me.

I was cursed gifted with a very thorough memory.  Right now, first period class is escaping (pretty sure it was band).  And then second period is where I met them.  Our schools equivalent of Heathers.  They were pretty, rich, all the boys looked at them, all the girls wanted to be them.  Tonya appeared to be their leader.  She was one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen.  Perfect hair.  Perfect eyes.  Perfect clothes.  Perfect body.  Surrounded by friends.  I had insane frizzy hair, freckles, big, plastic glasses, and was the epitome of 90's notthecoolkind nerd.  And it was like some kind of alarm went off in them.  They turned to me and burst out laughing.  I wanted to curl up and die, right there.  I was a quiet, new girl, surely I would just stand there and take it.  And I did.  Much to my horror, they were in my next period Science class.  Since Tonya and I shared a starting last name letter, we were unfortunately close, initially.  She made good use of our close proximity.  We went on to share 1 more class.  I shared classes with her cronies all day.

She was so wretched and hateful to me and to the friends I was finally able to make.  It was like her only goal in life was to be as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside.  The things she said to me were mortifying.  I'd go home and cry and my 'ma would always tell me not to let them see me cry, they'd know they won.  I'd sit there, stone faced, pretending that I didn't hear them.  I broke my finger playing basketball in gym and when I came to school the next day with a splint, Tonya was the first to notice.  She made crude, regular, jokes about how it happened.  Most were sexually explicit.  I'd never encountered that behavior before.  My previous school was full of poor, black kids that never made fun of others.  I supposed at the time that only the poor had manners.  For the most part, that still holds true.

Once, we were sent to the hall to make up a science test and she asked me for all of my answers.  She failed that test.  I only know that because I got an A+ and I gave her every wrong answer on the sheet.  It was the only weapon I had.  She threw things at me in class - paper wads, fingernail clippings, gum wrappers.  Her friends took her lead.  In other classes, they would mimic her like sheep.  On the bus, on field trips, in the halls.  When I got my first boyfriend, they made fun of him for liking me.  They made fun of my friends for being awkward, fat, nerdy, whatever was "different" about us was exploited.  And it went on for 3 years.  There was no escape or recourse.

So, 18-21 years later, I sit here listening to the happy sounds of my kids and pray that I have filled their cups enough that when "Tonya" sets her sights on them, they will not be phased.  I pray that they will not overdose like I did.  I pray that they will not cut themselves like I did.  I pray they won't absorb the horrible words of small people, like I did.  I hope they will not resort to the rebellion tactics that I employed in defense.  I pray that they will stand up, like I eventually did.  So today, I write to the most popular, most pretty girl in the school -

Dear Tonya,
You tormented me for no reason.  You made me wish that I would evaporate.  You made me wish that I was dead.  The hateful things you said to me resonated for years.  I wonder what was so damaged inside of you that made you enjoy that type of amusement. I hear that you have a wonderful career out of state and far from here.  I'm glad that you have been so blessed.  One day, should you ever have children, I hope that you protect them from the type of person you were - both from replication and victimization.

And, I forgive you.

Very Truly Yours,
That Ugly Girl In Mr. Vaughn's 3rd Period Science Class