When my brother and I were kids, my parent's joined a bowling league, in Export at the Moose. Twice a month, they bowled. Twice a month we squealed with delight when the car backed out of the driveway.
Not at all what you are thinking. I would be in my jammies with a freshly washed head (in the dreaded kitchen sink, once a week, Breck shampoo whether you needed it or not) and pink sponge curlers in my hair for Church the next morning. What was so wonderful about Saturday nights without the parental unit?
Two bottles of ice cold Coca Cola, Lays potato chips, helluva good onion dip and Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart and Carole Burnett.
We were allowed to eat of the kitchen, set up on the fireplace hearth and laugh.
Just me and my brother. We loved it.
And we loved Mary. Mary.
To this day, when my brother and I are together at dinner celebration, he always says, "Do we have enough food? We don't need a Mr. Grant situation." My brother's favorite episode, Mary has a dinner party, invites Mr. Grant to dinner, he is served first and literally takes 25% of the main dish and she has to tell him to put it back. We laughed for days.
And later in life, I took Mary with me. I will never forget wanting the apartment in Camp Hill, above the Pennsylvania Bakery, the Mary Tyler Moore apartment. I named the apartment "MTM" and every female I knew, knew what that meant.
As I watched her shows, I dreamed of living independently, in an apartment where light streamed from the windows and the Murphy bed popped out. I envied her "grown up girlfriends" and was eager to have a life like hers. I started watching her at eleven
The day my divorce attorney and I broke up, and the decree was signed, I stood outside his office on High Street in Carlisle, Pa, threw my hat up in the air and yelled, "I'm going to make it after all." Walked to my little gray, four door Honda Civic and drove back to Greenville, SC so I could. No stopping or crying.
Funny that Mary died days after the women's marches. While I didn't march, I knew several who did. I have watched the same news clips and have seen the same nasty posts and turn a deaf ear every time the word "Madonna" comes up in a sentence. Not because I don't believe in females and our voices but because of the presentation.
Mary Tyler Moore was one of the first females to wear pants on TV. Yep, pants. She was told only one time an episode. She asked and fought for pants. She got it. A few seasons into it, the pants were no longer an issue. She broke that barrier.
There was talk about a love interest on the show for Mary. She said no. Wasn't going to go that route. That is why she moved to Minneapolis, she was dumped by her finance. I think the story was she supported him through med school and then he dumped her.
Even after years of Mr. Grant and Mary just being friends, they did take a stab at being more and it was awful. Mary loved that her friends were men and valued them.
She didn't need a love interest, her life was full. She didn't need a man.
Mary wasn't always sure of herself, she made mistakes, she laughed at herself but she kept blazing forward with grace. When Rhoda entered the seen, Rhoda was divorced. OMG, a divorcee in pants living in the same building as a single working female with a brain. Wow, so much to handle.
I remember an episode where a "gay" fellow was on the show. I asked my mom, "what is gay?" My mom didn't answer.
She stood up to Mr. Grant as an employee and as a female with class. She discovered she was paid less than the man who previously held her position and she was fired up. I remember how nervous she was asking for the raise but backed down because the man had kids and needed the money. And while Mary was upset about it, she had a heart.
The show ended in 1977, two years before I graduated from high school. When I entered middle school, you still wore dresses. And then we were(girls) were allowed to wear jeans but only on Fridays.
Mary was a voice for all females in the 1970's. She didn't scream, use obscenities, threaten to burn down buildings or be crude, she led by example. She advocated for pants. It was a tiny but significant moment for females. She was independent. She didn't stand on a podium and shout, she spoke in an inside voice to millions of women weekly and maybe didn't even realize how they followed her. And she said, no boyfriend.
Sometimes it isn't how loudly you speak, it is how many who really listen.
Successful. Happy. Mary had a voice. A purpose and she knew she had meaning.
I bawled my eyes out at the last episode. Mary gets fired. Mary apologizes to the man that fired her, calls him a runt and starts her new life. Again. Victimized by a man again.
I didn't cry because Mary got fired. I cried because I felt like my friend Mary moved away. We broke up. She was gone. My professional role model was gone.
I knew Mary Richards was just a character. But she was real. I saw myself, except for the tall, lean body, in her. I wanted to be her. I wanted that apartment. I wanted her job. I wanted her life. I even wanted a Mr. Grant.
And she is gone.
But her lessons stayed with me. My MTM apartment (that I decided not to get, still regret that decision) my girlfriends, my guy friends, my independence. (should have listened to her about that first marriage and gone for the MTM apartment).
This morning in the car, doing the morning drop off, I tried to engage my kids into the "do you guys have a role model?" They said they really didn't . I couldn't even think of one person on television that they might aspire to be like or hail a hero. I cannot think of one female that my daughter can look up to right now. Sad.
I threw up my hat in the air the day I regained my independence.
And thirty years later, I can name that theme song in three notes, "you're going to make it after all."
I am putting on my jammies tonight and breaking out the ice cold bottles of water instead of the Coca Cola (too much sugar, she would approve) and raising my bottle...Thanks for turning my world on with your smile.
Franklin has traveled to Denver. He too has taken the first steps in the "our new life" journey.
Spinal cord doctors, wheelchairs and catheters, oh my.
It is so crazy. On December 31, 2016, we went to bed. We even missed the Mariah mess up.
We wake up to a new year and by noon, we have a new life.
So Franklin started the process. The visit with the "button" was not a Hallmark movie. It was more like a natural disaster movie. PTSD meets concerned parent. PTSD is heinous. PTSD is bigger than a 23 year old male.
There is such a difference between men and women and certainly Franklin and me. Franklin needed to meet the detective, ask questions. It was CRIMESTOPPERS that caught the shooter. Who knew? CRIMESTOPPERS works. He went to the scene and was stunned at the lovely area of Denver where this all took place.
He had to put the pieces together.
Three consecutive days my husband said, "there is an eggbeater in my brain."
He was relentless. He got in front of the people he needed to and when they didn't want to talk, he still got answers. He whipped out medical records and got answers. And he got smacked in the face with reality. I would rather take a punch in the gut from Mike Tyson than be smacked by reality.
Today Franklin got hit with, "your son will never walk again and is going to need a nurse, can live independently if he chooses and works hard, but he is going to need a nurse."
I wish I could have been there with him when his air left his body. Even though he knew this, it is so piercing when someone tells this to you. I know what that feeling is like and as the air leaves your body you just have to act like you have to sneeze and go on.
I am a "doer, getter done-r and let's get going" type of person. Franklin stands back and watches and waits. That drives me nuts. Limbo is not my thing. He smokes and lets it work out.
Currently, we are in limbo. Wait for healing to begin. Wait for the process to start. Wait for the anger to subside. Wait. Just wait.
I hate waiting. Franklin is patient. We are united but we are so different. I throw things in a bag and leave. He takes hours to pack a bag. Drives me nuts. We are so different.
Today, after his busy, gut wrenching day, he delivered his findings to me. It was the first time in weeks I felt HOPE, real HOPE. Franklin cannot let go of the mobility issue and I have accepted this and just want to start the process of getting things all organized. Crazy.
Tonight, while power walking, I was thinking about how different my husband and I are and how we handle things. I quickly came back to a conversation that I had with my Mamaw in 1984 or so.
I was working as a waitress at a restaurant...(this much is true) and I was befriended by an older woman there. She discovered that my mamaw hand painted China and wanted a few pieces from her. In the midst of process, my friend discovered she had lung cancer.
One day, I sat on my Mamaw's front porch and I asked her, "do you think Mandy is going to die?"
"Hell I don't know." My mamaw just let it out. So comforting.
"If you put 100 people in a room, doesn't matter how old they are or where they come from or what nationality they are or how they live, all 100 people have the same two things in common. Know what they are?"
"I have no idea, what?"
"Hope and bellybuttons." This was the most profound statement she ever made to me. "Hope and bellybuttons."
So here we are, time zones apart. I am sure my husband is propped up in bed watching porn, I mean "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" as I call it a day.
I will sleep in silence, he will have to have the television on.
And as different as we are, it is true...we both have Hope and we both have bellybuttons.
I spent a lot of time in the car since my last post.
It is really amazing where your mind goes when you are driving, isn't it?
Of course we go through the day to day, focused and on a mission but it is like we are wearing a patch over our eyes and the patch has the "button's" face on it.
The "button" is everywhere.
I cannot discuss the "button" and his progress or diagnosis. Funny, but I feel like I am protecting him by not discussing this. Or maybe, just maybe, I am not there yet.
In the past 19 days, I have been researching, absorbing, reading, processing, digesting spinal cord injuries, Thoracic paraplegics, rehabs (again!) symptoms, reviews, what to expect, depression, case managers, Risk Managers, "advocates", your voice and just going into full time mother mode.
It is apparent when I was reading my MSN Horoscope for the Year 2017, I missed the fine print where it said "hold on with both hands, the ride in 2017 is going to take you places you never imagined. Most days will suck but there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Hold on until the ride comes to a complete stop because there will be days when you are not really sure when things are coming to a complete stop, if ever."
Yeah, missed that fine print.
And as wild and crazy as things have been, I have been blessed. Our family has been blessed. Not just with great friends and family and some really good enchiladas and lasagna, but I got to attend an amazing birthday party.
Hours after I arrived at the "button's" hospital, I was whisked away by social workers, case management workers, victims advocates and doctors. All suggested that I check out the spinal cord and brain injury rehab hospital down the road.
Ok, sounds like a plan.
But first I had to call.
It was during this phone call that I was told, "wait, you do understand that your son isn't going to walk again, you do understand this, right?"
I have heard the expression, "the air left my body" or "kicked in the gut" but I never knew what that could feel like.
I do now. I felt the air from my liver, spleen, gall bladder, whatever, rise and depart. It lasted a good 18 seconds. I didn't speak. I couldn't. I just sat.
And then I said, "I will be there shortly."
I had no idea what to expect and why should I? I thought I was going to visit a hospital so they could fix my son and off we would both go. I didn't comprehend that he was going to a REHAB hospital to learn to get in a out of a wheelchair.
So, off I went.
I walked into the one wing of the building and it was mostly a recreation center. I went this direction because I was following some young boys. They seemed much more confident than me so I followed them.
Upon arriving, they turned right and entered the Rec Room. I looked inside and saw some parents, grandparents and the back of a man in a wheelchair. I noticed the bags and could tell he wasn't breathing independently.
I just looked at the back of this wheel chair and it all began to penetrate my heart. And the air started leaving my body again.
I was waiting for my friend to finish her phone call when the group asked me if I had a lighter. I was shocked they were speaking and even more shocked to tell them that I did indeed have a lighter in my pocket. I found it on the plane of all places so I walked over and handed the mom the lighter.
It was Michael's birthday. They lit the candles, 16 of them and sang and then his tearful mom blew out the candles for her son. Michael turned his wheelchair around and I noticed that he only had use of his left little finger. His independence with his pinky finger. Just one.
And then the young boys did a roast, "The Sixteen Reasons we Need to Celebrate Michael's Birthday". While I tried to listen to the roast, I was lost, all inside jokes...but the time and effort his friends put into this was heartwarming.
And then one of the boys mentioned it was Michael's 45th day here at rehab. I dropped something and bent over to pick it up. This is when I noticed the ET microphone going to his mouth.
This is when I lost it. All of those organs in my body that had lost all of their air, they all crunched up into a little ball and sent my tear ducts into over drive.
As the boys finished....for the first time in 45 days, Michael spoke. In his ET, new mechanical voice, he uttered a simple, "thank you."
His mom and dad, lost it.
I lost it. I cannot see anything anymore without my cheaters and even I could see the crocodile tears coming from Michael's face.
I swear to you, I was supposed to find that lighter and crash this party. Yes, my son was two vertebrae from being Michael. My son's vertebrae healed. My son could have been this young man. Any mom's son could have been this young man.
My son could blow out his own birthday candles. What a blessing. He could blow out his birthday candles. I kept saying it over and over again, "he can blow out his birthday candles".
We toured the facility and walked to the car. There wasn't a whole lot to say.
I have never been so humbled in my life. I have never felt so inadequate in my life. I have never been in a place where there was such a positive, loving vibe in my life. There were people who had been working there since 1985 helping folks like Michael daily. I sell commercials that everyone hates.
The only thing missing in the car was Olivia Newton John's "Have you Never been Mellow" playing on the radio. Olivia sings the one song that just depresses me to no end. Music to slash your wrists by.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked over and saw about 11 young men, all in wheel chairs, wheeling into a bar dressed in their garb...obviously fans. I could see them drinking a few beers, eating chicken wings, laughing and clapping, hooping and hollering all confined to their wheel chairs.
I have thought about Michael everyday since. I think of him several times a day. I think of his parents.
I think about the left pinky, his independence. His spared finger. His mobility finger. His lifeline. I think about how happy he must be with this finger. This pinky is his WILSON.
I think about my son. He regained the use of his hands and arms. He can blow out his candles. He can speak (goodness knows I wouldn't have been crushed if his larynx wasn't injured for about seven months) and he can go into a bar and cheer on his team.
Funny, Michael had the party, I received the gift. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be slapped in the face with what could have been and left with, what was going to be.
Happy Birthday Michael.
I will never be able to explain the need I had to get to church on New Year's Day. I was on a mission to get my praise on.
I typically go to early church. But today was different. I looked at the weather and decided to go running first. So off I went.
As luck would have it, I ran into my friend. Our run became a walk/run. We discussed "hard hearts" and anger and moving forward. We talk about the joyless Christmas and she asked me if I wanted to go further.
"No, I have to get to church." Seriously, you would have thought I was the preacher.
I was on a mission. Church, then the daunting chore of taking everything out our master bedroom closet after 18 years, purging and then painting it, and then reassembling along with the Steelers and pork and sauerkraut.
At church, I looked over at a person who I knew had been going through a rough time. During our walk/run, my friend told me all the anger was gone for this person.
I looked this person and thought "do I have an angry heart? Is this why it was so hard to get into the spirit this year? I need to kick my hard heart to the curb.
When the opportunity came to kneel and pray, I picked the Noah's ark pillow and I prayed.
After church, I pulled into the driveway and the first thing I see is Franklin smoking.
"Are you kidding me, What the hell, you didn't even make it till 1pm?"
He laughed and came over to me and asked, "how was church, did you pray?"
"yes, I did kind of pray, actually, it was more like a shout out".
"Tell me".
"I said, God, hey, whatever you are going to throw at me this year, bring it, just let me handle it with dignity and grace. And make my heart soft again. Throw something my way to make it love more. And about my kids, I always ask you God to look out for my oldest son, but this year, please spread the love and watch over all of them. They all need it. I trust your plan for them. But God just give me dignity and grace."
My husband stood there looking at me like he had been hit with a stun gun.
And softly he said, "about that dignity and grace...I just hung up with a trauma room doctor. The "button" is in ICU. All I know is he was shot twice."
And bam."..bring on the dignity and grace.
I have always said for years that I would get the "call". My young spirited son was "balls to the wall" forever. "If you are going to be a bear, be a grizzly." His energy and his fearless approach to life made him a candidate for "the call." And now here it was.
"Is he alive?"
"For now, they will call back in two hours. "
Two hours, no info, the call and he is alive. Alive. We get the call and he is alive.
But no details. I swear I felt every second that went by inside of me.
We decided stay calm and assured. We cannot tell the kids anything. And we didn't. We went ahead and cleaned the closet. And we painted. And waited.
A call came. The "button" was good and more details came out.
And finally the call came from the doctor late at night. "He is a trooper."
"Do we need to make funeral arrangements?" No, we didn't.
"Do I need to come out there, I don't sit well, if there is going to be sitting, I won't do well"
"There will be a lot of sitting. I might wait. When you do come, you most likely will need to take quite a few days off, leave of absence, you will need time. There are several spinal cord injuries....."
I have no idea what followed after that. I don't know what the medical terms mean. We asked, "is the cord severed?"
"No" (great, that is great. I mean doesn't the cord have to be severed to cause horrible damage?)
"But that doesn't matter." And a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo we asked, "do we need to build a ramp?"
"I don't know."
I started this blog five years ago when I couldn't handle my oldest son, my pride and joy, my cute as a "button" teen age son and his obsession with drugs and out of control teenage behavior that never seemed to end.
And now, here he was, moving forward, working, trying, pretty much drug free and proud of his accomplishments and he was making his way.
Like most young couples, he and his girlfriend went out with another couple for New Year's Eve. They were walking back to their car, in the cold Denver night when they walked past a group of adults and a little boy.
Words were exchanged. Pretty sure there were some firetruck words and then a walk on by.
As the "button" walked off, one of the guys shot him. Twice. In the back, above the waist. One of the bullets left the "button" and entered the little ten year old. In a bizarre twist, the ten year old was the shooters son.
Our medical ignorance prevented us from understanding that the paralysis started at the neck and independent breathing was absent.
The second miracle came. He was alive and after a few days, he could breathe independently and his hands and fingers had feelings.
For now, the "button" will be confined to a wheelchair. And this is a gift. He is alive. He hasn't lost his gift of gab. He is a grown man with his own ideas and a path he wants to travel.
He will travel. He is strong, a bit scared, stunned and strong. He may never understand how lucky he is that he has use of his hands and fingers and can breathe independently.
It so funny, you never really appreciate electricity until you do not have electricity.
Today, when I was leaving the grocery store, I walked past six wheelchairs, three different types. I can honestly say, as long as I have been shopping there, I have never noticed them. Today I did.
So, here we go. Yes, there is a ton of irony in this story. It has slapped us in the face.
We are going forward with open hearts. We are going to learn more than we already have and we are going to grow. Pretty sure we will argue and get frustrated. Shed some tears, get angry and just wonder "why me?".
I will continue to celebrate life and new beginnings. Not sure if my son will see it this way in the beginning but I understand.
And, I am pretty sure I will have to look toward the sky with closed eyes and ask for more dignity and grace. Amen.
