Twenty-three Third Graders

I love studying human behaviors.  People watching.  Love it.

When I was a young girl, our family reconnected with my mom's cousin who had been orphaned and then adopted by another family.  Years later, he found his birth family.

Jim had four daughters.  My age or close to my age and I was in love with my new cousins.  We had a blast.

One day before we were supposed to spend the weekend together, we received the call that he had a massive heart attack while getting his "going away for the weekend" haircut.

I had not been to many funerals at this point in my life.  And as I made it through the receiving line at the funeral, I got to my cousin and said this "when I heard about your dad, I was so shocked I almost died." 

Yep.  I said it.  Still remember how stupid I felt.  Still remember.  Almost 40 years later and my stupid comment still stings. 


When I divorced my first husband, I lost friends.  No biggie, goes without saying that this will happen.  What I was not prepared for was the one family that dumped me.  I loved them and loved the kids.  They lived next door to me and my favorite part of the day was the kids knocking on my door to see if I had "any more of those weppermint (they could not say peppermint) patties in the freezer?"  Every day.  Every day they came.  Every day I gave.

When I moved out, no calls, no invites, no return calls, nothing.  When I ran into the mom, (also my friend) at a Jiffy Lube, it was beyond awkward.  I looked at her and said, "what happened with us?"

Her answer will always stump me.  She was a smart lady.  Never was she at a loss for words.  Ever.  And then she answers, "I didn't know what to say to you."

A for Honesty but F for effort. 

My response, "How about hello?  Hello?  Universal, hello. I wasn't divorcing you, just the man I married.  Hello would have been great."

Needless to say, we are not friends anymore. 

So, fast forward to today...a young paralyzed son.

You have two groups of folks, those who cannot wait for the waiter to take the drink order to just let it rip, "how is the button?" or the other group who never even acknowledges that you even have an older son. 

Some people have a knack for saying the perfect sentiment at the perfect moment.  My mom is one of those people.  She can look at somebody in a receiving line at funeral or a wedding and the perfect phrase slips off her tongue like butter. 

I think some folks don't ever acknowledge things because they are afraid they will say something stupid, like I did that night at the funeral home.  Guess it is better not to say anything than to say something so stupid that it stays with you the rest of your life. 

And, those who ask, who just lay it out there, I know they ask because they want to feel better too.  And, I don't mind at all.

And those who ask, also "just do".

Today I went to see a client.  I got there the same exact moment as the delivery truck did.  Guess who won?

So I went to a coffee house to work on my list of things to do and have a cup of java.  There was a group of folks sitting around talking.

Again, I was working.  This group just went on and on and said whatever they wanted like I wasn't even there.

My ears perked up when someone said, "the youth of today isn't worth a damn."  I looked up.  Most of them were looking at me looking at them.  I said nothing.

This time, I really looked at the group.  Motley.  Old, young, seniors, males, females.  Motley. 

"They don't do anything, work, contribute, inspire or aspire. Worthless."

I put my eyes down.  I wondered, what young folk do they know?

They continued and thankfully, I got the text.  Truck was unloaded.  I gathered up my stuff and one of the gentlemen says to me, "do you feel the same about the young people today?"

"No, I sure don't," and off I went.

I swear I heard him ask, "what's up with her?"


Anyway, I thought about the fellow and his comment and how sad it must be for him not to know someone in marching band, boy scouts, studying abroad, a dancer or an athlete.   As the day went by, I forgot about him and his motley crew.

I got back to my office ready to conquer the rest of the day, I sat back in my chair, and I tilted my head.  I saw it immediately, a little piece of paper sticking out from the rug.  I reached down and there was a return address that I had ripped off from an envelope to save. 

Funny, just last week, "this" came up.  The return address from a school in Atlanta. 

Weeks ago, I caught home late.  I was dirty with a capital D.  I smelled like a construction worker.  I had driven to Franklin's daughter's house to paint the nursery for the new baby.  I painted trim, ceilings and walls.  And then hung pictures and decorated for the baby.  I was dirty.  Filthy and tired.

I got home very late and my entire family was in bed.  It was late and dark and I just wanted to sit in my chair with a cup of tea and a clean face.  I sat down with the mail.   There was a huge envelope addressed to us.  Of course I was saving this for last.  I read the other mail, wished for a goat to eat our bills and then opened the large envelope. 

Wasn't sure what I thought would be in there....but I was overwhelmed.  A third grade class, somewhere in the Atlanta suburbs had put the button on the prayer list at school.  In addition, they made cards for the button.

Handmade cards with third grade penmanship and thoughts.  I sat there, late in the night....reading each card.  Crayons, markers, Peace signs, Sponge Bobs and misspelled words....all priceless.

And then there it was, "You can do this.  You have 23 3rd graders praying for you."  Ok, I cracked up.  Laughed hysterically.  And then I wept uncontrollably.  For the first time, I came unglued.  Who knew the 23  anonymous third graders had this type of power.

The next morning, my daughter asks  me, "Mom, did you see the letters? 


"Yes, as I smiled.  I was hoping she didn't notice my swollen eyes from the weep fest the night before. 
Then she says, "You know, there are 23 third graders praying for the button."  We both looked at one another and laughed.  It was our favorite. 

The power of 23 third graders, that you do not even know, is amaze balls.  Twenty three letters of HOPE and encouragement to people they didn't even know.  And twenty three letters of acknowledgement of prayers from them.

I will never forget reading those letters and laughing and feeling so inspired by them.  And I aspire to be like the kind teacher who took this project on.  The value of these letters was priceless.

I need to find that man from today.  He needs 23 third graders praying for him.  He will be unstoppable.



 

"When love isn't enough"

   Years  and years ago, I was engaged to my college sweetheart.  For whatever reason, weeks before the wedding and a move across the country, the nuptials were called off.

   I laid upstairs on my bed, pondering my new life and I heard my mom tell my aunt (who is childless), "the worst ache in your heart is when your child is hurting and there isn't a darn thing you can do to stop the hurt or change anything."

Boy, did my mom get off easy.  I will take a broken engagement any day of the week over a T-4 spinal cord injury that results in paraplegia.

  When the boys struck out looking with bases loaded and were crushed, so was I. 

   Losing a state championship wrestling match to the defending champ by one point, heartbreaking. 

    And that "mean girl middle school afternoon", kicked my heart.

All child's play until January 1, 2017.

If I could rip my lower abdomen off, like a Color-form, and place it on my son, it would have been done. 90 days ago. 

Today I got a postcard in the mail.  It basically told me to get back into the grove and keep blogging.  I laughed. 

The truth is, there is really nothing to write.  There is not anything new.  Except real profound sadness.  Acceptance can be very challenging.  Very.  And sad.  Especially when you are 23.  And you could live another 60 years. 

This weekend marks 6 years that the "hell" began with a son who was obviously confused about so many things. 

He was on THE path.  And again, the path changes.

It takes courage to revamp, regroup, redirect and reinvent yourself.  It takes courage to start over after a divorce.  Loving and trusting again is huge. 

It takes courage apply for jobs after termination.

It takes courage to get out of bed after you bury a spouse or a parent.

It takes courage, strength and I am not even sure what else it would take to get out of bed after you bury a child.

It takes courage and strength and again, I am not even sure I know what it takes to get out of a bed when you cannot move. Do you even get out?

Somebody asked me if I was angry at the shooter.  I don't know.  I am shocked so much by that statement.  I find it ironic that the shooter will most likely get out of prison but my son got the life sentence.  I don't know if I am angry.  He shot somebody he didn't even know for no reason.  You hear about these things but they do not truly penetrate your soul until they affect you.  So I am not sure if I am angry.  Being angry doesn't change a thing.  This is a man who shot somebody, unarmed,  from behind, with intent to kill for no reason.  This really isn't a man, it is a beast and our world is full of them.  Would my anger change anything?  I doubt it.  If my anger resulted in upward mobility, then I would be a raging lunatic. 

I am a fixer.  Mess cleaner-upper.  This is the biggest mess ever sent my way and nothing I do will change the outcome.  Nothing.

All the love in the world will not change a thing.

I think about the parents who are camped out at St. Jude's while children fight to get well.

I imagine their days are pray, breathe, hope, pray, breathe, hope and repeat. 

I think about laying still in a hospital bed, in the middle of the night waking up and looking down at my toes that no longer work and think, "what the hell just happened, how did I get here, how do I get out and when do I leave?" 

I lay awake and night and think those same things about him.  And there is nothing I can do.

I cannot sprinkle magic dust, grow magic beans, turn back time, slay a dragon, cast a spell, kiss a frog or make a call on the Bat phone.

I can just Hope and Pray.  Love isn't enough. 

Mary Tyler and More

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. 

  


 
 

HOPE and a BELLYBUTTON

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. 

 

Happy Birthday Michael.

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. 

A Prayer for Dignity and Grace

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.  

"Where are you Christmas?"

I would consider myself a Tigger.  Up in the morning, a smile in my heart and a bounce in my step.  Happy.

And, once a year this Tigger inside of me turns into an ELF.  Christmas cards, decorations in and out, ribbon (I love ribbon), wrapping paper, Santas, Santas everywhere and packages.  I am a lover of Christmas.

I love to belt out with Josh Groban in my car, "O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining..." and "Angels we have heard on high...".  Carpenters Christmas CD along with Charlie Brown Christmas CD is popped into my CD player the first Monday after Thanksgiving. 

And I love nativity sets.  I love carved ones, small ones, big ones and homemade ones.  I love to see the sweet smile on Mary's face and the little baby Jesus.

This year, instead of Tigger, I am the Grinch at the top of the mountain with a sleigh full of presents, hand up to my ear, waiting to hear the Whos from Who-Ville shriek because there is no Christmas.

I have no Joy.  I have no spirit.  Where is my Christmas?


Maybe I am homesick?  Maybe I miss my babies on Santa's lap?  Instead of a list for Santa, I got a text list from one with the images that were desired, sizes, Cyber Monday price reductions and order of preference.  Ugh.

In the past fourteen days, I have been overcome with "I need cheese dip for the Christmas event," "I need a White Elephant gift", "I need a sweater, garland and an image of Trump for a Christmas sweater contest", "I need to take an appetizer", "we need more lights", "we need to go to the party and take cookies", and "we need to bring pizza to another Christmas party."

When did Christmas become so supersized and so Amazon Primed?  What happened to simplicity?

What happened to getting in your jammies, sitting in front of the television, quietly, with a cup of real hot chocolate watching Rudolph or Frosty and Charlie Brown?  Those three shows were the highlight of your year.  The anticipation of seeing that snowman come down the hill on the razor...amazing.  All of the technology in the world does not bring the magic of those three shows.

When I was in grade school, there were two parties per year, Christmas and Valentine's Day.  Only two.  I considered snagging the Life Saver Story Book in the Christmas grab bag.  I never snagged it.  I saw it in the store today and still admired it.  Six rolls of Lifesavers.  It would have been like getting a bike. Just two parties at school and your birthday.  Celebration abstinence. 

And maybe, after the school party, you might have had a girl scout party but that was it.  Nothing else. 

And we had a Christmas tree.  A real one.  Nothing really special, but we thought it was.  Not a themed tree (not until the late 70's when my mom got orange carpet and decided to use orange balls too).  Handmade ornaments.  A ceramic Santa and the ceramic Christmas tree.  Stockings that had our names in glitter (the only thing I ever owned with glitter) and a wreath. 

 My mom made sure we always had a hair cut, regardless if it was  needed or not for the holiday season and a red mocked turtle neck.  It was amazing how many outfits she could create for us with those red mocked t's.

The Sears and the JC Penny catalogues came and it was kid porn.  Amazing.  Amazing. I bent my little corners down one way and my brother bent them the other...just so we knew what page was admired by whom. 

And then, somewhere in the Christmas Season, my mom would whip out the giant Tupperware container, some wax paper and a zillion jimmies and we knew the baking extravaganza was about to happen.  My mom, my Aunt Judy, my Mamaw and Mona would have the giant bake-off.  One entire day of baking.  No apps, just handwritten recipes, no microwaves, no matching monogrammed aprons, just ovens and mixers.  And jimmies. 

We would get home from school and be in cookie heaven.  Eight different kinds of cookies.  I can still remember the wax paper separating the layers in the Tupperware or in the tins.  And the sugar cookies.  Always cut out in the shape of a Santa with a Sack, holly leaf, bell or stocking.  With jimmies.  I love jimmies.

My mom would pass out those cookies lovingly to the mailman, the milkman (he was so hot) and neighbors who would come to visit. 

When we got home that day, we were allowed two cookies.  Apricot and most likely molasses for me.  Todd always picks Pitzels.  Always.

Christmas eve was always about the big gift exchange and meal (feast) that rotated between our house and my Aunt Judy's.  One person at a time, youngest first, opening presents. No doubt, as a child, this was my second favorite day of the year.  We followed the gift exchange with a meal together and then off to church.  

And then, the entire town lit white bag luminaries before going to church.  Just white bags, sand and candles.  No LED lights or plastic containers, just white bags with a candle against the winter sky.  I loved coming home from church looking at those luminaries lining all the streets in our small town. 

 Christmas day was a few gifts...a light brite, 8 track player, roller skates and matching case...never anything over the top, but the three big things we picked from the JC Penny Wish book.

And then, Christmas day, we went to Mamaws with one toy each.  Just one toy, and a basement with creaky stairs to eat in.  No selfie sticks, instead a KODAK instamatic with the chunky flash cubes. 

It was simple.  Calming. 

Those days after Christmas we ate turkey sandwiches, turkey salad and turkey soup, hot turkey and gravy sandwiches ham sandwiches.
And we built jigsaw puzzles.  As a family.  My mom made real hot chocolate, the recipe on the Hershey Cocoa tin with marshmallows.

Seriously, no cruises, not fifty parties with cheese dips, nothing over the top.  Our house had lights on it and a wreath.  We also had big greeting card that my grandfather made that said "Season's Greetings from the Bahneman's" with a spotlight.  You couldn't see us from space, just from your car.

And, from my frosted bedroom window, I would look out at the star on top of the coal hill in Export, in awe.  I loved that star.  Just a simple star.  There were so many nights, so many Christmas nights that I would look out my window, after scraping the frost on the inside with my fingernail, at that star.  A simple star.  I loved that simple star.

Why aren't things plain and simple like that star anymore?  Am I just getting old?  What is with all the fuss?  Is it social media?  Do we secretly feel pressured to keep everything on such grand scales?  Has Pintrest sucked the simplicity out of everything?  Is a non-themed Christmas tree a thing of the past since the emergence of Pintrest. 

Does everything have to be over the top?

I feel so horrible saying I don't feel joy.  I have my parents, my husband, my kids, a blessed life.  I have been blessed. 

No tree.  No cards, cookies, no spunk.  And where is the Christmas music?  Cannot find it. ugh. "Where are you Christmas, do you remember?"

Tonight Addie said to me, "we need to get into the spirit mom.  We should get a tree."

We drove into the lot and left.  We were not feeling it. 
After I dropped her off at dance, I went back to the lot.  I had to get a tree.  What kind of mother was I to not put a tree up?  So I sucked it up and bought the smallest, skinniest tree on the lot. 

The tree was so small it didn't fit into any of the three tree stands and ended up on the floor.  And of course that triggered one of those wonderful holiday marital disputes.  ugh.  At least we got the holiday fight out of the way. This Christmas tree fight will be one we rehash for years. 

I got up and headed to work today for the Holiday Party at work.  I broke out my Christmas blouse.  No lie, the blouse is 25 years old.   I put it on and out the door I went.

And again, I went through the motions.

It was tonight, on the way home, in a Dollar Tree that jarred my heart.
I went down the aisle looking for gift bags and there he was, an adorable little guy.  Four maybe and adorable.  He was standing where I needed to be and as I approached him, I noticed his cute little guy teeth, dimples and clean tennis shoes.  He was adorable.  I reached for the bags and he says, "Do you know Christmas is coming?"

"Yes I do. What are you getting for Christmas?"

"A baby."  I look up and there is his mom.  "My water will no doubt break in the Dollar Tree because I am very, very, surely 11 months pregnant" mom.  It all made sense.  A baby.

"Well how lucky are you?  A new baby?  How awesome.  I am so happy for you.  You will be a great big brother I am sure of it."

He looks at me, head tilted, ENOURMOUS eyes, (this kid was commercial worthy cute) and says, "that is why we have Christmas.  Love and life.  "

And there, in the Dollar Tree, not on top of the mountain, not with the the sweet voices of Whos, my heart swelled.  Love and life.  Really, it is that simple.  He was my Linus in my Charlie Brown life. 

I looked down at that sweet boy and said, "Merry Christmas and I hope that baby comes soon." 

"Yes mam."

I paid for my bags and got into the car.
I turned the radio on and heard the tale end of my least favorite Christmas song...something about Grandma.

And then, there it was, Faith Hill, "Where are you Christmas?"
No way, hadn't heard it all season and she was belting it out.

I am certain God sent me into that Dollar Tree and put that little angel in my aisle. 

Love and life.  I get that.  It truly is that simple. 

I came home and doctored our little tree and put some love into it.  It is lovely, small but lovely. Simple.

  Kind of like that little guy in the Dollar Tree...my Christmas Angel.

Go Celebrate love and life.





























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