more than words

It's a hard row to hoe.

When we came here the farmers were feverishly working to get in those last rows of corn and beans, late from the relentless spring rains. Knee high by the Fourth of July seemed up in the air. But everything works out in the end, doesn't it? The weather and life are how they are meant to be and really we have only a small amount of control over it. That's what I keep telling myself.

The Fourth of July came and went and we are still here, but the time is getting short. On that first day I made a prediction that I would come to know the people I saw as I navigated this new space. What I could never have imagined is that this would become my new normal. Not in a million years.

A dozen times in these last weeks I sat down to write about my experiences here. The words would not come. I wanted to let them out, but they are stuck somewhere between my head and my heart. A heart and head that are in a never ending game of tug of war. Dragging each other through the mud in a battle where no one is a winner.

I wanted to tell you about the people who stay here and their stories that have kept me captivated like a book I would stay up all night to read. When one story fades, another begins, and each one will forever have a little place in my heart.

I wanted to tell you about the people who work here who I have lunched with, laughed with, prayed with, and let comfort me. And trusted. From the nurse's assistant who offers a hug every day to the janitor I just stood with and watched a nationally publicized trial verdict. These people have the most tremendous capacity for understanding I have ever encountered.

You should hear all about the incredible Bernice, the only female patient in the house, who made me laugh every.single.day with her stories and her ability to say whatever was on her mind. Bernice saved her lunches to feed the birds and squirrels and would share any of her few possessions with you without a second thought. One day she privately told me the story of how she came to be here and I walked away feeling as if she gave me a gift. I cheered on the day she was able to go home, but I miss her and will always wonder how life is treating her.

I wanted you to know the man on the other side of the curtain and how I came to adore him. And how I felt so honored to sit close to him in his final days and that I quietly cried when they took him away. Mr. Clinton with the beautiful soul.

These are all things I wanted you to know. But most of all, I wanted you to know my dad.

And those are all the words I have for now....

first day of the rest of your life

If you are mad, get over it.
If you are jealous, get over yourself.
If you are confused, find some clarity in your gut.
If you are afraid, put one foot in front of the other.
If you are weak, remember that strength comes from within.

Two days ago, I helped my dad get settled in at his last stop here on earth. This place is not the comfort of his own home with his own smells, the familiarity of the rooms in the darkness, or the feel of his old comfortable chair. It is not a beautiful suite surrounded by glorious gardens and highly paid nurses. It is just a cold room at the end of the hall with a little bed at the Veteran's Administration Healthcare System in small town, Illinois.  Building 101, Unit 4, Room 153. My dad is 64 years old. Tomorrow I turn 39. This year has been a million days long.

It's a surreal experience walking through this maze of sterile hallways behind a gurney pushed by two strong men who just climbed out of the back of an ambulance. There's no sense of urgency, but everything moves quickly. There is order and chaos. Questions and answers. You watch it in some kind of strange 3D never duplicated by Hollywood. There is a buzzing in your ears. You find yourself holding your breath. Then you find yourself forcing a deep inhale. Exhale.

This final place is not glamorous, but it is sweet. After sizing him up, you quickly see the doctor may be the kindest man you have ever met. The nurses know exactly what to do. You stretch every muscle in your face to smile bigger than you thought possible because you want them to like you. You want them to like your dad the best.

You struggle to remember every word. You wish you had written down your questions. You take the tissue from the doctor and know this scene has played out in his office a hundred times before.

You speak to every person you see. You know you will come to recognize them and they will recognize you. They will ask "are you his daughter?"  You make friends with the funny, old man on the other side of the curtain. You laugh when he teases that you are pretty, but too old for him. It is a little sweetness in the day that you will never, ever forget.

You struggle not to panic when you sit alone with him and try to go inside his mind. You watch him sleep and pray for peace. You say it over and over in your head. Please, please, please.

You try to put all the snapshots of the day together like a puzzle so that it becomes a reality. You have to figure out how to make it matter. Then you realize it is the only thing that matters. Everything that makes you mad or jealous, confused or afraid doesn't matter. And you know that you will never be weak again. 

A walking, beating heart

Sometimes
When you are a parent
You see your heart beating outside of your chest

It's like some force of nature takes your fragile, life-giving, miraculous heart and personifies it.
And you know, if something happened to it... you would die.

Yesterday, I watched my heart beat all day long.

the new grad

breakfast with the class

 

the slide show with baby pics to make the mamas cry

  

class awards

goodbye to a buddy

a favorite teacher

good friends

twin cousins!

 the band

the grandmas

class clowns

 

 my heart

I wrote it in a letter

I wrote a letter this week.
A real letter. On paper. With an envelope sealed. A stamp carefully placed in the corner.
It was a bet placed on the power of the written word.

I watched it fall into the box with trepidation, for it carried the potential to damage instead of repair.
It held words of pure intentions unwittingly charged with sentiments of pain and sadness, angst and love.
I wondered if it would go up in flames or down in glory.

The truth is it exploded into a million pieces and then floated all around us - me and the one who read it.
I caught a few words in my hand. He trapped one near his heart. We will put it back together if it takes forever.

He said "why couldn't you just talk to me?"

Oh, but I did. Once or twice. But you didn't hear me.
Until you read it in a letter.

And I sing

Ahh, it's the weekend and I'm heading east again
Two hours alone with my thoughts
Embarking with a heavy heart
Relishing the time to clear my mind
I turn the music up loud
The music that weaves through my soul, a thread to my past and to my destination
Old, old songs sung loud without a care

"She kept saying...
'I've never really done this kind of thing before, have you'
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous
And he said, 'Yes I have, but only a time or two'
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous"

I cross the state line
The speed limit sign changes
I step on the gas
And I sing

"Whiskey river take my mind
Don't let her memory torture me
Whiskey river don't run dry
You're all I've got, take care of me"

I cross the Wabash, and for a moment, the green of the treetops bring the record to a screeching halt
The sparkly snow covered branches are long gone
The purple and white of last week are a fleeting memory
A realization that the season has changed
Time doesn't stop for me, or for him
Or for anyone

"Many's the time I have looked in the water
And had no reflection to show
Oh, and many's the time
I have stood at the crossroads
Not knowing which way to go."

The road construction alerts the city is near
My senses heighten and the music is turned down
The sterile brown building rises behind the dirty river
And my heart starts to race as I wonder what I will find inside those walls

An empty parking lot
A revolving door
The ding of elevator doors
I press eight. Always the number eight
It's where the cancer lives

I feel the weight of my legs as I put one foot in front of the other
A long hallway, a deep breath
A tentative peek around the door

And today...today there is a smile for me
I squeeze his hand and in it I find my strength
The dread evaporates
I know this is where I am meant to be

And then I drive
This time to the music of my present
And I sing

"I don't scare easy
Don't fall apart when I'm under the gun
You can break my heart and I ain't gonna run
I don't scare easy, for no one"

the reason for the season

On Thanksgiving Eve, instead of contributing to the most lucrative night of the year for bar owners, the handsome hubby and I snuggled up to catch up on some newspaper reading and watch a movie.  I would say we are lame, but there is nothing lame about waking up on Thanksgiving morning feeling like a million bucks instead of feeling like something died in your mouth after it spent the night boring a hole in your brain with a butter knife. 

Pre-movie-watching, we plopped down with a few days worth of papers we had been too busy to read.  And when I say newspaper reading, I really mean wading through the giant stack of Black Friday ads that land like a ton of bricks on the front step on the day before Thanksgiving.  If you search hard enough, you might find a couple of pages worth of real news. All those ads stress me out but I decided to peruse a few from my favorite stores.  Initially I was pissed because I found the vacuum I just bought was going to be on sale on Black Friday for a hundred bucks cheaper than I paid, but then I realized that getting up at 3 am with the possibility of getting trampled was not worth a hundred bucks to me.  I guess I have a lot to be thankful for. Then I got pissed again when I thought of all the paper wasted to print these ads.

I started to think about how this Black Friday concept and how it gets crazier each year.  Stores are opening at midnight.  The good sales start at 3 am.  The number of BF ads on tv this week rivaled the political ads before the last election.  Then there is Cyber Monday, which come after BF, but online retailers are already sending out sales trying to get a leg up.  What is all of this for?  That is the question I ask myself every year.  And that is the question I asked the handsome husband last night in bed.  "Whose idea was it for the holidays to be about all these presents?"

The handsome hubby didn't even look up from his paper:

"Jesus was a capitalist." 

And that is why I love him.

words cannot express

Just a few reasons I am thankful today......

Peace, love, and thanksgiving,
Laura