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

a work in progress

Remember the boy who doesn't drink the koolaid?  You know, the one who got to decide his own religious path regardless of the timeline of the Catholic church?  Yeah, that boy will keep you guessing right up until the witching hour.  No pun intended. 

Last Saturday was confirmation day at the parish where koolaid boy goes to school.  It was the culmination of a couple months worth of prep work by the students and years of prep work by priests, teachers, parents, and God to make sure that these kids get to heaven.  For those who know me, it will come as a shock that the last sentence does not contain even a hint of sarcasm.  It's the honest-to-god truth.  The number one goal of our Catholic school, before education, is to get the children to heaven.  I do not make that up.

Now if it hasn't been clear to you before, I will come out right here, right now, loud and proud, saying that I have some very conflicted feelings about organized religion.  I also have issues with the whole father, son, and holy ghost trinity.  All that does for me is conjure up Michael Landon's head in a cloud with the Highway to Heaven theme song playing.  I get turned off by the dogma, the history of religious persecution, and those good Christian folks who judge me for not believing what they believe.  I have my own beliefs and spiritual path but you will never hear me tell you that you are wrong for what you believe.  To each his own.

I digress. I'm not here to bash religion or the Catholic church.  I am actually here to tell you the pride I felt when the golden boy made his final decision. One that I didn't know until it was all over. After weeks of the required studying, report writing, meeting with the priest, getting measured for robes, and a confirmation retreat, the big C day was fast approaching.  He had been asked to serve the mass along with three other boys, something he does from time to time and enjoys.  Yes, my child is an altar boy.  I admired those in charge for keeping him involved despite his rejection of confirmation (and secretly wondered if they were baiting him).  On confirmation day, I dropped off the still undecided potential confirmee one hour early as required and rushed home to change into something that made me look less like a track coach and more like a church lady. I returned to the church and slid into the end of a pew next to a wonderful family I know who helped me feel comfortable in a place that often makes me feel like an outsider. 

I sat quietly, waiting, absorbing the kind of organ music you physically feel in your chest, and wondering why it smelled like a head shop.  Oh yes, the Catholics love their incense.  There was a lot of commotion and then the congregation suddenly stilled.  The organ started up again and we all stood and turned toward the back of the church. It felt like there was a little bit of magic in the room. I had a coveted end seat so I was able to see the faces of each of my son's classmates as they walked down the aisle in their red gowns and hands folded in front of their hearts. I didn't think once about what rotten little shits I know some of them are.  They all looked like angels. It was a beautiful procession. There were knights dressed up with their feathered hats and swords across their chests.  One altar boy waved the incense. The priest and deacon and some other guys who I didn't know were smiling. Then I saw him.  Walking beside his good buddy.  Carrying a candle and leading the way for Santa Claus...uh.... I mean the Bishop.  My breath caught in my throat and I swallowed hard.  My heart swelled because I could see in him the pride he felt in what he was doing and I know the love he has for his friends walking before him. 

After Santa...aka the Bishop.... aka the Mini Pope waved and smiled to all the children in the congregation, the ceremony began.  I sat in reverence as it went on....and on...and on. The Catholics make sure you get your money's worth.  I joke, but the Bishop is a lovely man who delivered a great message to our kids that was exactly what they needed to hear (if any of them were actually listening and not thinking about the party that was to happen afterwards).  He talked about some of his own blunders.  He told them they will make mistakes and they will fall.  This is part of life and it is not bad or wrong.  It is stupid not to get up and move on and think about your path in life.  He actually used the word stupid. I liked him more for that.

I watched as all the children stood in front of the priest and had their heads blessed with oil and made their final commitment to the catholic church.  They blocked my view of the altar and there was a lot of movement, so as much as I strained my neck, I couldn't see what happened to the altar boys and their foreheads.  Then it was all over and I found my boy at the back of the church. He didn't want to stay for the reception.  I guess the xbox was calling.

We walked out of the church together into the damp November air and I shivered.  I turned to him.  "So, did you do it?" 

And this, ladies and gentleman, is what we stressed and strained and fretted about for almost three months.....

"I guess so" he said. 
"What do you mean?" the pitch of my voice raising just a bit. "Did the bishop bless you with oil?"
"Yeah, I think so" he said as he touched his forehead.

And it was then I decided no more words were needed.  He went home to his xbox and I poured a glass of wine.

Some questions take a long, long time to be answered and maybe they never will be.  And that's really ok with me.