All Frayed Edges and Shades of Red

God Always Trusts Trojan

2011-12-04T00:44:00.000-05:00

“Of course I know how to use a condom, Dad! They taught us in health class last year!"

“Really? And how did you practice this important skill?”

“We used a banana.”

“Great. Show me.”

“Yeah, Dad. Like I just carry condoms with me everywhere I go.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should!”

This is not an unusual conversation in my household. My daughter, Daisy Mae, recently turned 17. She looks older than her years and is, in a mother’s strictly unbiased opinion, a beautiful girl. She has a tendency to attract boys a couple years older than she is, which means that Mr. Bean and I have our work cut out for us, if we intend to get through the next three years without becoming grandparents.

Daisy was preparing to go out with her then-boyfriend, Devon, a 19-year-old who seemed intent on living his entire summer at the beach.

“OK, well, look. Mom and I have to run out for dog food. We’ll be back around 6:00. What time is Loverboy showing up?”

“I don’t even know for sure if we’re going out tonight,” Daisy scowled as she looked at her phone, “he just said he’s stuck helping his mom at the market.”

Mr. and I headed out to get dog food, followed by a stop at Chipotle for a quick bite to eat. Chipotle was a popular spot that night, as we had about a ten-minute wait in line.

As we neared the front of the line, I looked down on the floor and was surprised to see that someone had dropped a wrapped condom.

I nudged Mr. Bean, “Wow, Honey, look! God had left us a condom! Do you think it’s a sign?”

He looked to where I pointed and snickered. “It appears that God wants us to quiz our smart-mouthed kid about her birth control.”

“And Lo, there did appear before them a,” I reached down and picked up the condom, “a Lime-green Trojan Twisted Pleasure, with a reservoir tip, and extra lubrication. And the people took up the condom and declared it good.” I slipped in and out of a bad Charleton Heston voice, giggling like a 12-year-old.

The woman in front of me looked over her right shoulder. “OK, I just want to go on record saying that did NOT fall out of my purse, OK?”

“Duly noted.” Mr Bean and I were laughing hysterically at this point.

When we arrived home, Mr. immediately summoned our daughter.

“Oh, Daisy Mae! Come here, sweetheart! God has brought unto us an opportunity to prove your condom-sheathing skills. Quick; grab a banana and come here!”

Daisy set down the Wii controller and leveled her very best “Really?” gaze at us. “Seriously? You two went out and bought condoms, just so I could prove to you that I know how to put one on? You’re kidding, right?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “God sent us this condom. He delivered it to us at the Chipotle by the mall, so that we could bring it to you! It’s God’s condom. It's a magic condom for all we know. You can’t dis it.”

“Oh for gawd’s sake. What the hell is this? A Twisted Pleasure condom? Jeez! It’s fluorescent green. OK, that’s so wrong. Gimme that banana...”

She tore open the wrapper, grabbed the condom by the reservoir tip….and shook it vigorously until it flapped about like a limp wind sock. She looked at the banana. She looked at the condom. “Shit. I did that wrong. Oh, whatever!” She started to drop it, but then looked at it again and started to laugh. “Man, that would make, like, the best water balloon EVER.”

The condom, as is happened, was capable of holding an entire pint of water, with room to spare. Daisy spent about 45 minutes playing with her new water balloon on the back porch until it finally burst.

“OK, I will NEVER, EVER believe any guy who tells me that the condom is too small for him to wear. That thing would have fit a horse!”

Lesson 121. Completed.

The next afternoon, I dropped Daisy off at the beach, where she was meeting Devon. “Hey; have fun, Baby. Behave yourself.”

She looked back at me as she got out of the car. “Yeah, it looks like I won’t have a choice about that, as clearly, I don’t know how to put on a condom!” She winked.

I love you, Daisy Mae.

You Can't Run Away on Bath Day.

2011-12-02T18:06:00.002-05:00

Any of you who have ever been to my house know that I have the biggest, hairiest dog in the universe. His name is Max. He’s a Scottish Deerhound. He stands 34” high at the shoulder. He can reach all but the middle five inches of my kitchen counters without any of his four legs leaving the ground. Despite his advanced age (he’s 90 years old, in dog years), he can still rear up on his hind legs and take things off the top of my fridge. I have witnessed this. He’s huge.

In addition to being physically tall, Max is heavy. And covered, head to toe, in a double coat of five-inch long wiry hair. Imagine having to conduct all of your daily requirements while wearing a Sasquatch suit; now you know what Max goes through. I love him. But he can get pretty fragrant sometimes. Oh, and he’s arguably the most neurotic dog in the universe.

In the summer time, we can put him in cross-ties and use a bucket of soapy water and the garden hose to get him clean. Once the weather gets cold, this is no longer an option. None of the local groomers have dog wash stations that can safely accommodate a canine the size of Mike Tyson with the temperament of Woody Allen. He’s too heavy to lift in and out of the bathtub and besides, it’s too slippery in there for him.

That leaves us with the shower stall in the laundry room/mud room. Which is large enough for him to stand in, if he doesn’t move too much. With the door closed, there’s scarcely enough room for me to get in there with him, and in order not to make a bigger mess of things than necessary, I am forced to join the dog au naturel for bath time.

This was how we began last Wednesday Bath Time Adventure. The soaping up and scrubbing part went well enough; he stood patiently while I wetted all his fur, lathered and scrubbed all his various dignified and undignified doggy parts. It was when we got to rinsing and brushing that things began to come apart. Deerhound fur is a curious substance. It clings to deerhound skin in a very tenuous manner, dislodging itself under with even the scarcest effort. As I began to brush out Max’s fur, large clumps of it came off of Max, attaching itself to the shower tile walls, the floor…and to me. Within minutes, I was disturbingly festooned with large expanses of thick, dark fur clods, until I began to wonder if this was what felt like to be Sean Connery’s back.

I encountered a few mats that needed cutting out, and realized I had forgotten the scissors on the kitchen table. I released Max’s head and he reacted as any self-respecting dog would: He shook from head to tail, releasing a shower of extra fur that covered all my remaining exposed skin in a deerhound patina. By now, I was well and thoroughly short of patience. “It’s a good thing I love you, you hairy, stinky beast.”

My husband and daughter were out running some errands, so I was alone in the house and couldn’t yell for the scissors. I looked at Max. “I’m going to get the scissors. Be a good boy. Don't. Move.” Shutting the shower door, I emerged out into the kitchen: nude, sopping wet, covered in hunks of dog fur, half of my hair sticking straight up from where Max had rubbed shampoo into it, and wearing a murderous expression. I can only imagine I resembled Helena Bonham Carter half-morphed between Belatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter and Ari from Planet of the Apes.

It was then that I discovered my family had arrived home some time while I was washing the dog.

My daughter let out a horrified scream. “Jeeezus, Mom!” She fled the room.

My husband unsuccessfully hid his desire to burst out laughing. “Um…snicker…well…snerk…So…how’s the bath going?” He covered his mouth and snorted; his eyes started to water. “You, um, wear the hot-n-hairy look well.” He was now laughing openly.

From the other room I could hear my daughter yelling, “Gawd! I’m going to need brain bleach now!”

My voice came out as a strangled growl. “Just give me the fucking scissors.”

By now, Max had dislodged the shower door from its track and was sliding around the laundry room floor, where he upended the cat box and coated his recently-clean legs in used cat litter.

I returned to the shower, re-washed and re-brushed Max's legs, finished drying and grooming his fur and released him, now joyous and bouncing, back into the house. I got myself cleaned up and collected all of the dog fur. I intend to card and spin it; by winter’s end I should have knitted two schnauzers and a wire-haired dachshund. My husband and daughter can wash them.

I hope there’s no more mud until summer.

Dear Bug

2011-11-27T16:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Bug,

We've managed, somehow, to make it though another year without you here to help guide the sun and make it a little brighter. Hard to believe.

A lot has changed. Daddy is about to graduate and start his PhD program; I think he's finally realized that his moving on is about honoring you, not forgetting you. Daisy Mae is working hard at being a Sophomore, and busy with her friends and studies and getting ready to move on to her associates program. I'm just...well, I just keep on keepin' on. It's normal life, and yet there is always the knowledge that something enormous is missing. Nothing is the same, and yet everything continues on.

We had a regular Thanksgiving dinner this year. It was nice, but I think we all missed you a lot. I was pretty sad after everyone went home. And on Friday, I spent some time in prayer and thought, really focusing on your life and what it meant to me. I think your daddy and I are going to set aside the day after Thanksgiving for you, rather than whatever day the calendar says. That way, it's always your day, and it's never a work day or Thanksgiving. Hope you are OK with that.

It's been a long time since I wrote to you here. I think for a long time, I spent so much time here focused on missing you that once that wasn't the focus of all my attention, writing about other things seemed trite. Maybe a little bit dishonest. I know you want us to move on and be happy. And while we all have started to do that, it just seems strange to write about it. I need to do it, though. So much has happened. So many changes.

I miss you. I miss your sweet smile, your goofy laugh, the way you filled a room with all your noise and presence. I miss holding your hand in the car. I miss our bedtime conversations. I miss listening to you sing songs in the bathroom (I'm singin' to the poop!). I miss listening to you do the Soba chant (So-ba! So-ba! So-ba!) I even miss hearing about the countless adventures of all your imaginary friends. I look at your pictures, and I find myself surprised, always, that there are no new ones. I still sometimes gasp with the realization that you are gone, that you are not coming back. I know you are close by all the time, but I wish I could have more of you than the ephemeral brushes of your spirit against mine. I want more. I want my baby back.

And yet, I am still so grateful for the mark you left on my life. Without you, I would never have learned how to love this deeply, this fiercely. I would never have learned to take the time to see the good in every person I meet. I would never have learned to see the good in myself. I would never have learned to love, in equal measure, the good and the bad, the triumphs and setbacks in life. To, as my friend Cathy says, appreciate the beautiful catastrophe that is life. To know, absolutely, that there is something beyond the mortal coil.

Sweet Bug, thank you. Thank you again for the beauty that was, and remains, your presence in my life. You will always stay in my heart.

Corn Tortillas!!!

2011-08-21T23:37:00.003-04:00

Tap, tap, tap…is this thing on?

So it’s been awhile since I’ve been here. And there’s a reason for that. Because most of the major happenings in my life over the last several months have had to do with work, and as we know, blogging about things that happen at work is an almost sure ticket to blogging as a full-time job. So I’ve elected instead to not blog. But we’re now in week 22 of Stuff We Can’t Talk About On The Internet, and I’m tired of not blogging anymore, so I’m going to try something a little different.

We’re going to indulge in a Food Post.

Really, all of this is my girlfriend Christy’s fault. Last week, she posted a blog entry on my Facebook page about a woman who was making flour tortillas. Christy thought this woman was all perky and funny and said, “I want you to blog about cooking. You haven’t blogged about cooking since your potato salad recipe. By the way, a very charismatic gay friend of mine made ten pounds of your potato salad for Independence Day this year because of your blog. Ten Pounds. That’s power, I tell you. So tell me a story about cooking.”

So here’s the problem: I really am not fond of flour tortillas. They are cellophane-wrapped bits of dubious foodstuff that invariably become gummy and unappetizing in one’s mouth and every time I eat them, a little blob of white goo gets stuck in a crevice between my right incisor and the adjoining tooth. That, plus, Christy is one of the many members of my circle of friends who has recently discovered (or decided) they are gluten intolerant. I call them my Gluten Heads. And flour=gluten.

Corn tortillas, on the other hand, are delightful bits of food-wrapping goodness. Delicate in consistency, slightly sweet, small enough to cause one not to super-size the fillings, they are to flatbread what truffles are to mushrooms.

So I set out to find a good corn tortilla recipe. I thought this might be a challenge. Given that one rarely finds corn tortillas in the grocery store, and that even Mexican restaurants often do not feature them, I have lived under the impression that preparation of a good corn tortilla was complicated, and therefore restricted to the expertise of the Mexican Grandma-types who can be found in the windows of Old-Town San Diego eateries. I have often equated the preparation of corn tortillas to be akin to Cuban Cigars that are “Rolled on the Thighs of Island Women”, as the stalls in Key West would have you believe.

Lo and Behold, the morning after I embark on this journey to find The Perfect Corn Tortilla Recipe, this month’s Fine Cooking arrives on my doorstep. The feature this month involved Corn Tortillas, and the festooning thereof. Quelle chance! I eagerly ripped into the magazine, focusing on the recipe as though I had uncovered the secret to the perfect Krabby Pattie. I zeroed in on the ingredient list to learn that the ingredients were:

Masa Harina (that’s corn flour, to the rest of us)

Water

Salt.

Now if you’re like me, you will stop at this point and look at the back of your computer to see if there are some words that may inadvertently have slipped off the screen and slid behind your desk. I assure you, they have not.

Being trained in the sciences, I have been forced over the years to take a statistics class or two. Because of this, I am able to make the following calculation. Corn has an 87.94% chance of encountering both water and salt without any human intervention whatsoever. With this in mind, let’s revisit the ingredient list:

1) Corn

2) Stuff that exists in Corn’s natural habitat

In other words, Corn. That’s it. Just…corn. Seriously? How could I pass this up?

Challenge #1 is finding good quality Masa Harina. I live in the epicenter of rural whiteness in north-central Ohio. So I drove toward Lorain, which has the largest Puerto Rican population outside of Puerto Rico. They also have some of the most bitchin’ foodstuffs in the universe. The go-to brand for Masa Harina is Maseca

This is the stuff.

I set the iPod to play a little Rodrigo y Gabriella, and headed for the kitchen. Following the recipe on the bag (the Fine Cooking recipe called for, like, eight pounds of masa and a truckload of water. I wanted to make about a dozen tortillas), mix 2 cups of masa with a half teaspoon of salt and 1 ¼ cups of warm water. Use your hand to knead it together for a minute or two. You want to make sure it holds together but not let it get too wet.

Here’s a good test of the water content: Roll about two tablespoons of the mixture into a ball (it’ll be about 1 ½ inches in diameter). Now flatten it slightly. If it forms deep crevices in around the edges, it’s too dry. If it feels wet to the touch, it’s too wet. Think Play-Doh.

This batch should make about 16 dough balls. Cover the dough balls with a damp towel until you’re ready for them

Now, the masa bag and the magazine both recommend using a tortilla press for this next part. I have a very well-appointed kitchen but do not have a tortilla press. I do, however, have a really big heavy cast iron skillet.

This frying pan weighs about 192 pounds.

Place a dough ball between two pieces of plastic wrap and flatten with your tortilla press. Or if you’re me, whap it really hard with the skillet. I sent cats flying to the four corners of the globe with this one!

Alas, the result was a bit too small and too thick for my taste, so I fell back to my trusty old rolling pin for the finish. The results were somewhat less than perfectly round, but still quite serviceable.

I used my pancake griddle for the cooking. You can also use a good heavy frying pan. No need to grease; they don’t stick. I set mine for about 325-350. That’s solidly medium-high for those of you on the stovetop.

Remove the plastic wrap and slap the tortilla down on the cooking surface. The slapping thing ensures that no bubbles form under the tortilla. I cooked mine for about a minute to a minute-and-a-half per side. It’s done when it starts to dry out a little and maybe gets a bit brown.

That’s it. Cover them up with a damp towel until you are done with the rest of the tortillas, or until you develop tendonitis in your wrist from wielding that big heavy frying pan and all that tortilla-slapping.

Daisy Mae proclaimed them too sweet and grabbed one of the flour bombs out of the fridge. What do kids know anyway? I thought they were delicious, and they seemed to have the right balance of flexibility and strength. I’ll make them again. Especially now that I know how stupid easy they are.

Corn. Who knew?

Whew! That was, like, three entries in one, now wasn’t it?

Next time, we’ll explore white shrimp pizza with sun dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts.

Death of a Laptop: A Tech Support Tale in Haiku

2011-06-01T16:01:00.000-04:00

One of the mixed blessings of keeping a public blog is that, while you can share your thoughts and activities with the world, your thoughts and activities are shared, well, with the world. Which is fine, except when the main focus of your thoughts and activities is stuff going on at work. And your colleagues know where you live. Then it's best to keep your mouth shut. Hence my recent silence. Hopefully, we can resume our normal programming soon. Because seriously: I love what I do and I like to share positive stuff when it happens.

In the meantime, my trusty laptop decided to be not so trusty yesterday, which is to say that I re-booted it at 11:15 yesterday morning because it was being "tweaky" and it puked all over my desk and refused to work for the rest of the day.

Two things to remember about me: 1) I'm a geek; and 2) I'm a geek.

Being a geek, I engaged my tech support in the geekiest way possible, which is to say that I emailed my favorite tech support guy with the following support ticket explanation, and the ensuing conversation over the last 27 hours. In Haiku.

All that which functioned
Now abides, silent, dark
config.sys? Vanished

A screen, blue as sky
Returns again and again
I search for answers

Access to email
So long taken for granted
Now? Prayers are needed

Diagnostics fail
No match for this new problem
Behold! A doorstop!

Flaunting policy
My Carbonite back-up is
worth its weight in gold

Leaving town Tuesday?
Off to great adventures, but
your laptop won't be.

So I'm off to see if I can beg an extra machine off a friend for the next two weeks, scrub it, re-load all my files, and see if I can get it working from the road. Awesome.

It's that pesky magnet in your butt, actually.

2011-04-13T11:15:00.002-04:00

I have another confession to make. Yeah; I have a lot of confessions. I'm like that.

Apparently, I am possessed of a strong and perhaps singular ability to attract graduate students that crash and burn half-way through their programs. Of the seven I've had in the last four years, three of them have just fallen apart at the seams, and either dropped out and returned to the lab, flaked out and returned to Eastern Europe, or vanished without a trace.

I just got two new ones about three months ago. Lost another one already. I called it the minute she walked in the door.

The kids who do well in programs like this (our program combines a fairly rigorous science curriculum and an even more rigorous business curriculum) are kids who have had to struggle in their science programs to date. The reason is simple: They're not scientists. They went into science because they were good at it and their parents wanted them to become doctors. They struggle in science because their minds are wired for something much less specialized, much more risky, and altogether more...integrated...than lab work. More Entrepreneurial.

Entrepreneurs are, at their core, absolutely comfortable with failure. If you don't fail at least twice for every success you have as an entrepreneur, you haven't pushed yourself hard enough. If we're training entrepreneurs, we need to get them used to not having all the answers, to living with uncertainty and with the idea that even your mentor can't predict with certainty if your answer will actually be the right one.

The kids who have struggled with science -- with the rigidity, the memorization, the rules, the laws, the concept that there are potentially immutable constants -- they fight against rules. They are comfortable with failure. They embrace risk. And frankly, because they have learned to fight with absolutes and "right" and "wrong" they have, by definition, learned to fall on their faces without breaking their noses...or at least they've learned to make a crooked nose look attractive.

Some of the kids who walk through this door have never failed at anything in their lives. Further, because Science (!) has "rules" and "laws" associated with it, it's fairly easy to spot when you're just plain wrong about something, at least at the Undergrad level. All these rules and laws get turned on their heads in graduate school, but the science programs sort of ease you into that whole concept. Not so with an entrepreneurship program. There is a mindset that says, "I'm good a science...brilliant, really. In fact, I'm just really, really frickin' smart overall. And these business types are morons, you know? So if I can just study the rules and theory of business, I can take all these smarts and go off and follow the formula and make a ton of money." Which turns out all to be complete bullshit, if you're dealing with human elements like caprice and greed. This rocks. their. world.

Which still doesn't explain why the over-achiever types all end up working for me. Perhaps because at that age, I got the same headache-inducing wake-up slap. And while I stumbled and fell, I also learned to get up and dust off and move on to better things.

I'm happy to take these kids on; to help them stand up and dust off. Does the dean sense this and deliberately send these kids to me? Do I drive them to the brink? Maybe I'm boot camp. But seriously, I just need some competent help that resists the urge to have a nervous breakdown when things go wrong.

Welcome to Mayberry!

2011-03-31T09:15:00.002-04:00

OK, having recovered from last night's bout of self-loathing (ok, not really, but I'm putting on a braver face today), let's move on to something more upbeat.

My husband's aunt posted this from the local paper It's the police blotter.

Lagrange and Grafton are the two communities next to mine. But these could have come from my neighborhood. Be forewarned...we do not look kindly at people who poke dead squirrels with a stick.

Personally, I'm interested in knowing who lives next to North Park and sits in their front window all day with binoculars. Because you know that's what's happening...

LaGrange police

Thursday, March 17
7:27 p.m. — 100 block Keywood, unruly juveniles were slamming a man’s grill lid and knocking on the back glass door to his residence.
Friday, March 18
7:40 p.m. — Commerce Park, a couple juveniles were seen playing with an air soft gun in the woods. They were told to leave the property.
Saturday, March 19
1 a.m. — 300 block S. Center St., Convenient Food Mart, the doughnut delivery man reported that the box he leaves doughnuts in had several business cards, receipts and medication. An employee said the items belonged to her and must have fallen out of her pocket into the box.
3:15 p.m. — 190 block Railroad St., a woman called the police because her 10-year-old son was being unruly. According to the woman, all of her children were cleaning the house, but he was not listening to her. The officers were called back to the residence at 4:15 p.m. because the 10-year-old was then arguing with the other children.
10:53 p.m. — South Center Street, Adam McGregor, 20, Grafton, was charged with driving under suspension and illumination of rear registration.
Monday, March 21
5:15 p.m. — Commerce Drive, a purse was found outside. The lady, who resides in Medina County, said it was stolen in November 2010 while she was in Strongsville. The purse was returned to her.
Wednesday, March 23
2:49 a.m. — East Main and Railroad streets, Jason Murphy, 23, North Ridgeville, cited for failure to reinstate and illumination of rear registration.

Grafton police

Tuesday, March 15
10:28 a.m. — 1100 block State St., a woman advised that she could hear her neighbor in a nearby apartment yelling and screaming at her 5-year-old son. She reported that she always hears her yelling at him through her walls. An officer spoke with the mother who said her son would not go to school that day and that he was fine.
5:01 p.m. — 400 block Main St., a woman wanted to speak with an officer in reference to her ex-husband who may show up at her place of employment. She stated that she was in court with him earlier that day. There is no restraining order against him and she was afraid for her safety when she left work.
Wednesday, March 16
7 p.m. — North Park, a resident reportedly saw a juvenile at the park who had a stick and was poking smaller kids on the swings. The officer spoke with the boy, who promised to behave himself.
Friday, March 18
6:12 p.m. — North Park, a resident saw juveniles playing with a dead squirrel on a stick. The juveniles were advised to not play with dead squirrels on a stick.
Saturday, March 19
3:22 p.m. — North Park, a resident advised he saw a juvenile with a pocket knife at the park. The juvenile was advised to keep the pocket knife in his pocket.
9:02 p.m. — 1000 block Wellfleet, a vehicle was egged.
Sunday, March 20
8:30 a.m. — 1000 block Plymouth, vehicles and homes were egged.
Monday, March 21
6:59 p.m. — 700 block Main St., an officer saw people throwing items out the front door. They advised the officer that they were spring cleaning.

My own personal pound book.

2011-03-30T23:23:00.000-04:00

My friend Alison forwarded a link on my Google Reader today. It's about a woman who cannot see the beauty that she is and it's dedicated to all the rest of the women out there who cannot see their own beauty. I look at the picture this woman posted and I see an absolutely lovely woman with beautiful hair, a beautiful smile and a lovely, joyful daughter. She can't see any of it. I totally get it. Her story speaks to me and my fragile self-esteem in a deafening way right now.

There is a part of me who wants to upload my photo so I can get all these affirmations and ride all this positive wave with the rest of them. But I won't. I can't.

Because right now, when I look in the mirror, I'm not liking what I see. I see a woman who looks, literally, 10 years older than she did 18 months ago. I have dark circles that won't go away. I had a head full of curly, thick hair before Kes died; fully half of it is gone, to the point where I'm wondering if I need to try medication to make it come back. I have crow's feet on my crow's feet. I need to lose 40 pounds, and for the first time ever in my life, I have fat around my tummy. I have enough grays that I actually NEED to color my hair now. People used to comment on my eyes; they have always been my best feature. Anymore, there is no sparkle there. I look in that mirror and I see a woman who looks exhausted, weary, haggard.

And I don't like it.

I am angry at the universe. I am angry that some insidious DNA mutation not only took the joy from my heart, but that it saw fit to leave the scars of that insult on my face for all to see.

Maybe in time, things will look different. Maybe, as my heart heals (IF my heart heals), the sparkle will come back.

Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But not now.

Chapter 9: In which we learn to hold back.

2011-03-14T10:22:00.002-04:00

March 12, 2011

There is a little girl, around eight years old, sitting on her mother’s lap across from me at the Philadelphia gate at Reagan Airport. She has shoulder-length brown hair. She is wearing leggings with Hello Kitty on them, along with a belt that belongs on a child five years her senior. She’s at that age where her body is starting to get away from her, and her arms and legs hang off her mother’s lap at awkward angles. She doesn’t notice. She is comfortable. Her mother patiently arranges the girl’s limbs against her own, not wanting to move her, because she knows that the day when her daughter won’t want to share her lap is imminent.

The girl is playing a Nintendo DS. Cookin’ Mama, which was one of Kiersten’s favorite games. The sound of the game is tearing my heart out. I keep hearing the music and the ridiculous Japanese approximation of English as she finishes each step in the recipe. I close my eyes and I can almost feel Kiersten playing, snuggled in the next chair, her head resting on my shoulder.

She sat like that the day she died, as we waited for Steve’s car to be finished at the Ford dealership. She was curled up in the chair next to mine, her body resting easily against me. I kissed the top of her head several times, inhaling the smell of her. I can recall the smell of her hair now. I couldn’t do that in the first several months. I can also recall the exact feeling of the warmth of her body on my right shoulder as she leaned against me. That memory isn’t as painful as it used to be. It doesn’t make me want to scream and cry. But it still hurts like hell, and my shoulder suddenly feels cold for the lack of her warmth.

Looking across at the little girl with the DS, I find I want to say something to her. I want to tell her how much Kiersten loved her DS and how much she loved that game. I want to tell her mother not to take for granted the casual ease of her daughter’s body against her own. I want to tell her to give her daughter extra hugs and kisses every night. To never let her forget for a single day to let her baby know how much she’s loved.

I can’t do that, of course. People become nervous when you approach them in airports and discuss their children. It’s an instinctive mother reaction to shy away, to put your children behind you. And starting the conversation means I have to finish it, which means I have to tell them a story about how all that casual ease can be taken away in a heartbeat. It isn’t fair to the recipient. But there’s a part of me that wants to tell the story anyway. There’s a part of me that still, even now, wants to walk up to every parent I see and look them in their eyes and tell them that my baby, my heart and soul, is dead. There's a part of me wants each of them to hurt for my loss.

It’s selfish. I know that.

I know that, which is why I remain quiet and pull my jacket over my shoulder and listen and remember.

Priorities

2011-03-08T16:15:00.001-05:00

Charlie Sheen, Age 47, is all over the news because he's a lesbian rock-star warlock from Mars celebrity drug addict.

Andrew Wilfahrt, age 31, Brian Tabada age 21, Rudolph Hizon age 22, Chauncy Mays age 25, Christopher Stark age 22, David Fahey Jr age 23, Kristopher Gould age 25, and Nicholas Alden age 25 are members of our armed services who gave their lives this week with little or no media mention outside of their home towns.

May they rest in peace.

For each of their deaths, there are 10 more service members who lay wounded in military hospitals and who may never regain their quality of life.

May we give them the support and attention they deserve.

The Sin of Rationality

2011-03-06T22:30:00.000-05:00

"Seriously; the rest of us don't know what to do with the rest of them."

My friend, Christy, is a centrist Republican. She was referring to the far right political fringe element, which she openly and unapologetically calls "tea-baggers".

Christy believes the free market will generally take care of most of our economic issues; she believes there is nothing wrong with prayer in schools; she believes that abortion should be safe and legal but not necessarily free and easy. She also believes the social safety net is not a bad thing, so long as it doesn't become a crutch, but that much of the work of that safety net can be accomplished by strong communities that take care of their own, not by the Federal Government with lots of intermediaries. She thinks unions have their place in protecting the rights and wages of those who would otherwise be unfairly treated by their employers, but believes that there is a lot of corruption and waste at the highest levels of some of them.

In short, she thinks like about 70-80% of everyone in this country.

So why is it that the 20-30% minority of this nation, who represent the far right and far left fringes of our social and political beliefs, seem to be setting the agenda for the rest of us?

A friend of mine, who makes his living promoting a lot of capitalist ideals, cautioned me to back-pedal the other day when I called him out for being a "lefty". "I'm a closet lefty. Closet. Christ, you keep talking like that and they'll think I'm a goddamn bleeding heart like you."

"Yeah, C; the clue bus? Leaving the station. Dude, you have four advanced degrees, you serve on a board that takes care of under-privileged kids, and your mom is a lesbian. Ain't no 'closet' about it."

Despite the fact that we were on a private phone call, he shushed me. "How do I maintain my credibility with my co-workers if they know my politics?"

So what gives here? We have Republicans who clearly feel a lack of comfort with the direction of their party. We have fiscal conservatives who are afraid to reveal they are social liberals, because a small and extremely vocal minority tell them they must be "in for a penny, in for a pound."

What he heck ever happened to rationality? Why is it sinful to be in the middle, to accept some of the wisdom of both sides and to reflect the needs, wants and aspirations of the vast majority among us?

Have we lost our minds?

Note to self:

2011-02-16T16:09:00.004-05:00

Strom Thurmond and Strobe Talbott are NOT the same person!!

Colleague: "I think we can get Strobe Talbott to deliver the keynote for this session"

Me: "Strobe Talbott? Didn't he die, like 10 years ago? Something to do with can of Pepsi and pubic hair?"

Colleague: "Um...no. That was Strom Thurmond. Similar, but...no; I take that back. Not similar at all. You deserve a head slap for that."

Sheesh. I'm such a moroon sometimes.

Welcome, Comrades!

2011-02-15T13:52:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'll admit it: Sometimes, I like to check my blog stats to see who has stopped by and whether there are any new faces out there. (I've Googled myself a few times too, just to see what the world is saying about me behind my back. Call it narcissism if you want, but I just like to know, OK? Don't judge me. Especially as you sit there picking your toes at your desk because you think no one is looking. Because believe me, they are.)

So anyway, the last 48 hours has brought a flood of hits (like, 25 or so a day -- I'm not all that popular, so 25 is a flood) from a bunch of IP addresses across the Russian Federation. And not all from the same city.

So hey there! If you're in Mother Russia, drop a comment so I know you're not all a bunch of crazy stalker-types, looking to steal my identity or anything, OK?

Thanks.

xoxo

Bean

Act Now! Operators are standing by!

2011-02-09T13:51:00.002-05:00

I got an email today that offered me a chance to become a Certified Strategic Negotiator!

They weren't making this offer to just anybody; oh no. They were only making this offer to people they thought could pay the $595 a piece for the seven classes you have to take in order to be a Certified Strategic Negotiator! Imagine how honored I felt. I've never seen a CSN. But I can be the first on my block to be one!

I asked myself several questions in follow up:

1) Do I get to don a cape and a blue spandex top emblazoned with an "N" (for 'Negotiator Girl') when I'm done? Do they make Spandex tops that don't reveal your muffin top?

2) If I don't complete the coursework, do I just become a Non-Strategic Negotiator? Or perhaps a Strategic Doormat?

3) If I convert to Judaism, then take the coursework in Negotiating in the Arab World, am I then capable of crafting my own solution to the Middle East crisis, beat myself down on terms over occupation in the Gaza and then sign my own accord?

4) What if I'd rather be a Tactical Negotiator? Do I get my own set of hostile takeover term sheets and a rocket launcher?

Clearly, I am going to have to take this exciting new offer under due consideration...

In response to BHD

2011-02-08T12:03:00.002-05:00

I posted the following comment in response to a blog post by my dear friend, C, over at Blue Heron at Druid Labs.

"Our ability to acknowledge, yet forgive, wrongdoing in others is inextricably linked to the ability to see hope and forgiveness in ourselves and by extension, to our ability to love and be loved -- in short, to our very humanity. It doesn't mean that we have to become doormats. It doesn't mean that we have to accept abuse and neglect when we recognize it. It doesn't mean that we have to welcome the perpetrators of wrongdoing into our homes and our lives. It means, simply, that we recognize the right and ability of each and every human on Earth to love and be loved. The capacity each of us has to be better than we are."

Forgiveness and compassion allow us to rise from adversity and to accept the love of others in our lives. It is absolutely essential to our survival as healthy humans.

My comment only addressed half of BHD's question, however.

In some respects, forgiveness and compassion are the easier part of the equation when it come to how we can both hold wrongdoers accountable and still treat them with compassion. Those who would point to the story of the crucifixion of Christ as an example may be tempted to say that forgiveness and compassion trumps all -- that we are unfit to judge others and to mete out punishment, and that only the divine can judge the actions of humans. We may similarly point to the Buddhist tradition to justify wimping out on holding others accountable. If we hold ourselves the lowest, how can we judge?

If you examine the teaching of Christ and the Dalai Lama in more detail, however, neither instructs us to tolerate abuse and wrongdoing. Christ called upon sinners to "Go forth, and SIN NO MORE". The Dalai Lama says of the balance between compassion and accountability:

"It is not enough to be compassionate. You must act. There are two aspects to action. One is to overcome the distortions and afflictions of your own mind, that is, in terms of calming and eventually dispelling anger. This is action out of compassion. The other is more social, more public. When something needs to be done in the world to rectify the wrongs, if one is really concerned with benefiting others, one needs to be engaged, involved."

We have a system of social justice that punishes criminal activities. But that system does not address the individual wrongs we perpetrate on each other and ourselves. Part of loving each other, and part of loving ourselves is to acknowledge wrong actions, and to recognize and choose right actions. To reject wrong action is not a lack of acceptance or forgiveness. It is the ultimate act of love, and self-love, to insist upon right action and right thought.

I believe we can forgive, recognize the humanity and the ability to change in every living being, and still not expose ourselves to wrong action. It is OK to say, "I forgive you. I feel human love for you. But I have not seen a change in your action, and I will not allow you to damage me further. Until you can demonstrate to me that you will 'sin no more', I cannot allow you in my life. Be well." Our challenge is to mean every. single. word.

On Venturing Outside the Safety Zone.

2011-02-01T22:27:00.001-05:00

"A ship in port is safe; but that is not what ships are built for. Sail out to sea and do new things"

-- Admiral Grace Hopper

RADM Grace Murray Hopper has always been an inspiring character for me, and a source of practical wisdom. One of my FB friend posted the quote above on her status the other day and I was reminded of the lessons Admiral Hopper's life taught me in my earlier years.

Born during an age where women were not expected to learn math and science, let alone use them, Grace Murray Hopper not only learned them, but bent them to her own will to help design the computer language that would later become COBOL, to attain the rank of Commodore (later renamed Rear Admiral) in the US Navy, and at the age of 79, to retire from the Navy to become a senior consultant to Digital Equipment Corporation. She was a tireless educator, an engaging speaker and an inspiring leader among women. She. Was. Awesome.

She is widely credited with discovering the first computer bug, a literal moth that had lodged itself in a Navy processor relay in 1947. She's also credited with being the first to utter my second-favorite phrase:

"It is easier to ask forgiveness than to obtain permission."

She pushed the envelope. She challenged those around her to be more than they thought they could be. She refused to be ordinary. She lived her life with genuine passion.

She also, as nearly as I can tell, refused to compromise her non-negotiables.

This last year, as you all know, has been a period of change and painful self-assessment for me. The "rules", as I knew them, all have been squarely up-ended. I am left with the reality that my life is NOT going to be what I expected. That means, of course, that it's time to take a more active role in determining where it goes from here. I got reminded of what it feels like to get burned last week. But the thing about getting burned is that it means you have a fire under you. And that may not be a bad thing.

I'm getting a chance to operate in a more strategic role -- my "Happy Place" -- at work. And my boss, having watched me all last week, is finally backing off and just letting me do it. I forgot how good it feels to be doing what I'm naturally good at, instead of having to make myself good at whatever needs to be done at a given time. It's riskier -- screwing up at this could cost me my job, and I'll take others with me if I fail. But it's a damn sight more satisfying than plodding along in the safer task-related world I've been living in for the last several years.

Time to cast off.

Boy, Did I Need To See THIS Today

2011-01-27T18:37:00.002-05:00

Brene Brown on the power of vulnerability, from TED.

To Mak, who had the wisdom to turn me (and others) onto this: Thank you. It's like you crawled inside my head and pulled out the very thing that's holding me back. I respect you so much and I'm so grateful for the influence you have on me and all the others in our community. You rock, girlie.

Chapter 8: In which Beanie begins to get her groove back, but only part-way

2011-01-26T13:30:00.011-05:00

  
"Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness,  alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to  shrink, the walls of your bower closing in about you, a hutch to trammel  some wild thing in? So fair, yet so cold, like a morning of pale Spring  still clinging to Winter's chill."

----
 
“'What do you fear, my lady?'   'A  cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all  chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.'”

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

I was accused last week of having been "domesticated".

The person who spoke these words quickly backtracked, citing only respect and regard for what I knew and what I had accomplished.

"Still", he said, "you are not a follower. Why aren't you leading these people?"

He does not know my history, nor of the heartbreak that has crippled my mind and my spirit this last year. He does not know that I'm normally leading these groups. He just reported what he saw there and then. I'd lost my edge.

Obviously, I saw more than a little truth in his words, as they are still on my mind now.

As if to prove him wrong, though, I spent the rest of last week in a whirlwind of meetings, with late night strategy sessions that included generous helpings of scotch, cognac and harmless flirtation, and resulted in at least three separate plans to take over the world. I gave talks, told jokes in public, and found myself, more often than not, dragged to the back of the room during meetings, with one person or another whispering details into my ear about the motivations and machinations of the other players in the room.

In short, I was in my happy place.

This week, I am back to my real life, resplendent with personal and professional dramas, petty intrigues, heartbreaks, and administrivia. Still, I sort of felt like last week let me start to get my groove back.

That is, until Monday afternoon, when the character from the beginning of this chapter called to tell me that he was likely going to work for my main competitor in this little game of professional Risk.

The blood drained from my face. I gulped. I tried not to cry. To put it bluntly, I felt like I'd been lured into getting naked in a public restroom, only to have my clothes stolen. My voice instantly betrayed my feelings. Many apologies and explanations followed: he'd only found out that morning, he said, and this didn't change anything we'd discussed strategically, and of course he would keep anything confidential, strictly so. He pleaded that he had called me first, before his own loved ones, because he didn't want me to feel like I'd been played.

But it was too late. I felt like I had been played. Worse, it was my own fault. I know better than to show my hand too early, my spider sense had been tingling the whole week, and I ignored all that in a heady rush to be the first to have new information, to out-compete and out-perform someone who had challenged me.

I think he was/is sincere: I don't think he meant any harm, and I'm looking forward to continuing a fun and challenging friendship.

But maybe I have lost my edge. Time will tell if my trust has been misplaced. At the very least, I dodged a dangerous bullet.

I used to be a fairly astute business strategist. In fact, if you look at my LinkedIn page, those are the first two words in my description: "Business Strategist". Whether or not I am still that woman remains to be seen, as I'm getting ready to embark on what will likely be a 2-year project to define the next major portion of my career. In the last eight years working in the non-profit sector, I haven't had as much chance to use that strategic edge as I used to.

I wonder if there is still enough of Eowyn in me to slay the monsters and protect what I've worked so hard to build. Should be interesting. Might be dangerous. Hope that it's at least a little bit fun.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

2010-12-25T00:03:00.000-05:00

Whatever your faith, whatever your circumstance, this night is meant for us to stop, breathe, and remember what is most important. I hope each of you is with someone you love, in spirit if not in presence. If you are stopping in to read this, chances are you have touched my life in the last year, and so I am thankful for you. My love is with you this night.

Merry Christmas.

What makes us American.

2010-12-22T10:13:00.001-05:00

Today, President Obama signed the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell into law.

I wish it would suddenly fix the economy. It won't.

I wish it would end these intractable wars we're in (see one of the main reasons for our economic woes, above). It won't do that, either.

But it will begin to demonstrate that we are who we say we are: a nation that values tolerance, justice and human rights. That's a good start.

Bravo, Mr. President, and the members of Congress who had enough personal integrity to vote for this bill.

The Christmas Run-up

2010-12-21T11:36:00.007-05:00

You have to wonder about a day that starts off by setting fire to your underpants.

I always take my underthings into the bathroom with me when I shower. It's a habit I developed when the Bug was little; she had no sense of boundaries and it was not uncommon for me to come out of my bathroom and into my bedroom, to find her sitting there wanting to discuss the latest developments in the world of Pokemon. Or perhaps to debate why she was starting to believe her dad's theory that I was, in fact, a reptile.

Yesterday morning, I accidentally grabbed two pairs of underpants; leaving one on the counter while I donned the second. My bathroom is small, and gets pretty foggy, and because Mr. gets up several hours after I do, I keep the door closed while I'm in there getting ready in the morning. As a result, I normally need to use my hair dryer to de-fog the mirror. Rather than shutting it off, while I combed and gelled my hair, I left it running -- the hair dryer is getting old and it won't re-start if I shut it off -- in the (dry) sink.

I began to smell smoke and looking down, took note that my gonch had slipped off the counter into the sink and, under the influence of the hair dryer, had commenced to smoldering. I grabbed the flaming underpants, only to realise that they were, in fact, hot. I know this may have occurred to the rest of you earlier, but it was 5:40 in the morning and not all of my neurons fire at that hour. I burned the bejeebers out of my index finger, which had the misfortune to make a connection with the then-molten waistband of my now-former underthings.

I spent much of the rest of the day attempting to create a haiku to commemorate the event.

Yeah, so that doesn't have anything to do with Christmas. I should get out of the habit of writing titles first.

Christmas.

I've been addressing my inner control freak in therapy lately. I recognize that my compulsive need to control those things that I can control is the direct result of not having been able to control the one thing that meant the most to me. But it goes deeper than that, and we can explore this later. For now I'll say that for the first time, I'm getting the message that "getting my control freak on" is probably not a bad thing. So there.

The problem, of course, is that I'm trying to do too much for Christmas and I'm planning, planning, planning the days running up to it and external things (weather, my husband's absence, sewing machine needles, cold-process soap curing characteristics and flaming underpants) aren't cooperating. There are times I wish I was the kind of person who could swing through Big Lots on December 23rd and buy six each of four things and hand them out with a kiss and be done with it.

Last night, I read the Gospel of Luke, which describes the nativity of Jesus in Bethlehem. I came to realise that Mary's day wasn't exactly going as planned. I'm pretty sure she didn't turn to Joseph and say, "You know, honey, let's just chill out about this whole birth plan; I'll just find a nice pile of straw, we'll pop out this kid and order a pizza. It'll be just fine."

She had lost control of everything she thought she knew; pregnant without her consent, wandering in a strange town, nowhere comfortable to have her baby, no idea what the future would hold for them, and probably pretty freaked out about this whole visitation by the Archangel Gabriel. But in the end she did end up giving birth on a pile of straw, and while there was no pizza, things did turn out just fine.

Better than just fine, in fact.

Take the Bible for what you will: the enlightened word of God or a wonderful mythology. No judgments from me, either way. But whatever else you think, there's a lot of wisdom there.

Hope your Christmas Run-Up is just fine.

Confidential to R.D.: Thank you for putting your trust in me. I can't make this not hurt for you, but I can at least warn you what's around the next corner. I'm honored that you're letting me do that. Peace.

The Archangel

2010-12-17T14:15:00.002-05:00

Sunday, April 11, 2004.

I stumbled into the office in an allergic haze and pulled my computer out of my laptop case, stabbing the power button with my finger before I headed downstairs to make coffee. I had been up most of the night, working on a grant, and had forgotten to take my allergy pills before I fell into bed.

When I came upstairs 10 minutes later, coffee in hand, I was surprised to see that my laptop hadn't finished booting; it just hummed to a blank screen. I hit the power button again, and noticed for the first time that my keyboard was wet. It was then that my husband entered the room. "Man, it smells like cat piss in here!"

My cat, Hoover, had somehow managed to balance himself on the edges of my open laptop case, and then urinate into the vents in the back of my computer, effectively flooding the machine.

This did not come as a surprise to me. It did, however, horrify the manager of the computer core at work, causing him to don a pair of rubber gloves before taking the machine from my hands Monday morning, as I begged him to save my grant files.

Over the last fourteen years, Hoover has urinated on nearly everything I own, including my favorite $200 silk Stuart Weitzman pumps. The things he hasn't urinated on, he has puked on. At least twice a day. He eats my house plants. As a kitten, he used to fish my stockings out of laundry baskets and shred them.

Why on Earth would I keep a cat like this?

Hoover is a Russian Blue, a breed known for their lush fur and quirky personalities. The Russian name for the breed is the Archangel, and like the Angel Gabriel, Hoover begins each day with a glorious announcement of the previous night's events. He is possessed of a gentleness of nature that I have never seen in a cat, before or since. Hoover has the soul of a poet. He will lay on my lap for hours, belly-up, and will allow me to roll his paw pads between my fingers like worry beads. He waits, patiently, for me to acknowledge his presence when I get home from work, and then head-butts me and purrs. He licks the tears off my face when I cry. He hugs me when I pick him up, wrapping his body around my neck and shoulder. Until a few years ago, he could jump three times his height to catch a feather on a string or a cat-nip mouse. He loves to sit next to me while I sort laundry, hoping that I will drop articles of clothing on him and give him the fun of wriggling back out of the bottom of the pile. He fetches. He somersaults. He is an awesome cat.

For a few years, poor Hoover was the unwilling recipient of the amorous attentions of my dog, Angus. He accepted this with as much humor and good grace as a cat can muster, just before trying to rip the dog's face off. He puts the two younger cats in their places as only the "old man" can do. He has fostered a life-long friendship and romance with Mudge, my 18-year-old calico who, at 5 pounds 9 ounces, is the undisputed alpha cat in the house. Seeing them sleep together is a comfort, no matter how I feel.

This morning, we said good-bye to Hoover. His kidneys have been failing for some time, due in part to a terrible bout of urinary tract disease as a young adult, and we have probably held onto him a little longer than we should. He was ready. He purred a little, but didn't fight me. He left this world in peace, wrapped in my arms and assisted by our gentle, kind and most caring veterinarian.

Thank you for being my friend, Hoover. I hope that cat heaven is wonderful. I will miss you.

Some random thoughts for this week

2010-12-08T21:27:00.000-05:00

No, I've not given up blogging; I'm just on an extended business trip that is mostly destroying my will to live. I used to love business travel. Now I hate it.

As a result, we don't have anything particularly cogent for tonight. Just a few random thoughts:

I had the distinct pleasure of sitting next to remarkable young man on my flight to Atlanta on Sunday. Sometimes, we see in the next generation a reason to feel hopeful. So to Andrew, in seat 7A: I salute you! Remember, if you do your job well, I won't have to work so hard at mine. So I'm counting on you.

Every time I go to Orlando in the winter, they have a record-breaking cold snap that arrives the day I do and ends the day I leave. I'm the Snow Miser. Who knew?

My conference the first part of this week was on the Disney resort property, so I couldn't help but try to avail myself of a little of the magic while I was there. I made my first trip to Disney when I was 30, and for me, it was as magical then as I think it would have been if I had been 8 years old. When I was pregnant with Kiersten, I remember being at Epcot Center for the Millennial Parade. There was a little girl seated on the other side of the parade route, who looked exactly as I imagined at the time Kiersten would look at the age of six. I remember that looking at her filled me with a combination of excitement, expectation and intense sadness. I cried through most of the parade.

I was wrong about how Kiersten would look. But last night I saw a dozen different children running through Downtown Disney, each caught out of the corner of my eye, who looked so much like Kiersten that I was finally driven to flee the property in tears. By the time I reached the car, I was choking on my sobs. I have few regrets. Not having a chance to take my baby to the Magic Kingdom was one of them. We often think we have a lifetime to experience things. And we do. But sometimes that lifetime isn't as long as we think it will be.

I am looking forward to going home this weekend and getting the Christmas decorations put up. I hope that Mr. Bean and Daisy help. I hate decorating by myself.

I really like Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. I sang Ooo La La in the Karaoke bar last night. (lol)

This afternoon, on my way from Dulles Airport to the hotel where I'm staying, we passed Arlington Cemetery. There was a funeral going on for one of our service members. They were on a small hilltop, and they set off the 21-gun salute, just as we were driving by. It was beautiful and desperate and dignified all at once. And somewhere in there, a mother was saying good-bye to her child. My heart was with her, for a moment.

Chapter 7, in which I fail to "make the noise"

2010-12-02T13:30:00.003-05:00

There's nothing like taking your car to the shop, after it's been making a "noise" for awhile, and having it run perfectly smoothly for the technician. It makes you wonder if the car ever made the noise, or if somehow you're doing something dysfunctional to make it make the noise. In any event, leaving the repair shop after one of these episodes invariably fills one with a combination of disappointment, confusion and a touch of dread.

Yeah; so this isn't really about my car. But I think you know that.

In the interest of not buying into my own hype, I've starting seeing a new therapist. I've been so focused on being supportive for everyone else in my life that I haven't taken the time to check in and make sure I'm working my own program well. And the fact is that I'm pretty stressed; I can't concentrate well at work, I feel completely overwhelmed in balancing work and home, and my husband and daughter are both telling me, "dude, you need to talk with someone."

So today, I had my first session. I had the luxury of 90 minutes to talk about meeeeeee. We covered a lot of territory. He asked the normal questions about "Tell me about your support network. What are you doing for you? Do you have any guilt about your daughter's death?" We probed denial, diversion, and re-direction. We talked about the afterlife.

And we got to the end of the session.

"So what do you think?"

"I'm wondering why you're here."

"What do you mean?"

"You're already doing just about everything I would tell you to do. I'm wondering what you're looking for here."

"A magic elixir might be nice. Just sayin'."

"It's always going to hurt. That's never going away."

"Well, crap."

We agreed to spend some time working on making sure I wasn't spoofing myself over the next few sessions, finding tools to let me better support Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae, and finally to working on strategies for making this year less painful than last. But in the end, it was rather like going to your doctor with a hacking cough and having him tell you that you have a virus, you're already taking a decent cough suppressant and getting enough rest, so it's really a matter of gutting it out.

But I like him, and not just because he was validating today. He's a good listener. He's obviously got his ducks in a row. So I'll keep going back. But at the end of the day, nobody expects to go see a psych and be told, "you're pretty healthy; go home." You wonder if there's another shoe to drop.

With my luck, I'll develop a shimmy in my front passenger wheel on the way home.

The Lesson

2010-11-29T16:56:00.001-05:00

"Ok, for real; we're just not celebrating Thanksgiving anymore. So done with this. Let's just leave the country from now on."

Kate and I were standing in the parlor at the funeral home, where we were at calling hours for yet another extended family member who died Thanksgiving day. "Seriously: my birth mom, then the Bug, now Mary. Who's going to be left? Thanksgiving is now, officially, my least favorite holiday."

Others in the room echoed the sentiment, among comments about our needing to circumvent the formalities and start renting out funeral homes for a shared Thanksgiving meal every year. I heard more than one, "So we're supposed to feel thankful?"

It's a tough dichotomy, feeling so much pain and heartache during a holiday when we are supposed it be counting our blessings. It was all I could do to hold my head up through dinner with our parents on Thursday. Not for the first time in the last year, I heard family members question what lesson we're supposed to learn from all this loss.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about what that lesson should be.

The lesson, I think, is about being able to look around, past our heartaches, and find reasons why we should still be thankful. Things like the warm houses where we can gather to mourn as a community, share food we've prepared, and comfort each other. We are not alone. We are not cold, or hungry, or frightened, like so many in this world are.

That I have a teenager who needs attention and guidance and patience and discipline. She keeps me grounded and focused outside of myself. She keeps Mr. and me from retreating into our own individual grief and becoming yet another failed marriage between two bitterly-damaged people, like so many others do after losing a child.

That Mr. and I have three sets of parents, and a much-beloved grandmother, all of whom need our attention and love, and who are equally glad to return both. There are so many others who don't have parents they can care for and who care for them.

That we live in a nation where we can call our representatives "whackaloons" and not go to prison for it. And that we have ready access to the tools to trumpet freely our whackaloonery. We are not kept silent. We are not isolated.

Mostly, though, that we have friends, neighbors, and family members to share our joys, hear our complaints, and to allow us to mourn our lost loved ones. That we do not need to bury our own souls alongside the ones we've bid farewell, because we cannot bear to face them alone. We don't have to face them alone. We have each other.

I think that's the lesson: To learn to see clearly, even through our tears, all the reasons we still have to be thankful. If we can give thanks now, we will give thanks doubly so when our blessings are more abundant.

"Despite what you think, you are blessed. Don't take it for granted. Because it all can be taken away. So give thanks."

It's a few days late, but Happy Thanksgiving.

1 Year

2010-11-27T23:35:00.000-05:00

Dear Bug,

It's been a year since I last saw your sweet smile, held your hand, smelled your hair. It's been a year since I last sang "You Are My Sunshine" as you drifted off to sleep.

I cannot believe we have survived this long without you in our lives.

This morning, we went back to the ice rink. Your grandma and I brought flowers. I put a picture of you on the glass and we taped the flowers to the boards near where you died. There was hockey practice going on -- do you remember all those cold Saturday mornings at the rink? -- and while I was leaned against the glass, saying a prayer, all the midget players shot pucks at me.

Sometimes, a little comic relief is a good thing.

Wednesday, I finally screwed up enough courage to go see Serena. It's been a long time. I really felt like I let her down, but the last time I saw her, it hurt me so much I didn't think I could be around her without my heart shattering into a million little pieces. She looks good; she says she got straight A's this quarter in middle school. She's grown, too -- she's almost as tall as you were. But she's doing OK; she really is. Her dad's working again. We had a really good talk. I brought her a birthday present.

When you died, I took your DS and hid it in my night stand. Your dad wanted me to give it to Daisy Mae, but I said no; it was your most prized possession and I was going to keep it. I know I wasn't making very much sense, but somehow, I knew I needed to save it for something.

When I left to go to Serena's house, I went back and grabbed the DS out of my nightstand and put it in my purse, next to the game I had bought for her birthday present. When she and I were finished talking; I stopped and looked her in the eye, "You don't have a DS anymore, do you?"

She hesitated, "Mine broke." I took your DS out of my purse, and handed it to her.

"There is only one person in this world who Kiersten would have given this to, and that's you. You know, it was her favorite possession."

Serena hugged me so hard, I thought I would cry.

"It's my favorite possession, now. Thank you."

Last night, the light in your window burned out. Exactly one year from the day you died. I think it's a sign that you want us -- me, especially -- to start to move on. I won't be easy; hanging onto you has given me comfort. But it might be time to start living for myself again, instead of living each day reaching back towards you. Not all at once, but a step at a time.

Thank you again, my beautiful girl, for a thousand lovely, funny, happy memories. Each day that you were in my life was a joy.

The Bug

2010-11-26T22:34:00.000-05:00

September 18, 2000 - November 27, 2009

And the worst part is, you can't even buy any fleas!

2010-11-23T12:50:00.001-05:00

Well, now that we've all finished out little chorus of "Getting to Know You", lets move on to some lighter fare, shall we?

I have a confession to make. I despise flea markets.

The very act of rummaging through stuff that other people are interested in throwing out, for the purposes of buying it and taking it home, is deeply puzzling to me. It's not that I have an issue with used stuff; I find eBay and Craig's list very useful. But in those places, I say "I need one of these things here" and the web site says "Lucky you! Herbert436 in Duluth Minnesota has one of those things and wants to sell it to you." Simple. Expedient. And I never have to know if Herbert436 has teeth or not.

Not so with flea markets. These are the People of WalMart, only the People are also working behind the counters. As it happens, I live with a man who LOVES flea markets, and who comes from a long line of flea-market-loving people. So occasionally, I grit my teeth and follow him in. I normally spend my time on these excursions shaking my head and muttering to myself. Which makes me fit right in, I guess.

When in groups, however, I have an opportunity to engage in a game called, "WTF is that???", in which the object of the game is to find the cheapest, cheesiest, tackiest, or most bizarre item in the building. Ah, now it's not simply wandering in an addle-pated way down the aisles. NOW, this is a competition, and there is a goal. NOW, I can embrace the flea market.

And so this is now I began my Sunday.

Despite this being a very small market, we were blessed with several excellent contenders for the WTF award. Can you guess what won?

Really, can you have too many pairs of yellow platform shoes?


Book entry #1: I think Luck and Pluck are pedophiles

The Bobbsey Twins meet Ahmed the Slave Trader


I don't even know what to say about this one...except, if you have you use the word "zany" in the description, it probably isn't...

I left this one larger because it won the "No, really; we meant it to look like that" award. For the Venetian glass clown

What flea market is complete without a Velvet Elvis painting?

She wishes everyone would stop looking at her boobs

This was my pick for winner. It's a touch lamp. With a painting of native American children about to be attacked by a demented angel. How would you like to roll over in the morning and see THAT next to your bed???

The picture I wanted to get, but couldn't without being rude, was the mobile made of empty Coors Light beer cans, labeled "Redneck Wind Chimes" Unfortunately, it was not eligible to win, as it was not actually for sale.

I think that, with this game in mind, I may actually survive three or four markets a year. So stay tuned.

No; it's not like Crack.

2010-11-22T15:34:00.001-05:00

My doctor wants to take away my estrogen.

OK, so I normally don't get into health issues -- let alone my plumbing issues -- here. Fear not; we're not going into the TMI zone. At least, not about my plumbing.

But holy heck! My estrogen??? C'mon, man! Clearly, she hates me.

But here's the thing: I'm having some issues relating to the plumbing that may be foreshadowing Big Changes to Come. But it's tough to tell, because I've been on the Pill for nearly my entire adult life. But in the last year, my blood pressure has crept up a bit, likely due to multiple factors we need not review here. Add to that the other, more delicate issues and it says only one thing: Get off the estrogen, Sister!

This sucks for me on multiple levels. Mostly, it scares me beyond reason. Not because I'm an addict or anything; I mean, estrogen is not like crack. But it's been my friend for a long time and in a lot of important ways.

Which gets to the "TMI" portion of the program.

This is about postpartum depression, which is one of the most under-reported, misunderstood and stigmatized forms of mental illness.

According to a number of studies that I will not cite properly here, about 15% of all pregnancies result in portpartum depression, ranging from garden-variety "baby blues" to full-blown postpartum psychosis. That's about 950,000 women a year in the US. Which is a lot. Like, 2% of all women in the country have this disorder at any given time. That's more than sprain their ankles each year. That's more than are diagnosed with breast cancer in a given year.

Are you surprised? I'm not. I was one of those women.

After the Bug was born, I struggled tremendously with feeling like I wanted to be a mother. On any given day, my thoughts would range from "Woe is me" to, "Hey, I'm gonna jump off the roof, mkay?" to "Hey, how about I take the baby and the two of us go drive off a bridge somewhere" to"I have a parasite and it's sucking out my life through my breasts." I cried constantly. I didn't sleep. Ever. When I had the knife in my hand, with the thought of removing the offending breasts from my body, my husband took the step of keeping someone in the house with me 24/7 while he went to work. Hoo, yeah. It was bumpy ride.

Enter my therapist and ethinyl estradiol. About a month after the Bug was born, she put me back on birth control pills.

36 hours later, it was like someone flicked a switch. I suddenly realized I had this incredibly cool little baby, and she was beautiful, and her little fingers and toes were adorable, and breast-feeding was totally awesome, and lookit how cute she is with her little face all squooshed up like that and...well you get the picture. I went from complete basket-case to absolutely loving being a mother. Literally overnight. So simple. But what if I hadn't had the presence of mind to ask for it?

This leads me to wonder about young women who don't have proper support from their families and friends. Who give birth alone, frightened, and with those demons circulating around. How do they get the help they need? Who keeps them from acting on those horrible thoughts? I am amazed and grateful to know that we have safe haven laws in this state and others, but I wonder how many of those abandoned children would have been able to stay with their mothers, if only their mothers had extra support and perhaps some hormone replacement.

I don't know why PPD is so much more prevalent in this country than others -- researchers cite, BPA, other environmental factors, the breakdown of the extended family, and a host of other potentially-contributing factors. I do know that as a society, we need to stop sweeping this condition under the rug and start giving these women the support they need.

I've been off the pill a few times in the intervening years, when we were trying to get pregnant. The world didn't come to an end. But the thought that it's time to bid them adieu, perhaps for a long haul, is fairly frightening. I sure hope I don't have to unpack that case of crazy again. Time will tell. In the meantime, I hope she gives me back my estrogen soon.

The Last Hurrah

2010-11-15T17:11:00.001-05:00

I think this last weekend was the last of the beautiful fall weather for this year. Saturday was truly an Indian Summer day, with temps in the mid 60's and a lovely warm breeze. I managed to sneak in a short hike between dropping Daisy off at the theater to get ready for closing night production and rushing home to make taco dip for the cast party.

Sunday was the last of the yard work, a pot of soup and a bonfire with good friends and draft beer.

These days are what we live for here on the North Coast. They are filled with college football, garden work, bonfires, clam bakes and the smell of fallen leaves. They give us one last, crisp taste of apple cider before we have to settle for a long winter of hot tea and snowbound nights.

Farewell, autumn, with your amber eyes and your sun-kissed skin. Hello, Winter, wrapped in blue and white. I hope your touch is gentle this year.

I am a Lighthouse

2010-11-12T09:00:00.006-05:00

I started this morning with The Lighthouse's Tale by Nickel Creek. Absolutely beautiful song, although the story it tells is achingly sad. The chorus speaks to me on a lot of levels:

And the waves crash around me,

the sand slips out to sea,

and the wind that blows reminds me of what has been

and what can never be.

Last night was the opening of Up the Down Staircase at Daisy's school. It's her first drama production and she was on the stage crew for this one. The director's choice for staging was an interesting one; in place of the vignettes that characterize the movie version, she created a Laugh-In style set that featured doors that opened with the actors' heads appearing inside to deliver lines. Effective, and an interesting way to "shake up" a production many of us know by heart. The young man playing Joe Ferone was excellent, although he affected such a strong Marlon-Brando-like accent that I kept waiting for him to start sticking dental cotton in his mouth, à la the Saturday Night Live "Godfather" skit. All in all, it was a wonderful evening and I was very glad to get back into the groove of school activities.

Drama is good for kids, I think. It teaches them to, in the words of Miss Sylvia Barrett, "reach beyond their grasp" and explore not only what they are but what they are not. Like sports, it teaches teamwork and cooperation in a way that helps prepare kids for the real world. And they are generally really good kids, with parents who are involved. Mr and I were both drama geeks. I think Daisy will do well here. I am proud of her work in the crew, and look forward to lots more productions over the next several years.

I was surprised by my reaction to the curtain call, however. As the pairs came on stage for their bows, forming the traditional ensemble line, I found myself starting to cry. As the leads took their place and the entire cast raised their clasped hands to take their final bow, I looked over at Mr. B. His eyes were also filled with tears and I knew we were thinking the same thing: The Bug would have been in drama. She would have been an actor, perhaps a lead, having absorbed years of informal coaching from us both. And we were struck again with what has been and what can never be. I wonder, sometimes, how many more of these moments we will encounter; whether every milestone and happy event in Daisy's life will be tinged with just a hint of hidden regret that we will do all of these things with one child instead of two. And I hope that I can keep that regret hidden -- it would be a shame indeed to let Daisy see the sadness in our eyes at every turn.

I am a lighthouse

worn by the weather and the waves.

And though I am empty,

still I warn the sailors on their way.

Chapter 6: In which I take it out on others...

2010-11-11T12:46:00.002-05:00

Driving down Carnegie Boulevard yesterday, I saw a woman with her three children on the sidewalk. She was bent over the youngest child, who looked to be perhaps 2 or 3 years old. She was screaming at him; my windows were closed so I couldn't hear her. Then, she took her tote bag and swung it back and into him, which pushed him into the brick wall he was standing against. She swung again, then cuffed the child in the head. The other two children were standing by, clearly scared.

Although I was in the center lane and the traffic was heavy, I stopped the car and rolled down the passenger window, furious, screaming,

"DON'T YOU HIT THAT CHILD!!!"

She retorted without looking up,

"SHUT THE F**K UP!"

I yelled again, "DON'T YOU DARE HIT THAT PRECIOUS CHILD!!! YOU DON'T DESERVE THAT CHILD!"

The traffic around me started to honk and I started up, but as I rolled away I heard her yell, "WHO THE F**K DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, B***H??"

Who indeed?

I was blinded with tears of rage. Why does she get to keep her child, when mine was taken away? I was a good parent! I loved that little girl with all my heart and I made sure she knew it every single day! Was she a bit spoiled? Maybe. But she knew she was cherished, which was more important. It's so unfair! Why do all the "bad" parents get all the kids they want, and then some? Of course she doesn't deserve that child! If I can't have my child, why should she get a child she clearly can't parent?? Why did God take MY baby?? IT'S SO UNFAIR!!! I cried and raged all the way home.

But really, who the hell did I think I was?

Who knows why she was yelling at the child? Maybe he tried to run into the street. No; it's never OK to hit a child that way, but who was I to tell her she didn't deserve her child?

The truth was that I missed the Bug, and I felt like a victim, and I lashed out. I think I wanted someone, anyone, to hurt as much as I do.

I feel terrible. Yeah, she fought back and acted tough, but I know full well those words will echo in her ears for a long time. I only hope in time they stop making her angry and perhaps make her think to treat her children better.

Where is Bill Cosby when we need him?

2010-11-10T12:09:00.006-05:00

Noah!

Huh?  Who is that?

It's the Lord, Noah

(pause)

Riiiight!

Noah, I want you to build an Ark

(pause)

Riiiiight!

(pause)

What's an Ark?

(from Bill Cosby is a Very Funny Guy...Right)

I respect the rights of all Americans to believe whatever cockamamie thing they want to believe. Seriously. I may decry Young Earth Creationists and their willful blindness to scientific evidence, but I won't insist they believe differently, so long as they don't push their views on me or anyone else. I also respect the rights of complete atheists, who believe that all that happens here is completely controlled by us and that when we escape this mortal coil, we become nothing but food for worms. They don't share my belief in the immortal soul, and that's cool, so long as they don't insist I dispel my own belief in some plane of existence that transcends this place.

It's all good.

It's all good, that is, until religion starts to influence public policy, especially on things like education and energy, which affect all of us now and well into the future.

Enter John Shimkus

Mr. Shimkus is a Republican (seriously; was there any doubt?) from Illinois who insists that Global Climate Change is a myth and will not cause us any long-term harm, because God promised Noah he was done messing with us after the Great Flood. As a result, he claims, we should continue to carry on as we please and not pay attention to whether our actions have any effect on the environment.

Seriously. I can't make this stuff up.

And no; that link will not be taking you to The Onion. The dude is serious.

So like I said, he has the right to believe what he wants. But here's where I am getting a little nervous: Congressman Shimkus wants to lead the House Committee on Energy and Commerce! To which I say, "Holy Carbon Footprint, Batman!" I mean, even if he's right: even if God is going to save the planet from burning up into a French's Fried Onion, doesn't it make sense to try to take care of the place between now and the Deus Ex Machina rescue scene? And criminy; what if he's wrong? What if the authors of Genesis, through the generations of oral tradition that preceded the actual commitment to papyrus of the Enlightened Word of God, might have left off a key clause, like,

"...Never again will I curse the ground because of man, even though all inclinations of his heart are evil from childhood and never again will I destroy all living creatures as I have done, unless you really really screw up again, and then I'm kicking you all to the curb."

I'm reading that covenant over and over again, people, and I don't see anything that stipulates that God is obligated to save our sorry butts from our own stupidity. I think He just promised He wouldn't flood us again. Am I missing something here?

The bottom line is this: Do we really want our lawmakers designing energy policy based on a 5000-year-old myth? Whose myth do we believe?

Are you willing to take that chance?

Re-finding my bliss...or at least giving it a chance to re-surface

2010-11-08T10:22:00.007-05:00

I have always been an outdoor bliss baby.

In the times when I have felt most stressed, most helpless, most in need of centering, I have always found solace in the outdoors. A hike in the woods can calm my mind when nothing else can. We are blessed with about 15 miles of semi-improved (read: There are blazes on the trees, and someone has moved the biggest of the fallen branches out of the way) trails a five-minute drive from the house. These traverse woodland, meadow, marsh and creekside terrains, with abundant wildlife to match each. If I pick the right combination of trails, I can get a fabulous 90-minute work-out, and see deer, pheasants, rabbits, egrets, herons, ducks, and fox along the way, as well as more songbirds than I can recount or even identify.

In the last year, I have forgotten how much I love them.

The Bug loved hiking, too, although I suspect that no small amount of that was a daughter's desire for quality alone time with her mother. We spent hours together, exploring those trails. I haven't been back since her death. In my exhaustion and sheer inability to remember that there was happiness in the world before she entered it, I have associated hiking with the absence of my precious daughter and in doing so, I have done my mental health a tremendous disservice.

My friend, Kate, told me Saturday night that she is beginning to worry about me. It's no secret that my much beloved husband has struggled horribly with the Bug's death, and the stress of watching him suffer has compounded my own (perhaps-too-) carefully-managed grief. "I feel like we're losing you, sister. Time to make a change."

So tonight, about an hour before dusk, I snagged Daisy Mae and dragged her out on a hike with me.

She complained, as any teen might, of my pace through sometimes uneven terrain. "Mom, I'm not exactly Ms. Outdoorswoman here!". I asked her if she was really interested in being out-done by a fat old broad like me. She set her teeth and kept going. ;) But as we entered the clearing between the thicket and the marsh, we got our payoff: A doe with her two spring fawns, munching away at the last of the green reeds. They were beautiful and appeared to ignore us entirely. Mom kept one eye on us, however, tail flicking as the three of them were intent on getting dinner finished before the sun set completely. As they walked off, I kept Daisy where she was for a moment, explaining in a barely audible voice about the crepuscular habits of deer, raccoons and other wildlife in this region. I told her we were being watched.

As we listened to the reeds and brush around us, we could hear four more large deer moving around, including the 12-point buck who rules that part of the woods. Although I couldn't see him, he could see us, and he finally let us know of his displeasure at our presence in his territory with a snort, and a stamp. My tough-girl daughter grabbed my arm, in excitement and just a touch of fear. I took her hand and we backed carefully out of the clearing.

"Mom, that was really cool, but freaky. I was afraid that deer was going to kill us."

"That was really cool, and I promise I won't let you get killed by a deer. Kind of a stupid way to die, dontcha think?"

We spent the rest of the hike sharing stories and thoughts as the darkness deepened. She didn't let go of my hand until we emerged in the clearing that serves as a parking lot: tired and chilly but clear-minded and smiling.

So maybe it's time to return to the woods.

Just a thought for today

2010-11-05T10:47:00.001-04:00

A friend the other day reminded me of a favorite Anton Chekhov quote:

Any idiot can face a crisis, it is this day to day living that wears you out

Yep. I hear that.

What we get paid for...

2010-11-04T20:43:00.000-04:00

I had lunch the other day with a long-time friend and work colleague, who just took a new job with a multi-national.

"They seem to love me", he said, "but I don't feel like I'm working nearly hard enough."

I thought about it for a minute, "So maybe you're finally reaching that part of your career where you get paid for what you know, rather than for how fast you can run."

This very statement stopped me dead in my tracks. When we are young, we assume we get paid to work insanely hard, to be faster, brighter, stronger and more persevering than our colleagues.

As we get older, though, that changes. As some point, we get paid for other things.

My friend, Joyce, said she believes that pay is directly proportional to stress: Low-stress jobs don't pay well, in her opinion; high-stress jobs do. I asked her if she'd ever been a daycare provider. ;)

Another friend thinks that pay is linked to influence. It's who you know.

Increasingly, however, I'm coming to realize that you really can be paid for experience and knowledge, work less hard, with less stress (or perhaps manage it better) and get paid more money. I had another colleague today ask me, "Where did you learn how to do all this stuff???" My answer? "I got kicked in the head every day for years. I decided I wanted to learn how to avoid that."

I think we grow up with this idea that working harder is better; that the proverbial cake is a lie. But it seems to not be bearing out. I'm encouraged by this.

Our parents have known this for years, I suspect, and we simply haven't heard their lessons.

Big-Girl Pants

2010-11-03T16:31:00.003-04:00

I am not yet ready to pour out my sorrow over yesterday's elections here. But I will at some point.

Some days, the world makes you put on your big-girl pants and just deal with it. And not always in the ways that you expect.

I seem to have a lot of those days lately.

Yesterday was election day, and as I alluded to in my preamble, I was deeply unhappy with the outcome. This will, of course, result in many more days of wearing big-girl pants in the future.

However, that's not what made me put them on yesterday.

My cat, Hoover, is getting rather long in the tooth. As is common in cats he has developed high blood pressure and resultant kidney failure. We hospitalized him 10 days ago, and he's been on IV fluids since then. He was OK while he was hospitalized, but each time we took him off the IV, he stopped eating again and declined quickly. The vet and I talked Monday and it became pretty clear to me that it was time to say goodbye.

I arrived at the office yesterday, having played out the events in my mind and having cried my eyes out for several hours. Hoovie has been my buddy for 14 years. I had screwed up my courage to say goodbye to my little buddy. But then the vet surprised me by saying that Hoover rallied overnight, started eating robustly, and seemed to have decided to stick around. I was flabbergasted. I was not prepared for this.

Once I left the vet's office, kitteh in hands, I surprised myself by completely falling apart. Having lost my adrenaline, I sobbed harder than if I had actually lost the cat.

Last night at 7:00 was the All Souls Day mass to honor everyone in our parish who passed away in the last year. They planned to light a candle for Kiersten and I planned to be there to receive it and take it home. I saw this as an important part of my grieving process. Due to a lot of things going on here in the Land of Bean, I was to be the solitary representative from our family. As I have discussed here before, grieving is a very active process for me. In the interest of remaining functional for the rest of the world, I am careful about making time for rituals and other "safe" opportunities to grieve in an acute way. I was prepared for it to be hard, but I was almost looking forward to the emotional release of the evening.

And then Daisy Mae came home from a shopping trip, clutching her side. Shortly thereafter, she dropped to her knees, sobbing with pain. It was 5:30.

At 7:00, I was still at the hospital ER with Daisy, awaiting the results from the CT scan that would later reveal her debilitating pain was the result of too much teen-ager fried food and not enough fiber.

She looked miserable, "Mom, I'm so sorry you're missing mass. I know it was important to you."

I took a deep breath. "It's OK, baby; I don't need a mass to remember Kiersten. She's in my heart 24/7. Your health is more important than any grieving ritual at this point." I meant what I said, although inside, my heart was breaking in yet another small way.

Yesterday, I was reminded anew that life is for the living, It's not for the faint of heart, however, so bring your big-girl pants.

V O T E !!

2010-11-02T09:39:00.002-04:00

I don't even care who your vote for.

(OK, that's a lie; I have really, really strong opinions about who should and shouldn't be handling our affairs, but that's not the point today).

Midterm elections bring out the most radical in our society, and that's not how it should be. We shouldn't just get the haters out on election day in years not divisible by 4.

Every vote counts, every time.

Especially yours.

Do it. It'll make you powerful.

The reason I couldn't attend the Rally to Restore Sanity... (warning: jargon below)

2010-11-01T10:48:00.004-04:00

...even though I absolutely, desperately wanted to...

Every year, I have the honor and pleasure to speak at the Science and Technology Forum for the Scholarship of Entrepreneurial Engagement program, sponsored by Ashland University. This program brings high school students from across the region here together to talk about how they can combine the best of technology and business NOW, before they learn about all the stuff we say they can't do. These are bright, motivated students, although not all of them are your garden-variety honors kids. I love them, because they are not satisfied with merely doing well; these kids really do want to shake up the world as we know it.

One of the movies they show each year is called "Shift Happens". It describes how much the world has changed, not just since we were kids, but since these kids were kids. We now generate more information in 18 months, for example, than the world did in the previous 5000 years. Out knowledge and technology doubling time is now six months, which means that, for students entering college today, 75% of what they learned as a freshman will be out of date by the time they are juniors. Crazy stuff.

Saturday morning, I got to teach these kids a bit of introduction to regenerative medicine. They are smart: there is no "Heebie-Jeebie-Embryonic-Stem-Cell-Panic" going on here. These kids understand the power of growth factors and bioscaffolds and adipose stem cells (yes; your fat makes stem cells. lots of them. your fat does make more fat; it wasn't your imagination. don't you feel better now?). They can wonder aloud whether donor-specific immune tolerance induction (tricking the body into thinking a transplant actually belongs to you) will completely restore the cancer-fighting capacity of the immune system, versus long-term immune suppression drugs for transplant recipients. They can draw a line between induced pluripotency (an alternative to using embryonic stem cells that involves turning your cells essentially into mock embryonic cells) and cloning and debate the ethics. It's a blast, and talking with these students gives me hope for our future.

It may have done more to restore my sanity than any trip to see Messieurs Stewart and Colbert.

But I still would have liked to see Father Guido.

P.S. Tomorrow is Election Day. If it was important to you to vote in 2008, it's just as important to vote this year. Get your butt out there.

And just because it's not always about a high-handed social statement...

2010-10-26T16:56:00.000-04:00

There have been moments -- actually, strings of moments that lasted weeks sometimes -- over the last year during which I had doubts I would ever truly feel like a parent again. Parenting a teen is nothing like parenting a school-age child. And parenting a teen who was raised by someone who doesn't always share your value system is like parenting a difference species. Not judging, mind you; it's just that different folks can approach the same things very differently.

This week was not like that. This week, I felt like a parent again.

Back at the beginning of the school year, Daisy Mae and I made a deal: if she could get through the entire first quarter without missing any assignments in school -- not a homework, not a quiz, nothing -- she could have a Halloween party. A real one with decorations and friends and music that was too loud and a bonfire.

Well, Saturday night she had her party. The house and the deck were decorated up, we built a bonfire of epic size in the front fire pit, I moved the stereo onto the screened porch (where, if I had my druthers, it would stay forever), and we cooked up enough food for a small army.

About 15 kids showed up. It was big enough to be fun for everyone and small enough to be controllable for a first party. The kids were great. They danced. They sang Top40 dreck. They played on the swings and hung out around the fire. They threw candy at each other. Nothing was broken; the mess was nothing extraordinary, and outside of some minor irritation due to the preponderant habit of teens to open a can of pop, drink 2 ounces and then abandon the can, I couldn't complain about anything for the evening.

It was fun. And I was really proud of Daisy. She made sure everyone felt welcome, and introduced everyone around. She hugged everyone hello and goodbye. She mingled.

Twice, she came inside and thanked me for helping her throw the party. And she meant it.

It's good to see your kids succeed. It's even better to encourage and see them earn a genuine reward. I'm looking forward to doing this again sometime.

Floating Dichotomy

2010-10-26T11:18:00.001-04:00

My Facebook status yesterday said this:

People in Haiti and around the world are dying because they do not have fresh, clean drinking water. How thankful we should be for a hot shower.

The most effective treatment for the Cholera epidemic that is sweeping through Haiti right now -- more effective than antibiotics -- is clean water. That's it. Both prevention and cure. And yet it is too expensive and too difficult to deliver to most who need it.

I was at an AIDS conference a few years back and the keynote speaker stood up at the podium and poured a 16-ounce glass of ice water and set it down. Then he said "If this was the cure for AIDS, most of those who need it couldn't afford it."

And here we are, nestled in the Great Lakes Basin, dumping enough of that precious cure on our bodies every day (10 gallons in a five-minute shower) to keep five active Cholera patients alive -- ten, if they are children. In total, the average American uses 50 gallons of fresh water daily for bathing, dish-washing, clothes washing, toileting, etc...but only drinks about 1 gallon. And most of that, we have polluted with sugar, caffeine, or other chemicals that don't benefits our bodies.

Making clean water a priority in the world is not rocket science. Most of it can be accomplished with low-volume pumps, simple filtration, and plastic soda bottles.

I'm not saying that we should give up showers, or coffee for that matter. But I am saying that we should know where our blessings lay and realise that not even the worst off among us is having to watch their children die of diseases that can be cured with the most basic of necessities.

Feeling a little thankful today? Enjoying your morning shower? Think about supporting one of the organizations that is bringing clean water to the poorest in this world. I included some links above.

I Got Mine

2010-10-22T09:29:00.005-04:00

"Do you know why people are suffering so much more during this recession than many did during the Great Depression?" My husband was in the passenger seat, preparing to give me the answer to his rhetorical question, "It's because folks in the 30s used to have back yard gardens, maybe a few chickens, a goat. They grew and canned their own food, so they could weather an economic storm better than we can now."

I winked, "You're just lobbying for us to get some chickens aren't you? It's always about chickens with you."

He frowned, "I'm serious."

He was serious, and I think in honesty, he was largely right. We were more self-sufficient then. We still made most of what we needed here. Everyone had access to garden and a workshop and women still knew how to sew their own clothing. Making soap wasn't just a yuppie hobby, like it is now.

But I think it's only half the story

You see, what was also different then was that people looked after each other. If your neighbor was struggling, you gave him a share of what you had. My grandmother would keep a pot of soup on the stove nearly all the way through the Depression; when the beggars came to the back door, she would give them a bowl to warm and sustain them; they would sweep her stoop or do a small repair in return. The owner of the greenhouse in town would allow men to sleep in the greenhouse at night during the winter, and in return, they would make sure the fire in the stove stayed lit. They might do a little weeding or re-planting if he threw some bread into the deal. You made sure your neighbor's kids had a safe place to stay and got something to eat, while the neighbor was out looking for work. Nobody had very much, but they shared what they had.

That attitude of abundance, the concept that enough is enough, the idea that "I am my brother's keeper" has been lost in the country. What I hear in this country today, especially from the "Tea Party", is: "I Got Mine. Why should I share it with those bums??" Only I wish they stopped at the word "bums". More often it's "scum", "deadbeats", "towelheads", or words that start with the letter N or the letter F. As in "That n***** president is gonna take my hard-earned money and give it to a bunch of other deadbeat n******"

The Tea Party mouthpieces (and make no mistake; the real leadership of the Tea Party can be found in big business, not in the grass roots) are my contemporaries; they did not live through the Depression. They have not learned the lessons about community and compassion that our grandparents did; or if they did, they have forgotten them on their way to the Temple of the Almighty Dollar.

Where does the blame rest? In my opinion, it is in the most unexpected of places: Social Service Programs. Now don't get all self-righteous on me, or accuse me of having gone off my meds; hear me out.

When we stopped having a human connection to the poor in our communities, when we placed the government in the position of intermediary between the Haves and the Have-nots, we turned our nation's poor from people into amorphous objects. We stopped having that very real, human, physical connection to our charity. We lost the ability to place our hand under the elbow of the ones who have stumbled, and in helping them rise, to see ourselves in their faces. We have lost our sense of, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

In two generations, we have lost our compassion.

Do I think the poor would be better off without Welfare, AFDC, Medicaid, etc? Of course not. They are a lifeline. I would no sooner do away with social services than I would my own job.

So how can I praise and blame our Great Society at the same time? How do we keep the good in our lifelines and eliminate the unintended negative social consequences?

Ready?

We didn't go far enough. (and I hear the collective sign of relief and your renewed faith in my bleeding-heart-liberal roots)

Let's look at countries like Denmark, Norway, or even France. There is, generally, an economic equality in those nations. Perfect? No. But the sense among the populace there is, "I may not have everything I want, but I have most everything I need; we can choose where to live and what to do, we can elect our officials, we can have a strike if things aren't going according to our liking, and nobody is starving and nobody dies for lack of access to health care."

Why don't we have that? Because in designing our social service programs, our leadership in the 30s 40s and 60s -- and more recently, in 2010 -- wimp-ed out. They bowed to political pressure from the moneyed minority. They didn't design policies that said "Them is us". They didn't say "'Universal' means everyone; no exceptions". They didn't design a system that allowed the rich and the poor to share equally in healthcare, transportation, and other common denominators. If you design a system that only benefits the portion of the population that cannot afford to pay for it, of course you'll get resentment. Our social service structure not only maintained the haves and the have-nots, but it deepened and reinforced the differences between them.

We cannot transform the attitude of an entire nation in the blink of an eye. It will take another two generations to re-learn lessons about compassion and community, and I fear that many of us will suffer a difficult journey getting there. But we must recognize that "I Got Mine" isn't sustainable for very long, and we have to push our leadership to finish the good work that we elected them to start in 2006 and 2008.

Which means, like it or not, we have to bring them back to office this year. Because if the party of "I Got Mine" comes back into power, we will have more in common with pre-revolution France than post-modern Norway.

Yeah, I Got Mine. You wanna share?

If you could change one thing about yourself...

2010-09-21T10:46:00.007-04:00

As an American female, I was brought up in a culture of self-loathing. Like all American women, I can, with no prompting whatsoever, recite a litany of my physical flaws: I have thunder thighs. My nose is too big. I wish my arms were tighter. I was dismayed to learn that acne did not completely go away when you turn 40. My hair is too fine, and too wavy. My ass is unmanageable.

But if you ask me what one thing I would change about myself? It's this: My sinuses.

My mother is Mohawk and Irish; my father Bavarian German. This combination of genes has rendered my face almost completely flat in front. Picture an Asian with a European nose. It's not an unattractive combination -- I was lucky enough to have gained wide-set eyes out of it -- but anatomically, it means that there isn't enough room for everything to move around properly in there, and it makes me a walking, talking breeding ground for upper respiratory viruses and bacteria.

Yeah; pleasant.

Where others get colds, my pretty little head makes the rhinovirus right at home, supplies chips, a big-screen TV and a phone line where it can call all of its little friends and neighbors to watch the big game. Invariably, my sinuses want to get my lungs involved, and in no time, I sound like Bela Lugosi. Or a trained seal. It depends. I have had more than my fair share of bronchitis, pneumonia, and mononucleosis over the years.

This also makes me snore. Like, scare-the-cat-off-the-bed snore. Like any red-blooded American woman, I denied this with vigor for the first several years. Ladies, I explained to Mr. B, do not snore. You are simply a light sleeper. Then I tried to convince myself and Mr. B. that I just needed to lose weight. 28 pounds later, it still sounded like Mount Vesuvius was erupting in the master bedroom every night. I finally threw in the towel and got a mouth guard -- one of those torture devices that holds my lower jaw forward, making me look like a bulldog with a bird in its mouth. I no longer snore. But neither can I eat anything that requires the use of my molars for the first two hours after I wake up each day.

So why am I writing about this today? Because I have picked up the first cold of the season. Too much airline travel; too little sleep over the last few weeks. And it's making me want to cut my own head off.

So I'll keep the thunder thighs. We've reached an understanding.

But you can take my sinuses.

Please.

Happy Birthday, Bug

2010-09-18T08:16:00.002-04:00

Dear Bug,

Today is your 10^th birthday.

I would have, in an earlier and more innocent phase of my life, said, "Today, you are 10 years old". But we both know you will never be 10 years old. You are now ageless and eternal. When I encounter you now, I encounter a spirit, mature and wise, who walks by my side. The years of me teaching you are over; the years of you teaching me have only just started. I know that I will often appreciate your companionship in the years to come. Today, however, I am just a grieving mother who misses the innocence and beauty of her child.

10 years ago today, you entered this world, though you had entered my life in a very personal way several months earlier. I had talked to you, caressed you, sang you songs, and dreamed about the remarkable person I knew you would be. You started out very much as you ended; surrounded by a team of doctors, desperately trying to get your little heart to beat and your little lungs to bellow after a terrible labor and a c-section. We were worried for a few minutes, until you decided that you were going to stick around. The moment you committed to being here, you started moving, little legs and arms kicking and flailing so much that they were afraid you would crawl off the table. You never stopped moving after that.

You were in such a hurry to live – crawling at five months, walking at eight months. You talked in full sentences before you were two. You were expelled from three schools before your fifth birthday, because you just couldn’t handle a system that wouldn’t keep up with you. Heck, it was all your dad and I could do to keep up with you!! Always bigger, always faster, always stronger, always wanting to sprint ahead of your classmates. You were even in a hurry to become a woman, which in the end was what caused you to leave us so young.

And yet, you never tired of being my baby, and for that, I will always be grateful. I’m glad you never went to bed without your dad or me by your side, talking and holding your hand. It guaranteed that we never missed a chance to say “Goodnight, Little Love.” I’m grateful for all times that, despite the fact that the other kids made fun of you for it, you held my hand when we went out and you always kissed your dad and me goodbye. I’m grateful that you still wanted me to sing you songs in the bathtub every night, and I’m sad that I didn’t always accommodate you. I’m grateful that, when we all sat on the couch, you always touched either your dad or me – even if it was just with your foot. We were always connected.

I don’t know how I’m going to honor your birthday today. My heart is still too broken to do or say anything out loud. I’m still too sad that I’m not frosting cupcakes and filling goodie bags for your friends today. Your dad and I will stay as busy as we can, taking care of jobs around the house, so we don’t have time to miss you so acutely. Maybe in years to come, you can let me know how you want to celebrate the day you came to live with us.

Happy Birthday, Bug. I hope they have a party for you in Heaven.

For the Birds

2010-09-11T22:48:00.004-04:00

OK, So I know that I promised -- or at least eluded -- that I would write about the Combine Derby week before last. I'm struggling with how to explain an event that goes like this:

Especially when I managed to get seats that placed me in a spot where all the best action happened behind the support pole.

The combine derby consists of heats of 5-6 mostly beat-up large farm implements, many of whom have been painted to resemble cows, chickens, dogs, and in one case this year, an incredibly large flying pig. And yes, I said "whom". Alison, that was not just to make that nerve behind your left shoulder start to twitch, although I know it had that effect.

These combines take on a certain personality that extends beyond their operators, their paint jobs, and their inevitable gleaner attachments. Some move slowly and with tremendous constitution, grinding their way across the track and through their opponents; others are lithe, nimbly side-stepping the worst of the hits. The crowd roots for the largest, or the smallest, or the one that looks like it really shouldn't be running at all.

This, my friends, is Americana. It carries with it a charm missing from NASCAR, Monster, Trucks, and anything having to do with American Idol. This is about corn dogs, harvest time, and bragging rights. It's about lending your opponent your TIG welder, because it's his first time here. It's about baseball caps, slaps on the back, Hammond organs, and singing the national anthem. Out loud.

What does this have to do with birds? Nothing.

So...birds. Yeah, I have one. A Cockatiel. His name is Kevin. And if my sister is reading, the name is from the movie "Up", not about making a namesake for your husband. Kevin showed up here without warning one afternoon. We put an ad in the paper; no one claimed him.

The bird is in love with me. As in, he wants to get to "know" me. If I walk into the room, he wolf whistles. If I take him out of the cage, he sits on my shoulder and hisses at anyone who comes within five feet of me. He coos and rubs up against my neck. When I come home from work, he dances and sings me the Colonel Bogey March and the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

And now Mr. Bean has put Kevin on the family stickers on the back of the car, which means he is a permanent part of the family. Which wouldn't be so bad, if the family stickers didn't already feature 4 cats and 3 dogs. But can I get rid of him? No; I can't. Because he's just sofa king cute.

Oh and more birds? Yesterday, Mr. Bean won a chicken coop off a radio show.

Yes; you read that right: Chicken. Coop. Which means, of course, that we will soon have chickens.

This is something I have resisted for years; I hate chickens. Hate them. Mr.? He loves them. For as long as I've known him, he's wanted chickens. Kes wanted chickens, too. I think she may have had a hand in this.

Mr is thrilled beyond words. This is important to him.

So maybe having chickens won't be such a big deal. The little ones are actually kinda cute.

I wonder if any of them are interested in having a very handsome pied cockatiel for a boy friend? This has possibilities.

Sacred time

2010-08-27T22:20:00.008-04:00

It's been nine months since the Bug left us. I don't know why that is significant, except that I carried her for nine months before she was born, so this feels like some sort of weird symmetry.

It really doesn't make me sad. It is just a time to mark, I guess.

Tomorrow, we make our annual pilgrimage to the county fair at dawn. Mr. Bean and I have done this every year for the last 23 years. Breakfast at the Grange cafeteria (which isn't actually run by the Grange anymore, but it's still the same in my mind), a leisurely stroll through the barns, the sound of roosters crowing, horses pawing to get out for a bit of exercise, 4-H kids sweeping and mucking and watering, the smell of fresh hay, announcements of upcoming auctions. There is a peace to the fair before the midway opens and the music starts.

We will miss the Bug tomorrow. We will miss her taking pictures in the chicken barn. We will miss her talking to the goats. I will have to avoid the bunny barn this year, and perhaps every year from now on.

We will still go to the fair, however, because it is our time together. Sacred time that we do not violate. I had to back out on a weekend with friends, rather more at the last minute than I should have, because I realized too late that it was our fair weekend and it would get in the way of this time together.

Tomorrow night? The combine demolition derby.

Yes, I will repeat that.

Combine. Demolition. Derby.

Oh yeah. There's a post in there, I think.

In which we ask the question: What Would Jesus Do?

2010-08-20T17:00:00.004-04:00

Lately, I find myself doing impressions of Rachel Maddow, without really meaning to.

I'm not sure if this means that I'm getting more cynical, or perhaps less tolerant, or as my mother would probably point out, that I'm letting my brain get the best of my manners.

As everyone on the planet has heard by now, a group in New York wants to build an Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, near the former site of the World Trade Center. Folks have their panties firmly knotted over this issue, either vehemently for it or vehemently against it, and have extended the debate into utterly ridiculous conjecture over whether or not our President has Muslim leanings that we all should be concerned about.

To which I say, "Really? Really??? So nobody has a problem with the fact that we have a dildo shop, a couple adult book stores, a few nudie bars, three gambling salons, 17 salons that will provide a bikini wax on demand, and about three dozen pizza shops within two blocks of 'ground zero'. Oh, and about a dozen churches of various denominations, (including Catholic, which was the flavor of Christianity practiced by Timothy McVeigh). But if we put in a worship and community center for Muslims, suddenly, we're defiling the area??? REALLY??"

I made a comment elsewhere on the web today, that Al Qaeda is to Islam as the KKK is the Christianity. Hate is ugly, no matter who's spewing it. That includes the hate that we are hearing from those who so violently oppose this community center. There are those who would paint all Muslims as bad, because there were a few who chose to commit a truly heinous crime. But by the same token, the KKK purports to be a Christian organization, and those who do things like bomb women's clinics also purport to do so because of their Christian views. WE don't paint all Christians as terrorists. We don't ban Catholic churches within two blocks of the former federal building in Oklahoma City. Why not? Because we purport to be a "Christian" nation, and we "know" that not all Christians are terrorists. And never mind that terrorist groups are motivated by politics, money, and hate, none of which has very much to do with religion.

So I will suggest to all those who feel that a mosque within sight of the World Trade Center attacks is an affront to the dignity of the area: Let's follow our Christian guidance and ask ourselves,

What Would Jesus Do?

Do you think Jesus would march around with a poorly-spelled sign on His back? Or perhaps show up on Fox News and say that He is insulted that a group of people want to worship His father within sight of a building that was destroyed by people who have doubts that He was really the Messiah?

Here's a news flash: I think that the Muslim community feels as much pain about 9/11 as anyone else does; If one of your neighbors, or friends, or distant relatives (or even one of your close relatives) murders an innocent, do you not mourn the death and wish to make a gesture that helps to heal? If a community is injured, and seeks to rebuild itself, is this an affront to God? This community wants to convert an abandoned Burlington Coat Factory into a space where the beauty of their faith (and the Islamic faith is as beautiful as any I have seen, despite what the radicals would have you believe) can shine and help to foster healing and love and understanding.

We should embrace that, in my opinion.

If you stopped to ask yourself "what would Jesus do?", I think the answer is that Jesus would view this as an act of love and community and understanding..and perhaps contrition, and would greet it with love and understanding...and forgiveness. Can we imagine Jesus doing otherwise? No? Maybe we should give His way a try.

So long as we respond to those who are different with hate and suspicion, those who foster hate will win. And hate really does defile the memory of those we love.

I think that, deep down, I must be a Luddite

2010-08-13T09:31:00.002-04:00

I tried mobile blogging last night. Ha!

FAIL

If I borked your blog feeds, I apologize. It wasn't intentional. ;)

Exhaling

2010-08-13T09:03:00.002-04:00

The experience of finalizing Daisy Mae's adoption on Tuesday was simultaneously momentous and anti-climactic, joyous and bittersweet.

Watching a judge sign a piece of paper and shake your hand is no where near as exciting as watching a doctor hand you a squirming new infant, but the squirming infant also doesn't look over at you and mouth the words, "I love you."

Standing together as a family in front of your community is beautiful, but the knowledge that you were supposed to be a foursome, not a threesome, is heartbreaking.

Still, no differently than the weeks following a wedding can leave one with a sense of satisfaction and relaxation, the days following an adoption leave one with a sense of peace and closure. We can plan now. We can look toward a future that does not including weekly check ins with state and county officials, lingering doubts about commitment, or rules that govern everything from where she spends the night to how often she gets her teeth checked.

It is very good to have this done. We can exhale, finally, at long last. It feels good.

Forever. Family.

2010-08-11T22:41:00.003-04:00

...Aaaaaand we're back.

It's not that I haven't had anything to talk about for the last 8 weeks. (Good lord! It has been 8 weeks, hasn't it?) On the contrary, many things have happened.

I had a fascinating trip to Ireland with Daisy Mae and ClevelandK8. Galway is like living in a Renaissance Faire.

It's like...well, it's like this:

and this

Dublin is like being in Piscataway, NJ, with better architecture. But just barely.

I went to Washington DC and got to hang out with people who have stars and letters after their names. I love these trips; all good news, big plans and restoration in faith in our government. It doesn't last too long, but it does give one a few ideas to work with.

I got a chance to try to bring together a group of surgeons who hate each others' guts as a matter of course. And they got along. And promised to work together.

All of that pales in comparison to yesterday.

Yesterday, I got to officially become a Mom again.

Yes, yes: I know that once you are a mom you never stop. But there's something about having someone in your house, calling you "mom" (or in my case, "mother"), that makes you actually feel like a mom.

I'm Daisy Mae's mom. Forever.

It's been a long trip. We have endured almost unimaginable heartache along the way. But we made it. And it's worth it.

Take a look and see.

Welcome, Daisy. I can't promise to be a good friend. But I can promise to be a good mom.

Perspective 4: Your Blues Ain't Like Mine

2010-06-03T22:09:00.006-04:00

**With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell, who is heartbreaking and brilliant.

Ed looked up from his salad and stammered.

"I...well, I almost feel embarrassed even talking about this. I mean, compared to what you've been through, this seems really trivial, but..."

I can't tell you how many times over the last six months friends and acquaintances have started conversations this way. Not a single tragedy is described, except as preceded by the caveat that the story I was about to hear could not, in any way, begin to compare with the pain I've experienced in losing my little girl.

And in some ways, it's true. In my experience, there is very little any of them can describe that can be as heartbreaking...for me. But just because my experience has been tragic and awful, doesn't mean that they don't have legitimate heartaches, setbacks and disappointments.

"Ed, your problems are real. Don't discount them because they're different from my problems."

"But you've been though the worst thing that can possibly happen."

"Ed", I said, "I'll tell you something. Three weeks after Kiersten died, my mom told me a story about her co-worker. Her 20-year-old son was a heroin addict. After the third time he dropped out of the rehab center, he hung himself off the backyard swing set. I don't know; given a choice, losing a happy, innocent child instantly doesn't sound so bad."

I wasn't trying to be flippant. We each live our own experiences; we each define pain based on those experiences. I can see how much my friends are devastated by divorces, job changes, lost homes, illnesses. They are overwhelmed by the gulf oil spill, or local drilling for natural gas, or illegal dumping of waste.

For each of them, this pain is real. My personal loss doesn't lessen that for any of them. Likewise, knowing that my mom's co-worker suffered a more difficult loss than I did doesn't at all diminish what I have gone through over the last six months. I won't miss my daughter any less because she lost her son so terribly.

Some of us will gain perspective at one level, some at another. But we cannot pretend to judge the experiences of another based on our own joys and heartaches. If you've never lost an arm, that paper cut can hurt pretty bad. If you've never lost a spouse, the breakup of a 6-month relationship can feel like the end of the world. And we cannot diminish our own pain because it is different from that of another. There will always be someone worse off. There will always be a story of another that takes our breath away.

As humans, we need to treat each other, and ourselves, with compassion.

So Ed, and the rest of you. Don't apologize. Your blues ain't like mine. But they're still your blues.

Friends, Roses, and the Beach Girl's Enduring Spirit

2010-05-27T08:59:00.008-04:00

My friends, Cathy and Mike, performed a remarkable and beautiful favor on behalf of another friend, Patty, last night. That sounded convoluted, didn't it? Well, read about it here; it'll make more sense.

So I haven't mentioned this too much before, but Bug loved the ocean. When she had just turned three, we took her to Florida for the first time, and immediately headed to the north point of Captiva Island on the Gulf coast. I love that point -- it's a haven for Dolphins, Herons, Egrets, sport fishes of all kinds. The beaches are covered in shells, the waters are sparkly, and the sand is fine and soft. Bug took one look at the place and fell deeply in love with the great expanse of water that lay before her.

At three, she didn't have the skill for ocean swimming, so I held her hand tightly while she was in the water. She hated that. She longed to venture out. I longed to keep her from being carried out to sea. But she loved it. There are a lot of stories from that week. Stories that include her getting cold in the water with resultant pooping on the beach and hungry seaguls and Mommy deciding that she could no longer show her face in public and having to find a new beach after that. Stories of our needing to stop at every alcove and inlet, so she could get out of the car, feel how the water was "different" on her feet in each place, and dip her bottom in the water. Stories of first encounters with manatees, including more impromptu swimming forays. But we can tell more of those stories another time. They made her life richer, and ours, too.

Bug insisted I teach her to swim, immediately upon our arrival at a pool, and at every opportunity thereafter, so she would never again have to spend her beach time tethered to her mother.

By the time she was seven, she was "Beach Girl". Here she is, saving sand fleas in a bucket.

Have you ever seen sand fleas? Also called "Mole Crabs", they're tiny crustaceans that live on the beach, just at the breakline. They like the extra oxygen that is generated by the churning of the water as the waves break. When you pick them up, in a handful of shells, they try to burrow into the sand and they tickle your hands. This was Bug's definition of "The Best Animal God Ever Created".

Cute little suckers, aren't they?

No? I don't think so either.

But Bug loved them, which doesn't surprise me. Because she was always finding wonder and beauty in the things the rest of us found odd or even ugly. And because she was, is and always shall be a sea-loving creature.

So the favor? Cathy and Mike took a rose from Bug's funeral, lovingly saved for the last six months by Patty, and cast it into the ocean when they reached the shore yesterday. It was a beautiful gesture of love and remembrance. I'm sure her spirit was there to catch it. And I'm sure she smelled it, then smiled and laid it on the beach next to her bucket, just before she grabbed her dip net to head back into the water.

Perspective 3 -- Living in my own personal episode of Glee

2010-05-19T14:52:00.006-04:00

I had to go in for a sleep study last night -- I've been suffering from some pretty overwhelming fatigue, and Mr. Bean says I keep kicking him at night, so it made sense to check for things like apnea or restless leg syndrome.

As I was answering questions for the technologist, she stopped and looked at me. "I know you! We went to school together!"

I get this question all the time from people; I have one of those faces that reminds everyone of someone that they know. I am almost never someone from school. At least not their school. This time, however, it turns out we did go to school together; she graduated with my younger sister.

This made me cringe a little inside.

I try hard not to think about high school. I was as awkward, and frankly as obnoxious, as any character from Glee. I had a small circle of friends, and a significantly larger circle of detractors and tormentors. It wasn't as bad as middle school -- nothing is -- but it's still not a time I'm keen to return to.

Then she kept talking. "I'm sure you don't remember me. I hung around with Jim's younger sister, Heather. You were always with Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids and the swing choir and you were always on stage. I wanted to be just like you. I used to sit in the prop room and listen to you sing."

"Me? ME???? You're kidding, right?"

"No. You just always seemed so confident and you had so many friends."

The truth of the matter was that I was always in fear of the next taunt, of losing my lines, of Jenny, and Jean, and heaven-knows-who-else, who were always waiting for me to fail so they could move in and take my part. I was afraid that, at any time, Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids would decide that I wasn't cool enough for them anymore. This would happen periodically. I was always on the fringe of the really cool, talented kids group, for all that I used to pull down the lead roles in the musicals. So I compensated by never really engaging with anyone. I didn't remember this girl, apart from her being part of the cloud of friends who hung around with Heather. For all I knew, I might have treated her like dirt, in an attempt to assuage my own insecurity.

I swallowed hard. "Was I ever mean to you?. I was a total brat sometimes in high school."

"No; you were really nice to me. You always said thank you and you encouraged me to keep singing. Gawd, I mean it; you haven't aged at all since then. It's kinda scary."

"Well I'm not so sure about the aging thing, but I'm glad I wasn't mean to you. Because you seem like a really good person." I went on to tell her about what was going on with several of the kids she had graduated with; that Heather had opened a couple of very successful cafes here in town, that Tracy was living in Phoenix with my very cool brother-in-law, that Angie had lost more than 100 lbs and was an athletic trainer.

During this whole time, she was putting electrodes on my skin, in my hair, behind my ears. I felt like I was on The Machine from Princess Bride.

It was a fairly miserable night. I couldn't get used to the electrodes or the belts or the other devices she put on me. I also had an infrared camera and a microphone on me all night long, with her in the next room. So there I was, facing a night of subjecting someone who apparently didn't recognize what a total dweeb I was in high school to my snoring, my sleep talking and the nighttime functioning of my digestive system.

I had a sleep disorder alright: I didn't sleep. Not sure what they'll learn from this.

But I'm once again reminded that every experience can be different, depending on your perspective. I'm also reminded, yet again, that it is more important to be gracious than it is to be popular. And probably some hackneyed rot about making one's words sweet or something like that.

"I need applause to Live!"

Mother

2010-05-17T11:12:00.004-04:00

Yes, it's once again been two weeks since I've posted.

There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.

I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.

But I am still a mother.

Case in point: this weekend.

Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.

The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.

These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".

It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.

And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?

Antici-

2010-04-26T21:56:00.009-04:00

Yeah, so I can't wait to get my garden in. In the last two weeks, my tomatoes have gotten tomato-like

The cucumbers are positively bursting at the seams to get outside

And the peppers are...well, the peppers have sprouted. You can't put them outside until the soil warms up anyway...

Mr. Bean, a/k/a "King of the Roto-Tiller" has prepared the garden bed

And we've recruited 120,000 busy little assistants.

Can't wait to play in the dirt. I think the lettuce and spinach, and the bean seeds, will go in this weekend. :)

Perspective 2

2010-04-23T22:15:00.007-04:00

She sat across from me on the bus. We, the only two there so far, had taken seats across from each other while we waited for the others.

She'd spent the last two hours questioning me -- short, awkward questions that hinted at a desire for intimacy where before we had always had distance. I walked the line carefully -- trust is dangerous, even among women.

Thus far, I had been able to demure, focusing instead on the thousand tasks that needed to be completed. Now, however, it was just the two of us, trapped here by the expectation of our soon-arriving colleagues, and she saw her opportunity.

"So if you were to ask God a question, what would it be?"

Every cell in my body commanded me to pause, to think. I didn't.

"What job did you have for her to do that was so much more important than being my daughter?" I fought not to let the emotion choke my voice.

She leaned forward and removed her glasses. Her green eyes were striking against the auburn she had chosen for her hair. She chuckled.

"You are too young to be my sister; too old to be my daughter. So how to answer you...

...It may not be about her job, you know,"

"How do you mean?"

"Perhaps it's not about what her job is. Perhaps God is interested in what you have to do that is so much more important than looking after a soul he has already taken into himself."

I met her gaze and formed another question on my lips.

And then the others arrived.

Technology. Accountability. Attachment. Love.

2010-04-12T19:46:00.005-04:00

We finally did it.

We got Daisy Mae a cell phone.

In contrast to my normal M.O., I did not hold out for her to have accomplished something momentous before she got the phone. She didn't bring home straight A's or get named "student of the week" or anything like that.

In the end, we were done in by a couple of very simple conditions:

1) She's starting to make more friends and spend more time away from home, and we came to realize that it was in the best interest of our sanity and her safety for her to have a phone.

2) She didn't push the point.

I think, in some ways, #2 was a bigger determinant than #1. Don't get me wrong; we both recognized that it was unfair and kind of a pain in the butt to have to rely on her friends and her sister to reach her when she was away from home. But in some ways, I was more swayed by the fact that, when she broached the subject in the fall, I told her that I needed to see more evidence that she was responsible enough to have a phone. She pushed back, but only for a little while, and then she let it go.

No whining. No complaining. No dramatic tirades about how we were the most unfair and backwards parents in history. No re-opening of the discussion on a weekly basis. She just stepped away from it and lived with the house rules.

Kiersten was very similar in that respect. They both would internalize rules, including their consequences for having broken house rules, without too much fuss. If you know you're going to be grounded for breaking this rule and you break it anyway, well...you live with those consequences. If mom says no; then the answer is no. Screaming about it isn't going to change anything.

It's something I respected a lot in Kiersten, and it's something I respect a lot in Daisy Mae. That was why, when S and I started discussing this last week, I realized that Daisy would follow the rules regarding the phone. If she knows that she only has X number of text messages, or that she loses the phone for using it during school, she's very likely to live by that. (It doesn't hurt that AT & T lets you set your kids up to succeed by giving you tools to shut down talk and texting during bedtime and school hours.)

So we're giving it a try. She knows that I can get a transcript of her text messages at any time, and she knows that I have a full accounting of every call and text she makes or receives. And the device has a GPS in it, so I can use it to pinpoint her location to within 30 feet at any time. She's happy to have these controls, if it means that she and her friend Abigail can text each other 15 times a minute. ;) But more importantly, I think it signals to her that there is permanence here. That she's part of the tribe. When you grew up in a household where, sometimes, no one noticed or cared if you ate or not, there's a comfort in knowing that somebody wants to know your whereabouts to within 30 feet, that somebody will be there to answer the phone when you call, and somebody will come out in the rain to pick you up at the ice cream shop.

Daisy has been pretty much on Cloud Nine ever since we picked up her phone on Friday. I hope it lasts. I love her smile. And I like sending her goofy text messages from the next room.

U look like a @(^_^)@ in that shirt.

Oh, whatever!

Cucumbers.

2010-04-11T22:25:00.006-04:00

And tomatoes. And spinach, and lettuce and green peppers and herbs.

This year, for Christmas, Mr. Bean got me a greenhouse cart. Three levels. With humidity trays, adjustable lights, and a cover to keep all that earthy goodness perfectly moist and away from munching kitties.

He knows how much I have struggled with getting my garden plants started from seeds the last few years. We have no south-facing windows, and so invariably, my seed-started peppers and tomatoes end up leggy and small, and I eventually give up and go to the garden center for flats.

Not this year.

Last Sunday, because Easter was so out of kilter for all of us anyway, I came home from church and got busy starting my seeds out on the back porch in the 70-degree sunshine. As it turned out, several friends stopped by (Thank God for our friends. Seriously. I think we all would have ended up...well, I don't even want to think about where we would have spent the last five months without them) toward the end of the seeding time and all stood around, drinking champagne and making all the appropriate Oooo and Ahhhhh noises over the greenhouse cart.

But here I am, a week later, and I have lovely sprouted veggies. Not spindly, sickly, hung-over looking things, but hearty, thick stemmed beauties, resplendent with secondary cotyledons. Well, I was so tickled I started another two flats of flowering herbs today.

We can get lost in ourselves sometimes. We go to work, we struggle through our relationships, we search for meaning in our everyday activities. But sometimes, we can marvel at the simple miracle of plant growing from seed, the smell of wet earth, the bringing forth of beauty and sustenance from what seems to be nothing, and we can remember that the world is a remarkable place.

I'm going to go thank S. again for my Christmas present. He always knows what I need, even when I don't.

I'll update you after the garden gets roto-tilled in (amazing that I got a greenhouse and he just happened to get a roto-tiller for his tractor), and we start getting down to serious business for this year. Our neighborhood is especially hungry this year, and I'm looking forward to having our garden help sustain us all in more ways than one.

In the meantime, feast your eyes on these lovelies:

Bittersweet

2010-04-11T00:06:00.004-04:00

Things I did today:

Gardened a bit.

Watched Mr. Bean put away two new hives of bees.

Went to a memorial for the sister of a far-away friend who couldn't be there himself.

Spent time with the beautiful and talented ClevelandK8.

Cried a little. Together.

Talked to my Dad, who is in the hospital while his new bone marrow takes hold and gives him a new lease on life.

Took a nap.

Basked in the April sunshine.

Missed my beautiful baby girl a ton and a half

Felt thankful for the beautiful girl I still have here.

Glad it's not Monday anymore

2010-03-23T20:31:00.004-04:00

I don't know why I get maudlin on Mondays. Ellie has Taco Tuesdays; maybe I should have Maudlin Mondays.

I didn't get a chance to blog about the event I hosted last week. We had a chance to host several generals and rear admirals here to learn about the work we're doing in helping develop new treatments for wounded military personnel. I've written before about the need for these treatments; it's vitally important. They also wanted to learn about the program we have in face and hand transplant, which is a big part of the work I do. And yes; I'm being a bit cryptic for a reason. I don't want to give away too much, as it wasn't a public event.

I'll just say that the day went swimmingly. Better than super-fantastic, truth be told. I felt proud of the work the team did and to toot my own horn for a moment (you'll indulge me a little toot, won't you?), I totally rocked the whole "gather the right people in the right place at the right time and get them to say the right thing", thing.

The funniest part of the day was when the general's aide-de-camp called my cell phone.

"We're about 40 minutes late taking off. We're going to try to make up some time in the air, but we might be about 30 minutes late."

It was supposed to be a 90-minute flight; I figured they might make up 10-15 minutes, but I wasn't holding my breath.

45 minutes later, my phone rang again. "We're landing right now."

"You're what?"

"We're landing. Does the limo have clearance to come onto the tarmac?"

"Wait; you just took off 45 minutes ago. It's supposed to be a 90-minute flight. How did you do that???"

"It's the general's plane Ma'am." I could hear the smile in her voice. "I believe his exact words were, Punch this thing, Son. I don't want to miss lunch."

It's good to be the king, I guess. ;)

All of the presentations went great. The military folks asked a ton of questions and were genuinely interested in the program. As he left, the general pressed his personal coin into my hand. "You're doing good things here. You give these young men hope. I appreciate it."

Anyway, when the world looks bleak, sometimes it's good to remember that there are reasons to keep going and there are people who appreciate the effort.

Maybe next time, he'll let me ride in the jet. ;)

nothing left to hide behind

2010-03-22T21:41:00.005-04:00

Dear Bug,

You've been gone four months now. Things here are awfully hard right now. There aren't any holidays, or milestones, or excuses to hide behind anymore. There is no shock now to make us feel like you've just taken a vacation. I'm not quietly, secretly convinced that you're going to walk back in the door, any minute now. There's just a great big hole in our lives where you used to be.

I haven't touched your room. Your bed is still unmade. In those first few weeks, I was still shocked to see that you were not there. Now I'm just overwhelmingly, profoundly sad.

I'm worried about your Daddy. He doesn't seem to want to do anything, or see anyone. I'm worried that he's going to give up, that he's not going to finish school. Baby, if you could give him a sign, any sign, that you want him to pick up and start living again, I know he could use it.

I'm scared, Bug. I'm scared that your memories are going to fade. I'm scared that some day, I will come across your Winnie-the-Pooh washcloth, but I won't be able to remember how soft your skin was, or how much you loved being SuperPidge in the hooded towel, or the sound of your laugh. I'm scared that some day, I won't be able to remember the night we sat under the big maple tree over by the school and you told be about the worst school day ever and you read me your poetry book and we figured out how to make the world better together. Those memories are all I have left of you and I'm so very terrified of losing them.

I'm sorry, sweetlove. I don't mean to dump on you. Baby, I hope that heaven is, well...heavenly. And I don't want you to worry too much. I know we're going to be OK in time. It's just that right now, it's a bit of a walk through hell down here. So if you have a bit of comfort to send to us, just a small sign that reminds us that your spirit is still here and that you know how much we miss you, we sure could use it right now.

I love you, sweet baby, and I miss you so much.

And people wonder why I need therapy...

2010-03-15T13:01:00.003-04:00

The Scene: Friday evening. Oberlin College. Mr. Bean, Daisy Mae and I are at a Beekeeping meeting. While waiting for the meeting to start, Mr. Bean is looking at a catalog of beekeeping supplies. There is a page of honey jars for sale. The jars in the picture are full of honey.

Daisy Mae: Is that apple cider?

Mr. Bean: Daisy, this is a beekeeping catalog. I don't think bees make apple cider.

Daisy Mae: OK, but is that apple cider?

Mr Bean, looking perplexed: Um...um...yes. That's apple cider. It's harvested by the Apple Cider Beetles.

Daisy Mae: The Beatles? Are they still alive?

Mr Bean: Huh?

5 minutes later, Daisy Mae looks over Mr. Bean's shoulder again, as he looks at a second page of honey jars.

Daisy Mae: Wow, that's dark. Is that ketchup?

Mr. Bean stops for a moment. His mouth opens and closes several times.

Mr. Bean: No, that's more apple cider. It's harvested by the apple cider beetles.

Daisy Mae: Aren't The Beatles dead?

Mr. Bean: Two of them are.

Daisy Mae: Why aren't they making music anymore?

Mr. Bean: Because they went into the apple cider business.

(pause)

Daisy Mae: I think you're making this up.

Snow Angels

2010-02-28T10:26:00.006-05:00

Dear Bug,

I miss you today. It's weird; every day I miss you, but every day it's for a different reason.

There is a LOT of new snow on the ground here. Like, Bluebird can't get her belly out of the snow and Angus disappears entirely if he gets off the path.

But the snow is too even. It's nice and clean and undisturbed. There are no snow angels. You always loved making snow angels. I can still see you out there, in your bibs and jacket, methodically working your way across the yard. Stop. Set. Drop over backwards, disappearing into the powdery white. Then emerge, laughing, with snow in your jacket and a perfect, beautiful snow angel as evidence that you were there.

There are no footprints. No forts. No tunnels where you and Will have been playing Ben 10 or Pokemon.

Every time one of the branches outside gives up its payload, I think of you, standing under your little tree back by the river, shaking it to knock the snow off and laughing when it all fell on your head. I went back there and shook off your tree this morning. I knew you would be worried about it.

It snowed the morning you left me. It was the first snow of the season and you were so happy about it. I wish with all my heart you were still here to enjoy it today.

And in other news...

2010-02-24T09:59:00.006-05:00

People who study grief for a living say that there's a peak in the overwhelming, can't-make-coffee-without-crying portion of the program between three and six months after your loss. I gotta figure that's where i am now. Because seriously; brushing my teeth makes me burst into tears.

I guess it's just something to gut through. It's interesting that this peak comes just about the time when the rest of the world starts to figure you should be getting back into the swing of things.

I'm just glad my office door closes, and doesn't have a window.

So instead of recapping the ongoing "Kleenex Count" here in the land of Bean, I thought we'd come up to date on things that are far happier: The ongoing progress with bringing Daisy Mae into our family.

I've neglected this in my writing, although it's been a major focus of our activity. I guess my point here in the last three months has been to try to find a place to pour out my pain. I'm still going to do that, although it's probably time to intermingle some more discussion of living, rather than dying.

We're starting to become a family again.

It hasn't been easy. We've had a lot of family therapy over the last three months, with a lot of homework and very difficult heart-to-heart talks along the way. I'll confess that, when the Bug died, I realized that I had been thinking of Daisy Mae more as "the Bug's sister" than "my daughter". It was a difficult and painful confession to make. But in making it, I freed myself to figure out how to build my relationship with Daisy from scratch, with our own rules and our own ways of doing things.

I have to say it's working out well. She's still a teen, and by that I mean she makes me stop and stare, dumbfounded, at her at least once a day. But she's increasingly becoming MY teen.

I had a wonderful time fussing over her for Valentine's Day, picking her up from a weekend away at a teen Purity Conference with flowers and balloons and candy. She acted like it wasn't a big deal at the time, but later, I overheard her tell three of her friends and her counselor about it.

This weekend, we got her ears pierced. This was a big deal, and she was scared. But she's happy with the results, and so am I. We also went shopping for her dresses for her spring semi-formal dance, which might have been a disaster, but ended up being a delightful time. We got dresses that she loved and that even Dad approved of.

She seems...happy. And that's a big deal. She hasn't had a lot of happy in her life. We're honestly, collectively looking forward to finalizing the adoption. We're looking forward to a trip to Ireland together with Aunt Kate. We're laughing more and fighting a LOT less. We're cooking together more. We're making plans.

It's not perfect. We still disagree over bedtimes, food choices, R-Rated movies, chores, boyfriends, the Internet, cell phones, and towels on the floor. We all take turns feeling and expressing hurt. We each take our turns crying, and each for our own reasons. But we're becoming a family and that's a good thing.

Today

2010-02-22T13:45:00.006-05:00

Today, I am tired of being brave. I want to scream and rage and cower. I want to wallow in self-pity.

Today, I do not want to go to work and make decisions and solve problems. I want to spend the day curled up in a ball, hugging Kiersten's stuffed gharial and crying.

Today, I resent every intact family I see, with their healthy, happy children who give them joy. I want to switch places with them.

Today, I do not want to answer the co-worker who has cornered me in the ladies room, with the tears in her eyes, with an optimistic story about how grateful I am that my beautiful little girl didn't suffer when she died. I want to collapse into her arms and sob and tell her how sad I am.

Today, I want to look people straight in the eye, and answer the question, "How are you?" with the honest answer, "The most precious person in my world is gone and it hurts so much that I'm struggling to breathe."

Today, I want to cry and not have to fix my eye make-up afterward, so I don't look a wreck in my 3:00 meeting.

Today, I do not want to make small talk, cogent presentations or even sense in English. I want to babble like the village idiot and talk about my baby and how much I miss her.

Today, I do not want to "prop up" another living being. I want to be selfish and keep all of my energy for me. I want to blame everything and everyone I see for my pain.

Today, I want my sweet baby back.

Today, I will not get any of these things. But it doesn't stop me from wanting them.

And just who, exactly, is going to eat all these pickles???

2010-02-18T08:30:00.013-05:00

As any parent who has had a child go off to college knows, our kids leave a lot behind when they exit our lives. The circumstances of that exit really don't matter, ultimately --their stuff is still there and has to be dealt with .

I haven't been able to tackle the Bug's room yet; in fact, I still haven't made her bed from the day she died. Can't do it. It's now covered with the hundreds and hundreds of cards and letters from people who cared enough about her -- or about us -- to send a note of condolence. It may be 2012 before I get it cleaned off and I'm OK with that. The door is closed and we'll open it again when that particular wound has scarred over.

But this really isn't about dealing with The Room. More to the point, this is about the stuff our kids leave behind in our dining rooms, family room...and pantries. The management of this "stuff" can be painful and utterly absurd, all at the same time.

You see, I have come to realize that children train us. They train us to buy things. Over and over. I have bought cucumbers and red peppers no fewer than five times since the Bug died. It's automatic. They were the Bug's snackfood of choice for when she got home from school or had the munchies before dinner. I have, for the last eight years, cut the top off of every pepper I use to prepare a meal and set it aside, so she could sneak in and pretend to "steal" them off the cutting board. I probably always will.

There are myriad other things of Kiersten's that so far have remained utterly untouched, as if we're all waiting for her to come home. Her pretty little silver purse is hanging off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. It has $34.82 in it (I swear, that kid had more money than God). We all look at it. We all acknowledge that it needs to be put away. And yet, none of us will touch it, let alone take the money out of it. I have gone so far as to pick it up, and verify that her money is still in there, then replace it on the back of the chair. I know that Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae have done the same. It may sit there forever.

So, too, we are faced with the dilemma of the Untouchable Pickle Jar. The Bug loved pickles. LOVED them. I used to have to restrict her from eating pickles before breakfast and from drinking the pickle juice. (In fact, in my Paranoid Mommy moments, back before the Worst Thing in the World came to pass, I used to indulge perverse waking nightmares of my kid dropping over dead of a heart attack from eating too much salt. Who'd have thought...) In any event, about a week before Thanksgiving, we indulged the Bug and bought her a gallon jar of Vlasic Kosher Dill Spears. She opened the jar the morning she died -- and I think ate several of them before breakfast. Because they were then open, she made room in the fridge for the pickle jar (because pickles, as we know, are always better cold). It might as well be labeled, "Kiersten's Pickles! Keep out!"

So there it sits. A gallon jar takes up a lot of room in the fridge. Daisy Mae has GERD, making pickles strictly verboten. I like pickles well enough, but probably only eat 2-3 per month. But we can neither get rid of the pickle jar, nor can we even open the jar and eat the pickles. They were -- they are -- the Bug's pickles.

I hope that I can report back later that I have managed to return from the grocery store and not opened the bag, found red peppers and cucumbers, and said "WTF?". I also hope that I will have retained a small handful of pickles from the jar, to keep for making tuna salad and the like, and that I have removed the jar from the fridge.

But I can't make any promises.

Having trouble finding my voice

2010-02-07T22:30:00.004-05:00

I have had a lot of things going through my head of late, but I'm having trouble articulating them in any fashion that makes sense to anyone else. But because I've been writing fairly regularly lately, I figured I should put something down so you all know I didn't get hit by a truck or anything. I might have to resort to a bulleted list however.

So, in no particular order, here are about ten days of random thoughts and occurrences:

I got be spend the night of the State of the Union address in Washington DC. Although I have been there several times, I've actually never gotten to go look at any of the tourist-y parts of it before. I was lucky this time, however, in that my friend Maria and I found ourselves with a free afternoon when it was sunny and in the 40s. We decided to go walking and check out the city a bit. We were rewarded, not only with a chance to go take totally stupid pictures of ourselves and each other in front of the White House, but also with finding a fabulous bistro, serving Pays d'Oc fare, across the street from the Ford's Theater. So Fabulous Lunch + 5-mile walk on a sunny afternoon + touristy goodness + true friendship = the nicest afternoon I've spent in quite awhile - certainly the nicest since Kiersten died. Yay. Oh, and we got to watch the SOTU in the lobby bar of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, nibbling oesetra caviar on toast points and drinking cognac. It didn't suck.

I find that I am more functional, mentally, than I have been thus far. However, when the whole grief thing does come on, it strikes with a viciousness I never could have imagined. This scared the devil out of me for awhile, but then I saw an article in the New Yorker that basically said, "yep; you'll have that." It also suggests that grief builds for about six months for most people and then starts to get better. So I guess we have awhile longer to tough this out before it's actually going to improve.

I went house-hunting with my friend Joyce today. She's looking to move back from Texas with her husband Mike. I've written about them before. We found a beautiful -- and by beautiful, I mean head-for-the-mountains stunning -- home on an equally stunning piece of property. With all the goodies they need to take care of their horses. And it's only about a half-hour from our house. This could be a very good thing. We spent an enormous amount of time with them before Kes was born; they moved away when she was still very young. I'm looking forward to having them home; I think they may be part of our healing.

Daisy Mae has started saying "I love you". She also called me "mom" the other day. These may seem like little things, but around here, they're a pretty damn big deal. Especially since the first I love you came about a half hour after I busted her for sexting (a bra and panties shot sent to one of the boys at school via MySpace) and we had a long talk about what building an ugly reputation in school can do to the rest of your life. It's true what they say -- kids desperately want to know that you care enough to stop them from hurting themselves.

We've decided to stop going to Karate. Even though I dearly love the people who run the local dojo, it's just too, too painful for us to go back there. Kiersten loved it there very much and we can't walk in without seeing her. So we're looking at the health club down the street for an exercise option. I need it desperately.

Well, I guess we've progressed from "I got nothin" to a full-fledged update. I'll find my voice to write about something other than a newsreel in a bit. For one, I have a flyer advertising for a local writer's contest for which entries are due April 1. I took first prize in this competition a couple of years ago, and because of that, I haven't entered since. But I'm not proud -- I need a little pick-me-up right now and I need to focus on writing a piece of fiction before my brain forgets how to do it.

So gentle readers, I will leave you with one final thought: Just like the world feels new after a big thunderstorm, or looks beautiful and clean after a blizzard, our emotional selves can feel purified by a storm of tears. I've learned a lot about the usefulness of crying in the last few weeks. If you're feeling out of sorts lately, I recommend indulging in a good 20-minute pity party. It'll help. I promise.

Act 3, Scene 1: in which I set aside any attempts at eloquence for a few moments and just put some naked truth out there...

2010-01-26T12:53:00.013-05:00

.

BHD wrote this yesterday, in response to my post about Horatio: What others call courage you probably know as simply keeping on with life.

Something as public as a blog sort of forces you to take all the feelings you have inside and sort them through and make them palatable for the rest of the world to read. I suppose there are those who would call that "courageous" or the exercise "therapeutic". And they would, perhaps, be right. But it's only part of the story.

Others have made me aware that there are a few of you out there in Blogland who are reading this because you're trying to process a loss of your own, and you're thinking, "Holy crap! I am five months (or 8 months, or 3 years) out from losing (someone very dear to you) and I'm still a blubbering idiot most of the time. Why am I not moving along like she seems to be?"

I wish I could tell you that I’m 'OK' and 'taking things day by day' and all that – and I guess in reality that’s what I’m doing. But really? I’m pretty effing far from OK. I have exactly 12 functioning brain cells (up from 6 last week, but still) and a hole in my heart the size of Wisconsin. Probably a good thing that I’m too old and fat to join the Army Special Forces, otherwise I’d probably enlist, just on the off chance that I could get myself killed in an honorable way and it'd let me be close to her faster. So don't let the composed exterior fool you.

And I'm going to let you in on another secret: All the books and whatnot say that the 'milestone' days are really hard when you lose a child. And they are. But the thought that the 'milestone days' are the really hard part of all this? In my experience, that’s a big, fat lie. The really tough days? The days that make you really, honestly think that you wish you had the stones to go join the Special Forces or something? That would be just the regular days. The days that don’t require you to do anything. The days when you don’t have a “role” to play. The days when you can't put on someone else's face and pretend that this is all some macabre production number. The days when you just can’t distract yourself from the awful, painful reality of your loss.

Tuesday. Sunday. Laundry day. Those are the tough days. The days when you have to look, search, hope that you'll find some meaning, some purpose to why you and your geriatric cat are both still here when three months ago, you were worried about how she was going to cope with eventually losing you both. That meaning is tough to find. And believe me; I'm looking pretty hard. It sucks. It hurts like hell. Makes me want to sit and blubber like an idiot.

So, blubbering idiots of the world, unite. We are all brothers and sisters in this club that none of us wants to belong to.

Thanks for being here, to give me someone to reach out to. This is helping me. And if you're reading because you're searching, too, I hope it's helping you.

To you, Horatio.

2010-01-25T10:28:00.014-05:00

The mug of Foster’s slid across the table at the Lazy Flamingo, aided by perhaps a quarter inch too many layers of varnish. I stopped it before it hit the wall at the edge of the booth. S similarly stuck a hand out just in time to keep his mug from colliding with the Bug’s virgin strawberry daiquiri. S and I made a quick motion of a toast to each other and took the first sip of Foster’s while the Bug busied herself with trying to lift the dollop of whipped cream off the top of the daiquiri with her straw. *Plop*. The recalcitrant whipped cream slid from its perch for the third time and landed back on top of the drink. I handed Bug my spoon. She scowled, “Don’t spoil my game.”

Fatigue sat just below the surface of my consciousness; S and I had been up until 3 am on a late night snapper fishing run, during which I had landed three beautiful mutton snappers and a spectacular case of seasickness. Don’t be bashful; don’t be shy. Lean over the edge and let it fly! The mantra from the previous night had tickled the Bug to no end, “Mama, did you really honk off the back of the boat?!” Her toothy giggle revealed that she had succeeded in transferring some of the whipped cream from the daiquiri to her mouth.

“Yes; I really honked off the back of the boat. Did you really honk all over that bed in the emergency room?”

Bug scowled at me for the second time, “Hey I was really sick! And I had to get a shot!” I winked at her. She screwed up her face once more and then giggled. The night before last had been spent with Bug at the emergency room in Ft. Myers, after she developed a nasty fever. I had been leery about visiting an inner city ER at 2 am on a Saturday – thinking that a seven-year-old with a virus would wait in line behind a fair share of auto wreck and gunshot victims. But 104 degrees was more than I felt like I could handle on my own and in the end they had fawned over her like a princess, and an hour and a magic shot later her fever was down and she fell asleep on the way back to the condo. And today, we’d taken a short walk on the beach at the Sanibel lighthouse and were huddling at our favorite watering hole on the island, awaiting conch fritters and grilled grouper.

"Daddy, how big was that fish you caught?”

As S measured out about 14 inches with his hands, explaining how the length of a fish is measured from the tip of the nose to the caudal peduncle, Bug grinned like she was up to something. With her fingers, she measured out a span of three inches and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “It was Horatio the Honkapuss!” The giggle erupted from her.

Last weekend, we sat in the same booth at the Lazy Flamingo, with S’s parents. I told the story, and we raised a glass to the Bug and to strawberry daiquiris with whipped cream, and to Horatio the Honkapuss. The varnish was a couple layers thicker. The grouper was temptingly fresh. The Foster’s was still cold and the conch fritters still delicious. All that was missing was the goggle-eyed grin and the belly-laugh of a little girl. I’m not sure the place will ever feel the same to us, but I’ll always feel grateful for the memory it’s given me.

Love you, Bug, and I miss you very much.

Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Beauty

2010-01-14T22:30:00.002-05:00

Today, a few of my colleagues bestowed a gift on us, in honor of our beautiful bug, that overwhelmed us entirely.

I can't tell you what it is yet; there will be a news story about it later. (Yes; we'll be in the news again. I don't mind so much this time.) But today, S and I are once again feeling profound caring and a bittersweet sense of the goodness of the world.

Getting back in the saddle

2010-01-13T10:31:00.005-05:00

One of the toughest things to do when you are grieving -- especially when your tragedy has been such a public thing on so many levels -- is to try to get people to let you do your job again.

This week, I am at a review meeting for a national program I'm involved with, developing new therapies to treat our war-wounded. There's a lot of work to do -- we have reviews for all of our projects, there is media to manage, strategic planning to be done for the year, as well as re-affirming the team of nearly 300 who have to get all this work done.

This is the first time since we lost the Bug that I've seen many of my colleagues. Most of them know what's happened and their first priority is to check in and see how S and I are doing. It's only been seven weeks, after all, and the grief can still be very fresh at times. Some of them don't know what's happened, and I'm left with how to answer the question, "Gosh, I don't think I've talked with you in MONTHS. You must be busy. So how are things going?"

The first instinct is to go with the standard, "Good. Things are going well." But in truth, things are NOT going well. I've been through the worst hell imaginable. But of course, you can't answer that way, either. So I have to take the deep breath, stand up tall, look these people in the eye and say, "My husband and I lost our young daughter the day after Thanksgiving."

And then there is shock, and pity, and tears. I've told the story so many times, it doesn't even make me flinch anymore. Once again, my job is to help everyone else process my tragedy. We talk about faith. I share a story or two. I talk about what a lovely, caring man my county coroner is.

Invariably, they all ask me, "How are you doing this? Shouldn't you just take it easy?" They don't really feel this inside -- their sense of urgency matches my own. I tell them that "taking it easy" isn't the reason I'm here, nor the reason any of the rest of us are here. We're here because there is work to be done, and if we don't do it, the result will be more mothers having to tell stories about how they lost their children.

And then we have to move on. Because we have work to do. Because there are other lives at stake. Because the Bug told me, more than once, "You have to help them take care of those men, Mama."

Baby girl, today I am looking into the eyes of each and every one of these soldiers, their doctors and their caretakers. I am looking for the thing in each of them that you would see -- the reason each of them deserves to feel love, the reason each of them deserves the best I can bring to this. And I'm honoring you while I do it. Thank you for helping me be mindful of the reason I do my job, and for the love and compassion I need to bring to it to do it well.

The first closure.

2010-01-07T21:49:00.001-05:00

Of all the questions in the world, "Why?" may be the hardest to answer. Why are we here? Why do people suffer? Why is the sky blue?

The question that, for me, has dominated nearly every waking minute for the last six weeks has been, "Why did my baby die?"

My need to know has been manifold: On an intellectual level, the scientist in me hasn't been able to understand how anyone could die as quickly as she did. On an emotional level, the mother in me needed to know, for sure, that my baby really didn't suffer. And on a purely selfish level, I needed to be re-assured that I couldn't have done anything different to affect what happened that horrific night.

I have played the minutes between 8:55 pm and 9:06 pm in my mind, over and over, a thousand times. What if I was wrong? What if she really did have a pulse and I just didn't get the defibrillator on her quickly enough? What if I'd been skating by her side, as I had been just 10 minutes earlier? Maybe I could have started CPR 90 seconds sooner? What if we hadn't gone skating that night?

Today, I had a call from the county coroner. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he took a deep breath and said, "We have been completely unable to find a single anatomical or pathological reason for her death." His voice caught. "I'm sorry."

"So that means Long QT Syndrome, right?" I finally exhaled.

"By process of elimination, yes. That or a channelopathy even more rare." He paused. I could feel his shrug over the phone. "A lightning strike."

It was precisely the answer I expected. Figuring this puzzle out has taken no small amount of my attention over the last few weeks. I had crossed off all the other causes of sudden cardiac death, settling perhaps a week ago on potassium ion Long QT Syndrome. Long QT is uncommon, but not rare either. It happens because the careful balance of sodium and potassium that make the electrical signals propagate through the heart (and cause it to beat) gets out of whack. The protein mutations that cause it can range from nearly benign to inevitably fatal. It causes the heart to "forget" to beat, and is usually diagnosed from a fainting incident. It is usually first evident in young boys, but nearly always makes its first appearance in girls at the cusp of puberty. In the most malignant form, the first indication is sudden cardiac arrest. When this happens, it not only kills the heart, but the errant electrical signals cascade through the body and cause nearly instant loss of brain function as well. These children do not recover.

Perhaps two dozen children per year die because of this. You can't diagnose it after death, but all the other causes had been exhausted.

So there it was. A lightning strike. Can't predict it. Can't stop it. Can't repair it. He reassured me that there was nothing that I could have done or not done to prevent this outcome. I knew in my heart he was right.

"For the record, she may have been the most beautiful child I've ever seen. I don't know why that's important. We tried so hard to find you a definite answer. I'm so sorry."

We cried together a little bit. Then he wished me well and said goodbye.

I know why she died so quickly. I know she didn't suffer. I know I couldn't fix it.

Not that it changes the outcome, or lessens the pain of having lost our beautiful girl. But at least I can stop asking Why.

First day of the rest of my life

2010-01-04T10:19:00.006-05:00

So today starts a new routine for a new year and a new "us". Daisy is back to school. I'm back to work full time. S is back to trying to finish his education. The world, unfortunately, keeps plugging along, as much as I would like to make it stop for me. The world is both kind and cruel that way.

I find that I am surprised, almost continually, by the ways the world has not changed. The bus still arrives promptly at 6:45 every morning to take Daisy Mae to school. It snowed this morning, which meant that traffic was backed up and it took me nearly two hours to get to work. Don't ask me why I was convinced that I would be exempt from this ordeal. There are times you want to say to the world, "Sorry, excuse me; the little love of my life is gone. My baby is dead. Can't you see that I'm just not equipped to handle frustrations like lake effect snow? Can you please teleport me to work now?" Unfortunately, there is no one with whom I can register this complaint. God, I have found, is not inclined to bend to my requests of late; his having so recently re-assigned my Bug to a new job title on a different plane of existence.

So I am left to find creative ways to cope with the reality of a world that has not stopped and is increasingly expecting me to come along for the ride:

1) I find that I absolutely must cry, as hard as I can, every morning. Otherwise, my emotions, not being sufficiently exhausted, will sneak up and whack me in the back of the head while driving in snow traffic, or in the middle of budget meetings. I usually do this while walking the dogs in the woods. This works on several levels: I am alone and outside and the day is new and my mind can go where I will it. The dogs do not care that I am crying. And I get to take a shower afterward, so I'm not a ragged mess. I simply take out a memory that is particularly happy, or sad, or painful -- one that really, it would be a lot easier to bury -- and ponder on it for awhile. S has likened it to the mental equivalent to picking a scab. Anyway, I can take fifteen minutes and cry like a baby while the dogs investigate what critters have invaded the woods overnight. Most of the time, I can then keep it together for the rest of the day. Most of the time. Mileage varies.

2) I always keep a funny story about Kes at the ready for when friends call and sob on the phone to me, or co-workers appear in my doorway with tears in their eyes. The exchange goes like this:
"It's good to see you back."
"Thanks; wish I could say it's good to be back, but seriously, I want to go back to bed."
Now the crying starts. "God, I just don't have any words for you...it's so sad."
"Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time when the Bug ... (insets clever story here)"

3) I always, always, always carry tissues, mascara and lipstick.

4) I do yoga stretches several times a day. It helps me re-center and breathe. I must be careful while wearing tight pants, however. I already had to get my emergency sewing kit out once.

5) I write. I write some things here. I write the really gnarly stuff in a private journal. But I write every day, even if it makes me cry some more.

2010. New year, new decade, new life for me. I started 2000 pregnant and on a quest to figure out how to be a mother for the first time. I guess I'm starting 2010 with a quest to figure out how to be what I am supposed to be from now on.

The New Year

2010-01-01T14:08:00.000-05:00

2009 started as one of the best years of our lives and ended with the worst tragedy of our lives. But we have learned the measure of the friendships we hold and despite our heartache, we know we are blessed. May 2010 hold peace, love and prosperity for each of you.

Because not EVERYthing is about my grief...

2009-12-30T12:07:00.002-05:00

Thanks to The Oatmeal for making me laugh in a totally sick way this morning...

Created by Oatmeal

Heaven's Amusement Park

2009-12-29T13:20:00.008-05:00

Kiersten grabbed my hand and dragged me along the white hallway to where the roller coaster was loading up. "Hurry up!" She climbed into the only seat. "Watch me, Mama!"

I watched, smiling, as she went around the short track three, then four times. She laughed, her dark hair flying out behind her. As she got out of the car and ran around to re-enter the non-existent line, she yelled, "Come on with me this time!" I climbed in with her, then noticed she was not sitting in the seat, but floating next to me. She was in some sort of water slide, whooshing along on her back. Laughing, she grabbed my hand again. I felt so happy. Then I remembered.

"You're not real, are you?"

She looked at me briefly, "No Mama. I'm just in your dream."

"So you haven't come back?"

"No, Mama. But we can play for now."

"So I'll wake up and you won't be here."

She nodded. "Uh-huh."

Then she hugged me. I could feel her arms around me, could smell her hair. I felt her in my arms, whole and solid. My joy was transcendent.

"If I know it's a dream, why am I still here? Don't you have to go? Am I awake?"

"Not yet. Let's ride another ride."

Then my alarm went off.

4 lbs., 7 oz.

2009-12-28T10:24:00.006-05:00

Kiersten's ashes came home the other day. We had ordered an urn awhile back, a wooden one. I guess we both wanted her to be in something warm -- something that was once alive. Neither of us was happy with what we ordered and we sent it back. S is going to work with his old woodworking mentor and they are going to make an urn together. His mentor is a master wood-turner and I'm certain it will be perfect, however it comes out. This is important to S; he wants to feel like he has a role to play here in making her comfortable.

In any event, the result in the short term is that she came home in a cardboard box. No; not a bag-lady-brown-corrugated-Amana box. It's actually a pretty nice little white box. It has -- wait for it -- a Certificate of Authenticity on the top of it. "Oh look, honey. She's bona-fide!"

It weighs exactly 4 lbs, 7 oz.

I was at once surprised both by how heavy and how light it was. K was a big kid -- just about 100 pounds and just under 5 feet tall. She was, to be honest, too big for my lap anymore, for all that she spent a lot of time there anyway. All that kid reduced to 4 lbs, 7 oz. An entire lifetime of memories in a white cardboard box with a Certificate of Authenticity on the top. Don't ask me why, but this morning I put the box in front of my stereo and played Alice's Restaurant. She loved that song, and there was something about the Certificate that made me think of "twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with the circles and the arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one." I put the song on and I sang along to the singing parts of it while I cleaned up the family room.

And then I put her under the Memory Tree.

4 lbs, 7 oz. Almost inconceivable.

Comfort, perhaps, if not joy.

2009-12-25T02:02:00.004-05:00

There is so much I want to write about Christmas, but for a change I cannot find the words.

Christmas eve mass was beautiful and I was profoundly glad to have started my Christmas at the stroke of midnight with such joyful music. I was also glad for my dad and step-mom, who came with me. S was having a terribly hard day on Thursday and I would have gone to church alone if they hadn't driven out to go with me.

I understood why S was so sad. There were so many things that were part of our Christmas tradition that we did not do this year and probably will never do again. No mixing up magic reindeer food (oats, and my own special magic flying powder that looks remarkably like a combination of glitter and corn starch). No leaving out cookies for Santa. No sneaking downstairs after K went to bed to assemble her special "Santa" present. None of it. Just emptiness.

It about devoured S on Thursday. I ached for his hurt, but couldn't really find the words to comfort him. So I just hugged him and let him be for the day. I was all the more thankful for the distraction of midnight mass, however.

Christmas day was really very pleasant. My dad and step-mom, and my in-laws, came over. We made breakfast strata and fruit and muffins. Everyone brought a little of something. The mimosas were consumed in unheard-of quantities and the conversation was upbeat and careful. It was as happy a celebration as we probably could have hoped for. I got some pretty good swag, truth be told, including a totally awesome seedling cart that I can use to grow my herbs and to start all my seeds for spring planting. Daisy Mae made out like a bandit, with more clothing, art supplies, make-up, perfume, and video games than any kid needs or wants.

It's funny; I never understood why the parking lot at the movie theater was always full on Christmas day. Who on Earth would go to the movies when it was primo family time? And yet, there Daisy and I were, standing in line for the 4:50 showing of Sherlock Holmes. Good movie, by the way. I have found that movies do a good job of filling in empty spaces. I guess a lot of people have spaces to fill on Christmas, because the entire theater was packed. I saw two people ask for tickets for a movie, and when they found their choice sold out, they simply took a ticket for the next movie, whatever it was. Like I said, there are apparently a lot of empty spaces out there. I never knew.

The evening found the phone ringing, non-stop. I am again reminded of how blessed we are to be surrounded by so many friends and family who care about us and want to be sure we know we are loved. Incredible. I hope I never take them for granted.

Joy is pretty hard to come by these days. But for a few days there, we had comfort.

Well, lookee there. I guess I had a few words after all.

The Memory Tree

2009-12-23T07:42:00.006-05:00

When you lose a child, the community mourns with you in ways you don't expect.

The phone rings, and on the other end is always a small voice.

So sorry if I'm disturbing you.

I have something for you. May I stop by?

There are tiny keepsakes from schoolchildren. Meals of rigatoni or chicken. Checks for one of Kiersten's causes.

For most of these things, it's easy to be gracious. I'm always grateful for the food. Never thought I'd be happy to have meals brought to my house, but I'm so exhausted all the time right now that a meal I don't have to cook is always a good meal. The checks allow me to focus on the work that Love-A-Stray and the zoo are doing.

Yesterday was different. Two families of Kiersten's classmates brought over dinner and Christmas cookies. But they also brought over two things I didn't expect. The first was a prayer quilt that their church had made. The second was a memory tree.

They had collected thoughts about Kiersten from each of her classmates, and had placed them on a large cut-out Christmas tree, with the pictures of each classmate who had written something.

I couldn't look at it while they were there. I had to fight to keep from crying. We talked about the dogs. I asked the girls about their letters to Santa (which earned me a nervous laugh, like they weren't sure if I actually knew -- you know -- about Santa). We talked about the zoo and the animal shelter and the church. I had to fight to stay on an even keel; to talk when I wanted to scream.

Then they left as Kiersten's friend, Serena, came over. She was K's best friend. We had made plans to make popcorn mix, like we have for the last three years. I also wanted to give Serena some of Kiersten's things that would be meaningful to Serena.

It was a great visit until it was time to go. Losing your child also means losing that child's friends -- children who used to fill your house with laughter and love. You're left with only echoes and memories.

Late last night, I looked at the memory tree. Fourth-graders are wonderful.

Ashley: Kiersten loved animals.

T.J.: Kiersten loved everybody!

Sarah: She was my first friend.

Hannah: She was my best friend.

Jillian: Kiersten was beautiful.

Maeve: Kiersten was courageous.

Jonathan: Kiersten was the most loveable person I've ever known.

Yes, Jonathon. Yes, she was.

I miss her so much.

Dear Bug,

2009-12-19T22:12:00.002-05:00

Dear Bug,

Today I actually went out and had some fun. I visited with Grandma Laura this morning; we went and did a bit of Christmas shopping. Then we went to Uncle Joe and Aunt Kate's house where we met Uncle Peter and Aunt Christy and we went to see Avatar. It was a totally awesome movie. I have to admit, though, that Daddy and I both felt a little bit guilty enjoying it -- you wanted to see that movie so much. I remember that, just before we left to go skating, you were watching the trailer for Avatar on my computer. Well, it was just as good as you thought it was going to be. I hope you got to see it, too.

It was good to be out with friends. It's kind of funny -- so many people have gotten to know each other better through their love of you. You were put here to make people love each other, I think. I just wish that you didn't have to go to make that happen.

Last night, I went back to the skating rink. I had to do it -- part of me was afraid that you were stuck there somehow, and I just had to be sure. But you weren't there. It was just a skating rink; it wasn't scary and I didn't feel sick or anything. I know it wasn't the rink's fault you left us there. But it was the last place I saw your beautiful smile and heard you laugh. It made me miss you so very much.

You would be so surprised and happy to see how many people sent in donations to Love-A-Stray for the kittehs and to the Zoo for the Gharial. Lots of them are from people we don't even know. But because they thought you were so special, they are making sure that you will be the gharial's mom for the next 20 years! And that's not all. Because of you, the people at love-a-stray will have enough money to take care of 25 extra cats this year. All because of you, Baby.

I managed to go all day today without crying. I feel a little bit guilty about that. But I still miss you every minute. It just doesn't hurt quite as bad today.

I love you and I miss you, Bug.

Lift Up Your Voice

2009-12-17T10:44:00.008-05:00

There are two means of refuge from the misery of life - music and cats.

~Albert Schweitzer

Last night, I went to choir practice at church for the first time in 20 years.

The first ten years, I missed because we hadn't found a church that made us feel at home. The second ten years, I missed because I didn't want to take time away from Kiersten.

It took about 15 seconds for the rest of the choir to figure out that I was "that" Mrs. Sump. You know; the one who just lost her little girl. Poor thing; I don't think I could be here. They welcomed me with hugs and assurances that I would do just fine, and whatever I could do, I could do, and don't worry; most of the rest of the altos don't know the parts for the Christmas Concert pieces either.

The compassion and pity was a bit overwhelming. It felt condescending. I thought I might have to leave. It was that hard to be there.

The reason I had come there in the first place was that I had made an agreement with Father Charlie. In a completely unconventional moment, he made a confession to me, while I was making my confession prior to Kiersten's funeral: "I've never done this before. I've been a priest for 30 years, and I've never had to bury a child like this before. And you can see grace here and I just see evil. I don't know how to do this." And then he started to cry. I had made him promise me, then and there, that he would not cry during Kiersten's eulogy. "I have to follow you up there, and if you cry, I'm going to cry and then I won't be able to talk, and we'll never get through this. So you can't cry up there." We pinkie-swore that we'd hold each other together.

He almost lost it. I heard his voice catch at the beginning of the eulogy, but he paused, calmed himself and rose to the occasion. It was a beautiful, heartfelt, uplifting tribute and I was extremely grateful for his words and his strength. I caught him afterward. "I thought I lost you for a minute there."

He smiled. "You owe me, now. You have to join the choir."

So there I was, promising the group that if I couldn't find my way well enough through the music, that I would not embarrass them by actually singing at the Christmas prelude. And then the actual rehearsal started and it was like riding a bicycle. All the music came back, and I found myself lifted up and comforted by the words, the technical points, the joining together of voices in praise. We floated through the Christmas portion of The Messiah and an adaptation of Greensleeves that was new to me but just lovely. Lots of traditional carols that I knew as well as my own name. I struggled with two a capella pieces, but I think I can master those in the next ten days. I found that I really hadn't forgotten how to do this, and for two hours, my heart was glad.

As we broke up, they all came and hugged me again, but differently this time. This time, it was in welcome. "That's a helluva set of pipes you have there, sister," The director winked at me. "I think this is going to be a good thing for us all."

I think so, too.

And another farewell

2009-12-16T21:19:00.005-05:00

My friend, Debbie, left this morning to drive down to Florida and start a new chapter of her life. It wasn't easy for either of us to say goodbye, especially given the circumstances of the last few weeks.

Debbie first came into our lives in October 2000, when we hired her to help with housecleaning. I was a first-time mom and working a lot of hours and made a decision that I just couldn't work and take care of a baby and keep my house clean. Having someone else clean my house felt like the most decadent luxury ever. It took about two weeks, however, to decide that paying someone to clean was the best money I spent every month. I felt like I had gained a big piece of sanity.

More importantly, however, in Debbie, we all gained a friend and a confidante. There is a bond you form with someone who knows where all your messes are hidden that transcends age or background. With Debbie, though, it was a different kind of bond. We quickly settled into a pattern of easy banter over the kitchen table, where she felt free to hand out parenting advice and we felt free to trade recipes and fitness tips.

Over time, Debbie stopped being someone we hired and started being a member of the family. She came over to help put the house together the day before Thanksgiving every year, staying after for sandwiches and drinks. We always invited her to join us for Thanksgiving dinner. She always said no, but she always showed up anyway, usually just after dinner, to hang out and drink coffee and nibble desserts.

She's been with us through all of our ups and downs, as well as her own. We've become "go to" people for each other. When my mom broke her leg and moved in two years ago, Debbie was there to be her friend when she was lonely and everyone else was at work or school. When Debbie had personal crises of her own, she would call and we'd be there for her. She shared my love of hard work, and valued wisdom, and she had proved to be one of the most trustworthy and honest people I've ever known.

In the last year, her sister and mother have moved down to Florida, however, and she's felt a bit adrift. About three months ago, she made the decision to join them. It was time, she decided, to move on and open a new chapter of her life. We've been dreading her leaving, sad to lose our friend and scared that we'd finally have to figure out how to clean this house! But we supported her and wished her well. And this year, on the last day my family as I knew it was still complete, Debbie finally joined us for Thanksgiving dinner. It is a day that will live in my heart forever.

In losing Kiersten, we all came to realize anew how very important Debbie was to us. She was there when Kiersten was born, and she helped up bury her when she died. She spent a lot of time with Kiersten. She was there to kibbitz with homework or to take time out to play Nintendo when K got bored. When Kiersten died, Deb was at the house at 8:00 the next morning, ready to do whatever we needed, even though her hurt ran almost as deeply as our own.

It was Debbie who ran interference with reporters when they arrived at my door unannounced. It was Debbie who sat up with me the second night when I thought I might never sleep again. It was Debbie who made sure the house was locked up and secure when we weren't there. I will be grateful to her forever for being there when I needed someone the most.

Our goodbye on Sunday was an exceptionally sad one. She almost tried to stay and I almost begged her to. I told her that, if she decided once she got down there that it wasn't the life she wanted, that she would always have a home with us. And I meant it. I doubt she'll ever come back; it's not in her nature. But I hope that someday we'll see her again.

Good luck Debbie. I'll miss you.

Leaning into the pain

2009-12-15T13:37:00.003-05:00

I read a website yesterday that suggested you should "lean into the pain" while grieving. I found it an interesting directive. But I think I like it.

I've had contacts from others, locally and nationally -- mostly other mothers -- who have lost their children. They have given me dates like 1996 and 2000 when their precious little ones left them. Their grief still seems fresh in their writing. I am devastated for them -- as my husband said the other day, "This is NOT a club anyone wants to belong to", and frankly I'm frightened for myself. As much as I will miss Kiersten with a big part of my heart forever, and as much as I am profoundly sad that I will not have her in my life anymore, the prospect of continuing to grieve in this paralyzing way for another 13 years is scaring the crap out of me.

It's easy to find escapes from pain; drugs, risk-taking behavior, games, even work -- but I think that failing to "lean into the pain", might keep us from conquering it, or at least co-existing with it. I think "leaning into it" means to feel it, not just on the surface, but to meld with it, make it part of us, and to find it a home where it can exist and not cause us ongoing damage. I think I mentioned in an earlier post once that stress, pain, exhaustion can soften us at times; make us more open to change, allow us to accept that things are not what they once were.

It hurts to lean into the pain. It makes me cry and rage and at times to struggle to stand perfectly still, like a captain trying to steer a ship through a buffeting hurricane. But each time I do it, each time I let the pain pass through me, it seems to change in a subtle way. Maybe in time, it will not hurt as much.

BHD said the other day, "This is not your story." The parents who stop living and continue to grieve for years stretching into decades are not my story. But I think it will take a continual "leaning into the pain" for awhile to make sure of it. I'm not looking forward to it. But I think this is what I will have to do.

Act 2, scene 4

2009-12-13T22:36:00.004-05:00

And we move on to anger...

Tonight there was a nation-wide ceremony to honor and remember children of all ages who are missed by parents, grandparents and siblings. At 7:00 pm, we were to light a candle and remember our lost loved ones.

So I lit a candle. And I put an electric candle in the Bug's window, where I intend to keep it until I finally accept that she's not coming home.

But no words would come. Mr. Bean and Daisy Mae couldn't talk either. We all just stood there and stared at the candle.

And then I got angry.

I went to K's room and just screamed at the walls. I grabbed at pillows and stuffed animals, trying to find some trace of her somewhere. I paced the room like a caged animal, desperate to find an escape hatch. I laid on her bed and raged and cried until I thought I would break open and melt into the sheets. I willed myself to shatter into a million pieces and blow away. Why, I screamed. Why, why, why did you make me love her so much, if you were just going to take her away?! I never wanted to have kids to begin with! I was totally ambivalent about parenting! Why did you teach me to love being a parent so much if you weren't going to let me keep doing it??? Why did you make her so good if she wasn't going to stay??? WHY???!!!!!

The pillows, the walls, the stuffed animals, the Pokemon posters -- all, predictably, said nothing. The candle continued to flicker, silently and patiently, on the table. The cat regarded me with crooked-headed curiosity.

My rage melted into exhaustion.

So this is anger.

And it's ALL small stuff.

2009-12-13T00:36:00.006-05:00

I've learned some important lessons over the last two weeks. One of them is this: No matter how hard you try, you can't control for everything.

I say this, because I have a very dear friend who is really experiencing some hard times, due to the owners of the adjoining property having installed a natural gas well quite near to her property line. Here in Ohio, there is a tremendous natural gas field in the shale about 100 feet down. It's not easy to extract: they have to use a process called "fracking", which pumps a lot of water into the shale to let the gas out.

But the point of this is not about the gas extraction process; rather, it's about her reaction to it. It's been negative, to say the least, and with good cause. She's become an activist. She's undertaken an aggressive lobbying campaign at the state level, has written editorials and given interviews about the violation of property rights and some of the perceived dangers involved in this drilling process. All good, positive, absolutely understandable reactions to what really is an unfair situation. But she's also declared her home "uninhabitable", and has moved her family out, and is trying to sell it very quickly for what will undoubtedly be a fire sale price.

I'm not insensitive to her concerns. To be fair, there have been a small number of adverse events over the past several years associated with these gas wells, and there is a potential for some release of toxic run-off from these wells. That's a given. But she perceives the risk to her children as immediate and extreme. The stress she's created around this is ruining her health and will doubtless ruin all of them financially.

I want to take her by the hand and tell her that yes, there is clearly some risk involved in having these gas wells on the adjacent property. And yes, if she doesn't like it, she should work to sell her property. But there are risks in everything that we expose our kids to: driving in the car with us, going to school, eating food. And that, no matter how hard we try to keep our children safe from harm, at the end of the day, we may lose them to something immediate and completely outside our control.

I want to tell her to relax; of course she should work toward selling the house if she's uncomfortable, but that she needs to put her risks in perspective and not create more strife and upheaval than the situation warrants. They can live in the house. They can celebrate the holidays. They can still live their lives with joy.

I don't know; maybe my perspective is skewed right now. I think losing your child to a condition that is as common as being struck by lightning might do that to you. But I believe our lives are too short and too precious to waste days, or hours, or even minutes, to worry.

I love her a lot and I need to figure out how to help her find some peace.

Undone by the Giant Eagle

2009-12-10T20:39:00.003-05:00

Note: Despite my stated need to step away from the keyboard, I'm still compulsively communicating. If you want happy-peppy, it ain't here.

I have a confession to make. I’m a control freak.

My husband will tell you that I have a need to control nearly every variable of my life. I don’t think it’s that extreme, but I do insist on being in control of my conduct and my emotions. My mother has always been stoic to a fault, and I have inherited her tendency toward carefully measuring my reactions to situations. I’m not always successful, and I’m always angry with myself when my emotions get the best of me.

As you might expect, I’m struggling with the grieving process.

I will admit to being largely unfamiliar with grief until now. I have lost all four of my grandparents, and the parents of several friends over the years, but these deaths were expected and my ability to cope with them was orderly and predictable. Sadness was intense for a short while, to be certain, but was for the most part confined to the traditional period of mourning. I have missed my grandfather rather acutely at times, and I have had periods of grief over several miscarriages over the years. But these periods were short-lived and I bounced back pretty quickly.

The struggle I am currently having is new territory for me. I keep thinking that I can reason my way through this – set aside a good chunk of time each day to cry and miss the Bug and indulge my need to grieve without courage, and then function the rest of the day. Seems reasonable, doesn’t it? It’s not that I can’t or won’t let myself go through this process. It’s just that I am desperate to start to move on in at least part of my life. I know that my grieving won’t bring Kiersten back. And I still have things I have to do on a daily basis.

My mind, body and heart are not sticking with this program, however. I fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I would sleep now, if I could get horizontal. I can’t concentrate on even the smallest of things. I leave pans on the stove. I forget people’s names. I find myself unable to add simple numbers or spell third grade vocabulary words.

But what I mostly do is cry at completely nonsensical, inopportune times. It’s just that everything, everything, everything reminds me of Kiersten. She lurks behind every corner. I hear her name in every song. Night before last, I came across one of her jackets. In a moment of desperation, I grabbed it out of the closet and buried my face in it, hoping beyond hope that I would be able to smell her in the fabric. I couldn’t, of course. And I was just devastated.

I can accept some of this. I expect to find her in the house. I expect to see a hundred little reminders a day, as I pass her room, or find her toys under the couch. I can accept this. What I wasn’t prepared to accept was the emotional reactions I would have to public places.

Today, it was the grocery store. S and I went to the grocery store today to pick up a few things. Today was a bad day to begin with, and he thought the fresh air would help me. And in fairness, he warned me that the grocery store was a tough place to be. I just didn’t believe him.

Walking through the door and being faced with the produce section, I understood why he had warned me. The Bug loved vegetables. Each time we went in, she would rush to check out the red peppers, the cucumbers, the asparagus. Trips to the store were always fun when we were together and feeling how much she was not there was overwhelming. I spent the entire shopping trip in tears. She was missing from every inch of the store. I almost ran out. It didn’t make sense at first. Why the grocery store, of all places?

Why, indeed? The Dalai Lama once said, “Sometimes, the simple act of bringing food to another person is the most profound act of love we can express.” Nowhere is this more evident than when we feed our children. As a mother, it is the very first thing we do for our newborn babies. Their first moments of life are spent against our breasts, and there is not a day that goes by thereafter when we do not concern ourselves with the act of bringing them food. So I guess it makes sense that the grocery store would be a place to miss her acutely. It just surprised me so much at the time.

It was enheartening to have a day yesterday that gave me a glimpse of what the “good” days will be like. And it was equally disheartening to have today be so bad in contrast. I’m just afraid of how many more of these places I will encounter, and how often the simplest things will leave me undone.

I almost feel like me.

2009-12-09T14:01:00.005-05:00

I lasted about 4 hours at work yesterday. I'm probably only going to last 4 hours today. I get exhausted easily.

But I actually feel OK, for the first time since we lost the Bug. I'm getting some work done, I managed to crack a joke or two with my co-workers, I accepted a speaking engagement for Ireland in June. I even talked S into accompanying me down to Florida for a conference I need to attend in January.

Last night, while we were picking out urns for K's ashes (talk about a morbid activity), we took note of these little mini urns, they call "keepsakes". This disturbed me for some reason. Are these supposed to be travel sized? I wondered aloud if we should put some of K's ashes in there and take it with us wherever we went, so we could take pictures of her in all these different places. "You know, like the Stanley Cup."

First, I was horrified that I'd made the joke.

Then I laughed.

I feel like myself again today. At least for today. Tomorrow might be different.

The new normal

2009-12-08T06:53:00.002-05:00

I'm going back to work, at least for a few hours, today. There is just too much piling up there.

Step one in figuring out what our new "normal" will look like from here on in, I guess. Going to take it as slow and as part-time as I can, for now.

Yesterday was a tough day. The world hasn't slowed down; Christmas is on the minds of most everyone. I just can't get there right now. It's just too hard.

I've said elsewhere on the web that I need to transition from a public and shared mourning period to a less public time of grieving. Grief is not a spectator sport, so it may be pretty quiet here for awhile. It needs to be that way.

Today is Saturday

2009-12-05T10:40:00.002-05:00

Daisy Mae's birthday was a celebration. We needed, for just a few hours, to remember that life is still worth celebrating, even if there is a hole in your heart. As has been a constant over the last eight days, we were surrounded by friends and family. Joe and Kate and their girls. Heidi and Bill. Christy and Peter. Joyce. Laurie and Bill, and their beautiful kids. I had a 4-year-old on my lap for awhile last night. I hope I get more of those moments. They help.

Without these friends, I would never have survived to this point. I know I wouldn't have. My family, and Steve's, have also been a constant and I am deeply grateful for them. But your friends are your friends. They choose you, and they choose to stand beside you. And I am so very, very deeply blessed to have them in my life.

Today I will see my sister. I've written about her before. She has come back, at least for now, and she is also a solace and a blessing. There have been a small number of genuinely good things to have come from losing my Bug, and that is one of them. I will not look into the future and tell you what is to come; but for today, I have a sister again, and that makes me happy.

Today is Saturday. Eight days. They seem like a blink and a lifetime, all at once. I guess that's what it's supposed to be like.

Today is Friday

2009-12-04T07:13:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, we sent our beautiful little girl off for her next adventure. We were surrounded by friends and family, and held aloft by their love, for her and for us.

It was strange; the night before, I got a text message. It was being propagated through the schools, asking people to dress in pink for Kiersten yesterday. It was fitting for her, and I was touched.

It also made me realize that the service we had planned for Kiersten really didn't reflect who she was. I made a decision to try to fix that. I found a passage from Cats that she loved, and read that as a reflection. I think she would have liked it.

We were also pleased and honored to have many friends from across the country come to honor Kes. Gosh, it was a lot of driving for all of them. I was so grateful for their love and support. I wish it had been for a better reason and that we had had more time to talk.

Several friends and family members came back to the house, and drank and shared fun stories. It was a huge comfort.

I'm tired now. The exhaustion is setting in. But today is H's birthday and we need to try to restore some normalcy to her life.

Today is Friday. And after that, we'll decide what comes after that.

Enjoy the ride, little Bug. You were the greatest blessing any parent could ask for.

Today is Tuesday.

2009-12-02T00:30:00.000-05:00

Today is Tuesday. The news people stayed away today, although we were told that Thursday might be a bit tough in that regard. Visitation this evening. Three hours felt like a lifetime, but we got through it.

Seeing her in the casket was not as terrible as I thought, and she was surrounded by her stuffed animals at the beginning of the evening, supplemented by tiny toys and thoughts from her friends by the end. She looked beautiful, even if she wasn't in that body anymore.

I didn't cry tonight. Oddly, I didn't even want to. My job was to comfort all the hundreds of people who came through, and that job, in itself, gave me comfort. There were quite a few of her classmates who came through, most of them wondering what happened to her. We were lucky enough to have a cardiologist friend explain her death to us in a way that makes sense to tell a fourth grader. We will plant a tree at the school in the spring, to help them have a place to go to talk with her. It was good to have that to tell them. I think it helped, in a small way.

Services are all planned for Thursday; everything is arranged. All that is left is tomorrow's marathon. Gosh, tonight we had more than 200 people in 3 hours. Tomorrow night will be twice that. I'm going to need a conveyor belt.

I talked with Kes tonight after everyone left. I told her she'd be touched by all the people who were here tonight. Her friends were very brave and her family focused on her incredibly bright spirit. A dear friend told me the other night that firecrackers can't burn forever, and he's right. But the bang Kiersten is leaving behind will last a long time I think.

It is late. Tomorrow will be a tough day. Time for sleep.

Numb

2009-11-30T22:31:00.002-05:00

The human mind is a curious thing. In times of extreme stress, we can block out all but the necessities. We can become "comfortably numb" as Pink Floyd would tell us.

That's where I am today.

This morning dawned cruelly sunny and bright again today, and it took my breath away as I walked the dogs. As I have several times over the years, I found the morning walk in the woods was my time to grieve acutely, and the tears flowed without courage.

The rest of the day has been taken up with a thousand plans and preparations, tasks, diversions, phone calls. We had to pick out Kiersten's casket, the calling cards, the photos for the funeral home, the tiny pieces of jewelry where we will keep minute bits of her ashes. There was a news crew in our driveway when we arrived home. Part of the "new normal" for now, I guess. There were news crews in the driveways at my in-laws home and my father's home as well.

I was angry about that at first, but the media has, for a change, treated a tragedy with some respect. In a very odd way, this intrusion into our lives, this public grieving, has brought us some comfort.

But now, when the house is once again too quiet, I am feeling calm. Strangely so. Tomorrow, we will begin the marathon process of visiting hours, then the funeral. I expect it all to be a blur. This numbness will carry me for the time being.

God, I miss her. I miss her so much.

Surreal

2009-11-29T23:05:00.003-05:00

I have, for years, seen accounts in the paper about children who have died, suddenly and tragically. These stories have always touched me deeply, and I have always found my heart breaking for the parents of these little angels. How can a parent endure this loss?

Yesterday, as I sat with the funeral director in the kitchen, the doorbell rang. My friend, Debbie, told me that there was a reporter from the local paper there. My first reaction was anger, "Why do I have vampires in my house???". But she said she was there to tell Kiersten's story. She asked if we would let her do that.

She did a lovely job. I couldn't have asked for anyone to have treated the memory of my little girl with more respect or more caring.

This morning I went to the grocery store at the corner and picked up 15 papers. As I went to the check-out, my favorite cashier was at the counter. She looked up at me and said, "what's with all the papers?" Then she froze, and looked at the front page and back to me. "Oh my God, that's your girl!" She started to cry, and hugged me, and told me to take the papers.

So now we have gone from a private tragedy to a news item. It's the most surreal thing I've ever experienced.

The outpouring of love and caring we have received from my friends in the blogosphere, my friends on Radio Paradise, and our friends on Facebook, as well as the wonderful and rich friendships in person, has been overwhelming. You never know how many friends you have until something tragic happens.

The next few days will be a whirlwind; I'm counting on the activity to keep me numb. I don't know what we will do from there.

But I thank you all for your wishes and kind words. They will remain a comfort to me as we move through this.

My soul dies with you.

2009-11-28T21:13:00.002-05:00

Kiersten Elise Sump (my Bug) died last night at 10:22 pm at Elyria Memorial Hospital. Officially.

Unofficially, she died in my arms at 8:55 pm at North Rec skating rink in Elyria.

Her heart just stopped beating; as much as this hurts, we probably won't ever know why.

She knew no pain, and no fear. She was gone before she hit the ice last night.

Kiersten was 9 years old. She was the best, brightest thing in my life and bringing her into this world was best thing I have ever done. I will never, ever stop missing her.

There have been times in the last 24 hours when I have wanted to join her in body, because she already has my soul with her.

We were able to donate her heart valves for transplant, so maybe someone else won't have to go through this heartache.

I need until Monday to set this up, but rather than sending flowers, please support one of the two things that Kes really cared about.

Love a stray is a no-kill shelter for cats in Avon Ohio. They place cats at PetSmart for adoption and every time Kiersten went into PetSmart, she stopped to visit the kitties. They made her smile.

The Cleveland Metroparks Zoo has an adopt an animal program. Kiersten's favorite animal was the gharial. Only my Bug would love a gharial. But you can make an adopt-an-animal pledge in Kiersten's memory. They'll pool the donations and put her name on the parent's list every year.

Thank you for all the wishes and prayers. They mean a lot today. They'll mean more after all the people leave and my house is quiet.

Beth

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.

2009-11-28T08:27:00.003-05:00

My daughter, Kiersten, is dead.

There may be sunshine in the world, but not here

Not for me.

Not ever again.

Thankful

2009-11-26T23:25:00.006-05:00

Amazingly enough, we have survived another Thanksgiving Day Massa-cree here in the land of Bean. 15 for dinner. No second wave for dessert this year. (can i say yippee to that?) Daisy Mae was uncommonly kind to the Bug today, treating her to a make-over and letting her borrow Daisy's favorite suede boots.

My dad, finishing his second week of chemo, arrived early and, while he did have to take a short break for a nap after dinner, ate well and laughed much. One of our guests, Ann, who is now pushing 80, agreed to let us drive her home rather than risk a nighttime drive after 2 glasses of wine.

There were no disasters this year. In past years, we have had dishes catch fire in the oven, dishes accidentally left for dead on the back porch, things over-cook, under-cook and sometimes, despite best efforts, just come out terrible. I have had my entire family come down with Norwalk virus 1 hour before guests arrives. I have had my dishwasher break down, (totalpieceofcrapBoschdishwasherthatIpaid $650forTENYEARSAGOandthatI'vepaidthatmuchinrepairsforsincethenOMGIhateit), my sink back up and my toilet clog. I have done Thanksgiving dishes in the bathtub twice in the last ten years.

This year? Nothin'. No disasters. No fights. No bonzai run to Walgreen's for Liquid Plumr. No unexpected wave of 10pm drop-in guests after I put on my pajamas. No trips to the Emergency Room.

It almost feels like I've forgotten something.

So now it's 11:30 and the dishes are done, the food is put away, the tablecloths are in the washer and the house is utterly quiet. And cleaner than it has been in a couple of years, I think.

And I feel...Thankful.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water

2009-11-23T22:40:00.004-05:00

I am a big fan of Free-Range Kids, a blog hosted by Lenore Skenazy, who reminds us that children have been self-sufficient and inquisitive since the beginning of time. They are also much more capable than we usually give them credit for.

Anyway, despite my fondness for her anecdotes, and despite how much her descriptions of hysterical, stranger-danger-addled do-gooders sound suspiciously like my mother-in-law, I have always thought that the aforementioned addled ones were outliers, or at least confined to my parent's generation.

Not so. I was at a party on Saturday, where one of the guests was discussing having driven past his old house, and how shocked he was to see a three-year-old child walk out the front door, grab a ball and head toward his back yard.

"Would YOU let your little kid walk out the front door without standing there watching him???"

I mentioned that it sounded like the child wasn't in any danger: the street was not heavily traveled, the front yard was sufficiently large that there was probably not imminent danger he'd wander into the street. He had grabbed a ball and headed for the back yard. I thought that, for a few minutes, it was probably OK.

One of the other guests piped up: "But someone could have snatched him! Kids get snatched all the time now! Perverts are everywhere!"

I casually mentioned that the incidence of child abductions by strangers was at its lowest level in 50 years. My husband, the History and Urban Studies scholar, concurred. "Besides," I said, "if you've ever had a three-year-old, you sure as hell don't want to take on someone else's !!"

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OK, Mom! I'll have fun!

"Yeah," said my husband, "we've been leaving K parked out front with the keys in her ignition for almost five years, and nobody's ever taken HER."

This, predictably, had the effect of making everyone in the room scoot their chairs about six inches away from us both.

In any event, having been regarded like I was insane, I actually started to wonder if I might be. But I don't think so. I think of all the hours that K hung out in our front yard, playing in the leaves and picking flowers, kicking her ball and riding her tricycle up and down the driveway, while I was shuttling back and forth inside and outside, keeping half an eye on her, but not sharp-eyed on her every move.

I think that our children will end up victims, most likely, because we raise them to be victims. Because we don't ever trust them to do the right thing. Because we hover and watch and make them afraid. Because we don't let them take risks and get dirty.

I just hope they treat our grandchildren with more respect.

A big, crowded couch

2009-11-19T13:09:00.008-05:00

Well, folks, it looks like I just wasn't cut out for the NaBloPoMo. Missed a few posts in there. I'm not too broken up about it, to be honest. It's grant season, and my Superwoman cape is at the cleaners. Life goes on.

---
Twenty years ago, we met a couple, Joyce and Mike, who have become very close and wonderful friends. Their marriage is a bit unconventional: She is divorced once and 10 years his senior. It's a very strong marriage, however, and it's one that I admire.

Before they were married, they took the unusual step of seeing a marriage counselor for several sessions. At the time I had met them, I thought this was, frankly, weird. Why on earth would anyone spend a bunch of time pre-hashing a bunch of yet-to-be-acquired baggage, when they were in that “lovey-dovey-let’s-get-married” phase of this relationship? It just seemed like asking for trouble that just wasn’t there yet. Paying a toll for a bridge that might never be crossed

In retrospect, their strategy was brilliant. They’ve just celebrated their 25^th anniversary, and really, the road here hasn’t been easy. But laying that foundation – learning what was in-bounds and what was out-of-bounds in arguments, learning how best to be supportive when times were tough, establishing the communication – has helped them come through the good times and the bad with flying colors.

With this in mind, we started family therapy on Tuesday. The kids were a bit puzzled by this, but not so much as you might think. There was the question of, “Well, but we’re not even officially a family yet. How can we be screwed up already?” To which I answered with a look that said, “Do you even have to ask that question?”

I was particularly concerned about Daisy seeing this as her “fault”. I explained to her that, yes; we were doing this because she was joining our family on a permanent basis. However, the motivation for this was not because of any shortcoming on her – or anyone’s – part.

Disclaimer: it's not all peaches and cream, however; to be completely candid, these first few months have been marked by a lot more conflict that I imaged when we started down this road.

We are doing this because we each have spent the last 15 years living very different lives. Our experiences are different. Our expectations are different. Our communication styles are different. And now we’re talking about bringing us all together, forever. It’s not too different from being in an arranged marriage. Arranged marriages can be loveless, or even violent. It’s not always like that – some arranged marriages are very happy. But the unhappily-ever-after story is common enough to give us all pause. So we’re spending some time with our version of the marriage counselor now.

I was really encouraged by Tuesday’s session. Our therapist is pragmatic, yet upbeat. She tells it like it is. Her first question was to ask each of us what the best and worst things were about our family. Interestingly, we all were pretty well-aligned about both the best and the worst. So we have a common set of expectations to start from.

I’m really looking forward to seeing where this journey takes us

Crash...meet burn

2009-11-16T22:51:00.002-05:00

Oh the shame! I missed two days in a row.

OK, I'm not ashamed. I was crushed with these grants. But they're done now, so that's behind me.

But I'm fried now. I'll have more to say tomorrow...

Drowning

2009-11-12T21:31:00.003-05:00

Zoiks.

So sometimes, despite best efforts, you just can't control even the things that you think you can control.

I have these three really big grants that must be submitted next week. And despite weeks of preparation and prodding, they're both running late. I'm working on my second night of late-night writing.

I have to find a way to get these people under control. No matter how prepared I am, I can't stand on others and make them complete their assignments in a timely fashion. So the result is that I'm perpetually pulling these grants together at the last minute. It's exhausting.

I get a lot of compliments from my colleagues: "Boy, if you weren't here, we would be sunk!" "Wow! As long as we needs to raise funds, you have job security!" "Thank God you're not the type to spazz over these things!"

But to tell you the truth, I'd rather not be revered quite so much by my colleagues and get to have dinner at home on nights like this.

Next time I come up for air, somebody get me a cup of coffee, will ya?