When I'm Gone

From the Miami News-Record, Sunday, September 7, 2014

This past week I celebrated the life of Don Hall with his family and friends. I met Don when we attended church east of town and marveled at how many children he could fit in the cab of a pickup truck. (I became much more at ease when I heard he had bought a van – then I learned it only bought him that much more room for more kids.) I stood in that church parking lot and asked my Pops (and pastor), “Why does he bring all those kids to church?” Pops smiled and said, “Because he wants to.” And oh, how he wanted to. He felt a calling, a desire, a mission to introduce as many kids as he possibly could to Jesus and if that meant testing the limits of a vehicle to fit just one more in, he did it. About four years later my husband and I were wet-behind-the-ears youth leaders at a church south of town and had the privilege of seeing again just how many lives “Papa Don” touched when he rolled into the parking lot one night with an even bigger vehicle – a bus – in which to haul kids to church. When he stepped onto those streets of gold last week and had instant knowledge of how many lives he had touched, how many people he had led to salvation, I would imagine he just grinned his shy grin and ducked his head as he heard his Savior say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

I am not a fan of funerals. (I might also ask, “Who is?”) I will avoid a funeral just about any way I can simply because I think too many times we get caught up in mourning and forget to remember. And since I’m a cry-er in the presence of other crying folks, I just don’t subject myself to that if I don’t have to. So often we forget to focus on the good that person did and the way they lived their life and we instead shed our tears in earthly sadness. I guess you could say we get a bit selfish when it comes to someone dying. We will miss them and we can’t stand the thought of life here without them, then we cry. And if you’re me, you cry a lot. So just know this: if I show up to your funeral, I really thought you were pretty darn special.

As I sat in that pew last week waiting for Don’s funeral to begin, I thought ahead to my own passing. (An event I am not planning on having happen for a very long time.) I leaned over to my oldest daughter and said, “Listen to me, young lady. When I die, there had better not be a memorial service held in a church. I want a party.” She looked at me with the strangest look and said, “A party? Like, what on earth would we do at a ….. a party in honor of your…..DEATH??”

So given that she pinned me down right there, I pondered a bit before I said, “Well, you had better eat BBQ. And chocolate cake. Lots of chocolate cake. You guys take turns telling stories about my clumsiness, read some of the stuff I’ve written over the years. Talk about my awful hair. Laugh. Poke a little fun at me – heck, I’ll be gone, so go for it.” I went on to tell her that I’ll be writing my own obituary, so that’ll taken care of already. She seemed relieved at that. She was amused at my party plans and nodded a lot so I hope she intends to honor my wishes.

And while y’all are at my memorial party crying only because you’re laughing so hard you might wet your pants, I will have already hit the gates of Heaven, hopefully hearing the words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” and not, “Girl, you’ve got some explainin’ to do.”

She's Nearly Nine

I've been sick the last couple days and have pretty much sequestered myself to the bedroom away from the rest of the family. This is hard for me since I'm usually all up in everyone's grills and stuff, telling them what to do, cooking for them, making them cry over helping them study spelling words and other "momma" type stuff. The first night I laid out in the bed and in my feverish haze would holler instructions and orders interspersed with pleas for ice water and Tylenol.

So since my fever broke this morning and I felt like a human again, albeit a human with a nagging cough and a minorly sore throat still, I came out of hiding and spent the evening with my family. I didn't cook. In fact, I'm pretty sure Abby had potato chips for dinner and Kady had popcorn. I don't have a clue what Sam ate. We watched Valentine's Day first and after it took a break to go play in the yard with the dog. Then we all met up again in the living room and decided to break out a vintage movie I recorded off of The Movie Channel quite awhile back, Mask. You know, the one with a very young Cher and a smoking hot Sam Elliott and Eric Stoltz, about the boy with the rare disease that disfigured his face. Yeah, that one.

Normally, I'm a cry-er, y'all know that, but I'm taking some medication that is well, making me less of a cry-er these days. (Yeah, there's a big ol' blog post a'brewin' about it, trust me.) I'm not sure I like it, but it sure does make watching sappy movies easier on my sinuses and my eyes are far less puffy the next day. Kady is my partner in cry - if I bawl during a movie, she will crawl up in my lap with a box of tissue and we'll sniffle through the final scenes, making all the rest of the family members roll their eyes at us. We are cry-ers. Just like Truvy said in Steel Magnolias, "I have a strict policy - no one cries alone in my presence."

Tonight I did cry, but not my usual sobbing, hic-hic-hic, snot everywhere kind of cry, just a few sniffles and some tears. Kady, however, bawled her little face off. It has been a long week, our schedule has been off because I've been sick and it was after 10. She was absolutely exhausted, which only added to the drama in her crying. She finally calmed down only to say, "And you know what? (hic hic) We watched a stupid STUPID movie today in school!"

Well, of course, I had to ask what on earth kind of movie would merit two stupids in the description and she answered, "It was about that day. (sniff sniff) You know...." Her voice got quieter. "....you know.....that day." I didn't know what day she was talking about, actually, so I asked her to clarify. "You know, Momma....September 11th. When those towers fell." And the crying began again in earnest.

I patted the couch in front of me and opened my arms. She barreled off the chair she was in and dove into me, sobbing. I smoothed her hair and wiped the tears and said, "I do know that day, actually. I remember it very well. Wanna know why?" She looked up and nodded. "I was sick. I had four -itises!"

"You had four what?" She giggled and sniffed, wiping a tear on my shirt.

"I had otitis." I pointed to her ear. "I had sinusitis." I pointed her her nose. "I had pharyngitis." I tickled her neck. "And I had bronchitis!" and I tickled her chest. When the giggling subsided she said, "Wow. That is a lot of -itises!" I answered, "Yeah. And? I was pregnant with you! So I couldn't take a lot of medicine. I pretty much just laid in the recliner all miserable and let your brother and sister go wild." She laughed.

Pushing her hair behind her ear I said, "And we were watching Blue's Clues when the towers fell." She looked up at me, one tear threatening to spill. "I sat in my chair and rubbed my belly, where you were, and hugged your brother and sister a lot - and I cried a lot, too. And it's okay to cry now, too. Sissy, in the midst of all the bad that happened that day, there was good, too." She looked up at me, cocked one eyebrow up and said, "Huh? There was no good in that video, Momma. None."

I answered, "That one day brought all of us together. There were no rich people, no poor people, no black people, no white people. We were all just people. The people in New York were covered in ash that day and no one could tell what color anyone else was. No one saw anyone else's clothes. People helped other people. People saved other people. Peopled prayed. People died, but....people also lived. We weren't just people that day, we were Americans."

She looked up at me and said, "You mean there weren't Democrats and Republicans?" I laughed and said, "No, Sis. On that day, the Democrats and Republicans got along and it didn't matter who was who." Leave it to her to bring politics into any conversation.

She put her arms around my neck and said, "Momma, I know every year you read us Bravemole* on September 11th, but maybe this year.....maybe we should skip it. I'm not sure you and I need to cry that much tomorrow. You know that one even makes Abby cry."

"Oh honey, this story should make us all cry."








*If you have never read the story of Bravemole you need to find a copy. It is a fabulous way to talk about 9/11 in a way children can understand..........Well, as much as anyone can understand.

A little more

Friday night I was working on organizing my ever-UNorganized office while Kady played on the desktop and Abby was fooling around on her daddy's laptop (because in case you had forgotten MY LAPTOP WENT KAPUT last week). The boy was watching something on TV and Paul was asleep in his recliner. We girls were just being silly and chit chatting when Abby got a text then said, "No way. That's not cool." I asked what she was talking about and she said, "I just got a text that said Cheyenne died. Why would someone say that?"

Cheyenne had moved away mid-year last year after having gone to school with Abby since 1st grade. They weren't BFF's, but they knew each other and got along; they were classmates for six years. I said, "Oh, Abby, someone's just being cruel. She moved away so they're just trying to stir up drama. You know how rumors get started." Then suddenly her phone started receiving message after message, all saying the same thing: Cheyenne had died. She kept saying no, not possible and I was getting kind of irritated that these kids were perpetuating something so absolutely awful.

Then I got a text from another mom who confirmed the horrible news.

I have yet to hear a 100% ironclad reason as to why Cheyenne passed away, but I know one thing for sure -- 13 year olds just aren't supposed to die. It's not right, it's not fair and it's just something I, as a mother, have a very hard time wrapping my head around.

Abby internalizes everything, so I kept a close eye on her all weekend, watching for signs she was heading for a meltdown, blowup or anything in-between. Saturday Paul and I left Kady and Sam with Mom and Pops while we went furniture shopping with just Abby. We had lunch, kept things light, joked with her and gave her some extra attention. She was insisting on attending the funeral and I said I'd take her, but suggested maybe we should try the visitation first before we decided, explaining it wouldn't be like a funeral for an older person. She cried off and on here and there throughout the weekend over little things, things that would normally never make her cry. She's not one to wail and gnash teeth. She's very low-key. She had to take her Zantac several times, something she always has to do when she's upset or stressed.

I was 18 and a Senior in high school when a girl a grade below me was killed in a car accident. She and I weren't what you would call close, we were in accounting and band and on the yearbook staff together and had ridden the same bus since she started school. I think we played together a time or two during the summer when we were kids. We were schoolmates. Rebecca's death, though, was the first time I had to come to terms with my own mortality. I had lost a cousin to muscular dystrophy when I was little, had attended the funeral of a neighbor lady who bought milk from Papa's farm and was always so sweet to us kids and had gone to a few other funerals to farther-down-the-line relatives. But all those people were older than me, most by a lot; Rebecca was 17. Younger than me. Not supposed to die.

This week my 13 year old had to deal with her own mortality. At first she asked a lot of silly questions, questions she knew the answer to already, but I answered regardless. Then she asked tougher ones, like "What would you bury me in if I died right now?" That's a question that as her mother I didn't want to answer or remotely think about, but to her hurting little heart and mind it was important. I hate it we had to have conversations like that. I hate it that she had to learn so young that sometimes kids die and we don't know why, we don't understand, we don't have to like it and it sucks.

I got sick on Sunday evening and was in bed all day Monday which left her Daddy to take her to the visitation Monday night. She did okay. She's attended more than her fair share of funerals and visitations and was prepared for it. She came home and talked about how Cheyenne looked and the color of her casket and pictures they had put out of her as a little kid and that she had been holding a pilot's headset in her hands because she wanted to be a pilot just like her daddy when she grew up - things my precious little girl shouldn't have to talk about or deal with. I cried. She didn't. She was more than ever, though, resolute about attending the funeral.

I made arrangements with the mother of a classmate to take her to the funeral the following day and kept her home from school that morning. She took extra time to get ready and make sure what she was wearing was sufficiently nice and grownup, "but not dorky, right?" she made sure. When Melinda pulled in the driveway Abby grabbed me and hugged me so hard. And didn't want to let go. Not only was she preparing to attend the funeral of a peer, but she was having to do so without me. I cried again. She didn't.

It worked out that I was at the clinic when she got home from the funeral and my mom picked her up. God made that doctor's appointment work out for me so that Abby could express some feelings and emotions to her Grammy, maybe things she just wasn't sure she could say to me. Mom said she talked quite a bit and asked a few questions and voiced her concerns over a few things, but all told, she handled things pretty well. She said she was glad she went to the funeral and was glad it was over. She said it had been a sad day.

She grew up a little more yesterday.

Drive-by

While I am a fairly sentimental person... wait. Okay, I am a really sentimental person. So sentimental I still have the "four carrot" ring my friend Cedric game me when we got "married" the day before Christmas vacation my Senior, his Junior year. So sentimental I have notes from girlfriends, passed scandalously, even though we knew the penalty would be to read them in front of the class. I take a lot of pictures of seemingly mundane things, but years from now I am fairly certain that I will still want to go back and see the day we put in our storm cellar, the hair bows the girls wore to school on August 25, 2009, and the moldy fiberglass we found behind the bathroom walls. I still have my mother's wedding dress, leftover napkins from our wedding and yes, my report cards from Kindergarten on up. I cry at Kodak commercials, refuse to watch Lifetime for fear of dehydration and have only recently let my daughters wear my Band Queen tiara because OH MY GOSH WHAT IF A RHINESTONE FALLS OUT? I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO WEAR IT TO TEA WITH THE QUEEN!

Okay, so now that we've established my sentimentality (and borderline psychosis) there are some things I don't do. I didn't save my kids' umbilical stumps because...well. Ew. I don't send birthday cards, nor do I save them. I didn't keep up my kids' baby books. (Okay, so I kept up Abby's for awhile, but she was the first one and I didn't have anything else to do.) And no matter how many of them my mother hands me as I enter the gymnasium, I don't save the programs from the Christmas program. I know. String me up by my toes right this very minute. I am surely unfit.

There is also something else I don't do - I don't visit the cemetery. I never have. I remember as a kid any time I stayed with Nana and we left Picher to go to Miami for any reason (usually to take me to McDonald's) we almost always stopped at the cemetery on the way to or from. She always put a Masonic decoration thing on Pops' grave for Memorial Day and until she wasn't physically able anymore, kept his grave site neat and flowered. I never understood this. Even as a little kid I knew Poppy wasn't there so why were we?

As the years have gone by I've lost more and more family members and I haven't visited the cemetery any more often. My cousin Russ, Memaw, my cousin Jeff, Uncle Homer, Papa....all of them are buried in the same cemetery, Nan and Pop are somewhere else and so is Granny Glenn (I don't even know where Grandpa Glenn is...) and the only time I've been in the vicinity of their graves was at the funeral of someone else. Tater goes every so often and takes her kids, but not me. This last Memorial Day Paul said he wanted to take the kids around to all the cemeteries and I said I would go with him if he insisted, but I had no desire whatsoever to spend a day looking at headstones. He says I'm cold-hearted. He says that for the sake of history and respect I should go. I say bah humbug. And we didn't go.

I asked Jesus into my heart as my personal Savior at the tender age of seven. Even before that I fully understood that when we die our bodies cease serving a purpose and our souls are no longer on Earth. I can remember standing at the cemetery with Nan while she trimmed and pulled and decorated and wondered why would she do such a thing? It seemed so silly to me. It still kind of does today, although as an adult I know that everyone grieves and deals in their own way. If it makes you feel close to someone to visit their gravesite I certainly don't see anything wrong with it. Please do not attack me in the comments section. I honestly and truly believe you have to do what you have to do to heal. My sister visits the cemeteries and her kids can tell you where all of our late relatives are buried. My children cannot. Are either of us right or wrong? No. We are both doing what we feel is right for ourselves and our children. If my kids ever ask to go I will certainly take them, but I don't see me loading them up all by myself. And if Paul ever truly insists I accompany him, as his wife, I will.

I remember after my mother was single a year or so she announced to Sis and I that she wanted to be cremated and we both freaked the heck out. It seemed so barbaric, so viking-ish, so cruel to cremate someone you love and I refused to listen to her speak of it for years. In recent years I have quit freaking out and completely and 100% will follow her wishes. I will even drive to Iowa to the dang covered bridges to sprinkle her if that is still her wish. And I have since come to the decision that I want whatever part of me is useful to be donated wherever it needs to go. I want my organs harvested if they can be and after they take what they need - if they need it - I want the rest of me donated to science. Frankly, I don't know how possible the scientific donation is after organ donation - it may not be - but whatever. I just want the body I no longer need to be of some help to someone who does. When they're done with the fall organ harvest, they can cremate me and send the ashes to my family. Paul has issue with this but says he'll follow my wishes. My kids, even as young as they are, are okay with this as well. I tell them that instead of visiting a grave where I am not, to instead go to Disney World every few years, ride the Tower of Terror and scream "I LOOOOOOOVEEEEEE YOUUUUUUU MOMMMMMMM!" and that'll be enough to honor my existence. I thought of having them release my ashes on the ride, but that might get kind of messy and dusty and then people would be all sneezy and snotty because they'd have inhaled some of me while they were screaming their lungs out on the ride and I don't want to contribute to an allergy or asthma attack, so I'm still trying to decide where I want my remains scattered.

Sam is by far the most sentimental of my children and he and I were discussing my wishes awhile back. He asked why I would want my body to be picked over, poked, prodded and whatever else-d by medical students. I hugged him close to me and said, "Because Sam....what if by me donating my body to science they were able to find the cure for fatness? I mean, wouldn't you just feel ten kinds of awesome knowing that you momma was the woman whose selfless donation cured fatness for millions of people everywhere? I mean, you could have t-shirts printed! 'My Mom cured fatness' - just think of it!" He giggled and so did I. Most of our really serious conversations end in giggling. That's my gift to him. Hopefully that's my gift to everyone here while I'm alive - giggling, snorting, spewing beverages on your computer screens and chuckling about something I wrote as you go about your daily business.

All that being said, I found myself turning into the cemetery drive on Friday. I don't know why. I really don't. Even though I had been at her services less than two weeks before, I wasn't exactly sure where Nana and Pops' graves were. I couldn't see fresh dirt piled on top....I looked for the dang trees Tater told me to use as visual markers and couldn't remember what she'd told me - was it the second one? The short one?....I turned around and drove back....and turned around and drove back again. The little old couple who were visiting someone else probably thought I was some crazy psycho grave robber because they were eyeing me suspiciously with every pass. Yeah, because I always go grave-robbing on a Friday afternoon in broad daylight with a sleeping toddler in the backseat of my van that is easily identified by my vanity plates.

Maybe I couldn't find their graves because I am a negligent granddaughter. Maybe it was because I couldn't see through my tears.

Or maybe it was because a drive-by was enough for me.

One Tough Ol' Bird

My Nana, my father's mother, lived a pretty lonely life. Don't mistake what I'm saying - she had us, but her one true love, her husband, my Poppy was killed in an accident at B.F. Goodrich when I was not quite three years old. She spent the last 36 years missing him. When the house started falling in around her and her health started failing she was adamant about staying there because that's where Pop was. Unfortunately after breaking her second hip she didn't have a choice and was moved to the nursing home. Oh, how she missed him.

For as long as I can remember Nana wore Vanderbilt perfume - and lots of it. As we grandkids got older we would talk among ourselves about how even her ice cubes tasted like Vanderbilt. Somehow it wasn't bad, though. Just very perfume-y.

Nana loved Coke and even this past week as she lay in her hospital bed, weighing barely 70 pounds, when my cousin Michanne asked her what she wanted she mouthed, "Coke." We didn't always have Coke at our house growing up, but it was guaranteed that a visit to Nana's meant as much as you could drink and cookies from the cookie jar.

I can't tell you how many hours we spent at her house growing up. When we were small enough we'd hide in the sliding-door cabinet in her coffee table. I remember spending a lot of time in front of the book case looking through books we didn't have at home - Gulliver's Travels being the one I remember most. And our childhood physical fitness is attributed solely to Nan's record player and her 45's, mainly "Chicken Fat". We grandkids burned a lot of calories on the shag carpet in her living room. She is also the only grandma I know that had all of the Village People's hits on records.

There were three bedrooms at Nana's house and we were always given the option of sleeping in the other beds, but until we were nearly teenagers we always chose to sleep in Nan's bed with her. It seems like maybe Sis tried once to sleep in the front bedroom, but it didn't last long. I know personally it was always better to sleep with Nana because we got to eat in bed and we always watched Johnny Carson. Popcorn, apples with salt, grapes - whatever we wanted - was on a paper towel and our Coke was on the coaster and we were propped up there against the headboard livin' large. It was never too late at Nana's for snacks. One year I spent the night with her on New Year's Eve. I know she expected me to fall asleep well before midnight, but no, I manged to spend the entire evening waiting on the ball to drop. As the new year marched in I bounced all over that bed, over Nan, around the room, did cartwheels and hooped and hollered. I vividly remember her watching me with a huge grin on her face, never telling me to hush, just enjoying my exuberance.

Whatever we wanted we got at Nan's, so the one time she denied me what I asked for it's no wonder I wrote a hateful note in a steno notebook and left it in the secretary in the dining room. I can only imagine what I had asked for - possibly a unicorn. It'd have to have been something that unattainable for her to tell me no. I wrote the note in anger, put it away and got over it pretty quick, but a week or so later while paying bills or writing a letter maybe Nana found it and oh my goodness the phone call I got! The jist of the note was that she loved my cousin Michanne more than me because Michanne got whatever she wanted and Nan never told her no and it was because of that that Nan told me I couldn't have what I wanted that particular day. The phone call cleared that issue up real quick. While she all but yelled into that phone she assured me she loved us all the same and how dare I suggest she loved any of the other kids more than me and what kind of grandmother would she be if she did.

You didn't mess with Nan either - once Sis stole a quarter from her purse. Her punishment? Nana put her in that big blue car and drove her straight to D&D Drive-In and forced her to spend it on a video game. Sis said it was the most miserable video game she ever played. Nan always described herself as a "tough ol' bird" and last week one of the nurses called her a tough cookie. I was holding Nan's hand and I gently corrected the nurse and said, "No, she's a tough old bird." Nan nodded her head, squeezed my hand and confirmed the description.

For probably the last 25 years or so Nan was plagued with facial tremors that could not be cured. She was constantly tense and it had to be painful. Medication didn't help much and talking to her any time but early in the morning was a frustrating thing because her muscles were so tired soon after she began the day she became nearly unable to be understood. Sometimes when I'd take the kids to see her she'd be so frustrated she couldn't talk to them so they made sure they entertained her with stories about school and their days. She loved to laugh and the kids made sure they accomplished that at each visit. She was always so worried that she scared the kids with her appearance, but never once were the kids anything but utterly and completely in love with her.

As we all sat around her bed this past week comforting her and hearing first audible words and then, as she grew weaker, whispers of "I love you" we all realized that there were few people in our lives that gave as much as she did. I know my sister and I would've had far fewer dresses with jingle bells in the petticoats without Nana. Bomber jackets, the popular tennis shoes, school clothes, Christmas dresses, toys, toys and more toys - Nana made them ours. But in addition to the gifts and clothes she gave us she gave us a solid foundation of unconditional love, constant support and votes of confidence, neverending assuredness that we had a place to go and someone to always be on our side. She adored us.

She was prissy and always cared about how she looked. She was neat, she was an amazing cook and loved laughter, big family gatherings and all of us more than we could ever imagine.

She slipped away just after 3:30 Friday afternoon while my aunt, my mother, my sister, my cousin, my cousin's fiance and God bless him, my uncle, the token male at a boisterous hen party, sat around her bed talking. She hadn't been awake in over 24 hours, had stopped communicating with us and her breathing was so very labored. The conversation had turned to boobs and boob jobs and aging not-so-gracefully when I think at the exact same moment we all looked at her and realized she was gone. It was peaceful, it was quiet and she was in the midst of a very girly conversation - it was just exactly what she wanted.

She's with Poppy now, she is relaxed and I guarantee you that Heaven now carries the faint scent of Vanderbilt in the air.

Hello ... and Good-bye

When Paul and I were first married it didn't take us too long to decide we wanted to have babies. We went to a doctor in town who was the OBGYN at the time. He gave me once over, said he wanted to do some tests, but declared confidently that he could get me pregnant. I went in a few days later for an endometrial biopsy, which days later deemed me to be "anovulatory." He prescribed Clomid and sent us on our merry way to go make a baby.

A few weeks later we were pregnant! I know that having babies is nearly as old as time itself, but we were the most excited couple to ever get pregnant. We called everyone we knew, bought onesies and bottles and bedding for the crib that Tater and I slept in when we were kids. We hit the 10 week mark and the nurse put he doppler on my belly so we could hear our baby's heartbeat. We couldn't, but she told me not to worry, he was probably hiding behind my liver or something. Four weeks later she still couldn't pick up the heartbeat, but my fundal height had grown and things were otherwise normal. The doctor scheduled me for an ultrasound just to check things out.

We were so excited to see our baby on the screen! Having never seen an ultrasound before, we had no clue what we were seeing. The tech was quiet as she took the measurements and declared me to be ten weeks, four days pregnant. Uhmmm....no......I told her she was wrong, that I knew exactly when I got pregnant and I was 14 weeks pregnant. She fiddled around some more, poking and prodding, but still came to the conclusion that I was only 10 weeks pregnant. Then she left the room. She came back in, put things away and told me to keep my regular appointment with my doctor.

Things didn't seem right, but I was a whole 21 years old and unassertive and didn't want to get myself labeled as "one of those" patients. Paul assured me that things were fine even though I could not shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. My mom told me that gut instincts are more important than wanting to be a "good" patient and suggested maybe I see a different doctor. After calling my doctor and getting the runaround I called a different doctor, Dr. Lacey, and after explaining things to the receptionist, got an appointment for the next day. We both loved Dr. Lacey the minute he walked into the room. He patted my leg as I voiced my concerns and said he'd do an ultrasound right then to set things straight.

Lying on that table, wanting so desperately to see my baby again, Paul by my side holding my hand, I had no clue my life was about to become the saddest it had ever been. After a few minutes of poking, prodding and profound silence, Dr. Lacey turned the machine off, took my hand and said, "I'm sorry. Your baby is no longer alive." We had never seen his face, never even heard his little heart swooshing, but we loved him so very much. We hadn't said hello, but suddenly we had to say good-bye.

The ride home was silent except for my sobbing. We went home, but the house was smothering. We paced, we held each other, we cried, we sat and stared at the carpet. Paul called his mom and cried so hard I felt my heart breaking even more. I called my best friend at the time because I wanted her there when we told Mom. We were at Mom's house when she got home from work. Then again we became the bearers of bad news, telling my mom her first grandchild was gone.

The doctor had said that miscarriage would soon follow. I wanted it to happen because I wanted closure, but at the same time, I didn't. I was holding onto anything I could. A week passed, then two. I called the doctor who again said to let things happen naturally. When I looked at my defunct pregnancy calendar and it declared me to be 19 weeks pregnant I lost it. I think I was as close to a nervous breakdown as one can get without going over the edge. I called the doctor, sobbing, nearly screaming, telling him to do something because obviously my body hadn't gotten the message. Two days later it was over. Well, physically it was. For weeks I was numb. Paul and I didn't talk, we didn't touch, we didn't do anything more than exist. It was the hardest thing I have ever endured and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

I had heard my whole life that no parent should ever have to lose a child, that it isn't in the natural order of things. Until I experienced it myself, though, I had no idea how true that statement is. Whether your child is no bigger than your thumb or that child is 25 years old, you just aren't supposed to have to say good-bye. I know that God is sovreign and that He has a purpose for everything that happens, yet sometimes it is hard to remember that. My faith is stronger than it used to be, but even the strongest of faith is threatened at times.

Our baby would have turned 13 this past March. Would he have been tall? What color hair would he have had? Would he look like me or Paul? I have so many questions - why did it happen? What went wrong? What good came of losing our first child? I miss him, miss him like crazy, but I know there was a reason. I may never understand that reason while I'm here on earth, but my heart rests in the promise that my child is in the presence of his King.

My friend T-Racey and her husband had to say good-bye to their son this past week. They are hurting so very, very badly. As they held his tiny body and wept rivers of tears I know they are asking questions that have no answers. I pray for them almost continually that they have peace and understanding and comfort. It isn't easy and it's so unfair and I know their pain in a sense. I have no advice, I hold no wisdom. All I can do is pray.

My friends, please remember this family in the coming weeks. They need to feel God's love around them.

Spring Break ain't for sissies

Friday - Multi-age sleepover. All three kids had a friend over. It actually went well. I was shocked. That works WAY better than one kid having friends over and the other two tormenting the hell out of them.

Saturday - Fiddlefarted around the house. Mom watched the kids while Paul and I went to see 10,000 B.C. And loved it.

Sunday - Kady woke me up because she sounded like a baby harp seal. Took the two big kids to church while Kady and I hung out here and did breathing treatments. By Sunday evening her fever was 103.

Monday - Early morning phone-in to work, then early morning call to the PA to get appointments for both girls, then call to orthodontist to cancel Ab's appointment for that afternoon. Both girls are now on antibiotics for the crud that has settled in their sinus cavities. Oh yeah, and it rained. A lot.

Tuesday - More rain. On my early morning trek to pick up the sitter, I thought I was going to have to break out the oars. The road to our house was covered in four places. Yay.

Today - Work. No more rain, but lots of flood water. Not as bad as July, but still not pleasant. Work is busy and amicable. Better than last week, for sure.

Before we left the house this morning we noticed the cat was pacing and acting strange. I had a feeling last night that she was going to have her kittens during the night. Abby got back where she was nesting, but there wasn't anything back there then. When we got home I had Ab check the nest. She said there was one kitten, but Mamacita was nowhere to be found. I figured she was in the process of moving her usual four kittens to the barn. But instead, here she came around the corner, still fat and very obviously still pregnant. She wouldn't go back to the nest, so I had Sam feed her while Ab grabbed a rag and picked up the kitten which was not moving. Instantly Kady started bawling, Sam wiped back some very manly tears while Abby and I tried to determine if she was still alive. It wasn't looking promising, but then she opened her mouth and gasped, mewed a little and went still again. By this point Abby was now crying and I did what I do best - call someone who knows more than I do, in this case, my husband. He told me to put the kitten and a blanket in a box and put it where Mamacita could get to it and that if anyone was going to get that kitten to breathe and move it was going to be her. Ab put Mama in the box, but she didn't do anything more than sniff the kitten which made Kady bawl and squall and made Sam so angry he went out and sat by the basketball goal and cried alone.

I'm perplexed. This is Mama's probably 8th litter, so she's obviously not a novice, but I've never seen a cat only have one kitten and then stop for a break. I mean, it's not like she was going to the kitty spa in between or anything. Agh. If anyone out there reading (All two of you who haven't given up on me and my frequent absences) is a cat expert, please comment or email me.

Abby's still morose, Kady is singing "This Little Piggy" with a Joe Scruggs CD right now, but in 5 minutes or so she'll be back on my lap bawling about the kitten because that's what she's done for the last hour (I'm thinking bi-polar....) and Sam is watching Game Plan. I'm trying to wade through a week's worth of emails and figure out how to win back my readers who are sick of me flitting in and out of their lives at random like a herpes outbreak.




Spring Break used to be a lot more fun.

The weight of the world is heavy

I know, I know, I've been strangely absent from the blogosphere lately. This may be in part due to the fact that I am utterly and hopelessly addicted to spider solitaire and can do little else than obsessively play it.

Oh, and also I've had a lot on my mind. Sometimes it's too much to process, ya know?

Thursday Paul called me on his way home from work and said, "You need to call your Mom. I just got a text - Ellis died." After I stopped my heart from hitting the floor and getting all dirty and germy and stuff I said, "WHAT?" Ellis was a man that I have known my entire life. His wife and my mom were best friends in high school, I went to school with both of his sons, worked with his oldest son at DHS, etc etc. Needless to say, I called Mom and yes, it was true. Not only did this family lose their husband and father, it made the situation ten thousand times worse because he was on a business trip in Las Vegas when it happened. I cannot even begin to imagine what his family went through and my heart truly goes out to them.

Thursday evening was the school carnival. I was a member of the PTC a few years ago and wow, I am so glad I was on the participant end of the carnival this year. Not that I'm saying that the carnival completed me or anything, but I got to follow my son around while he played Pin the Surfer on the Wave, shot a few hoops, fished at the fish pond and won his girlfriend oodles of stuffed crap, and nervously looked out for my oldest daughter who was allowed - for the first time - to walk around without a parent. ACK! She's growing up! Paul took Kady and I gave them both explicit instructions to NOT GET HER DRESS DIRTY and to NOT LET HER JUMP ON THE INFLATABLE JUMPING THING THAT HAS GOD KNOWS HOW MANY GERMS ON IT. Kady was a princess candidate and while her class didn't win, she looked utterly adorable up there on the stage with the little boy from her class that wore a pin striped suit and stood about four feet away from her like she had Kindergarten cooties or something. We left promptly at 7:40 in just enough time to fly home and watch LOST. Because we totally have our priorities in order.

Friday I spent the day with my husband and folks, when someone you know unexpectedly dies it tends to put everything into serious perspective. Paul and I have had some rough times in our marriage, but I honestly have to say our marriage is the best it has ever been. There were times I wanted to hang it up, call it quits, get the heck outta Dodge and just leave, but I am so, so glad I didn't. He is such a precious man and I can't express exactly how much I love him.

His schedule has changed recently and now we both have Fridays off together. I got the kids off to school, laid down on the couch and dozed awhile, then we got around and took the truck to the Dodge dealership to get the oil changed, had lunch together, bought tags for the Harley and the new van, visited with Mom at the courthouse, took the van out and traded it for the truck so it could have an oil change, too (we're equal opportunity vehicle owners) and then came home to catch our kidlets off the bus.

I like Fridays.

Mom and Pops picked the kids up around 4 and took them to town for pizza, ice cream and a sleepover. Good heavens, they were happy kids. They adore their Grammy, but now that they have a Pops, too, well, let's just say that our family is complete. Paul and I had plans to go have dinner at the Stables (free food vouchers from our birthdays, we've just been too sick to use them and no one wants to waste good expensive food when they can't taste anything) and then go see 10,000 BC.

Dinner was great, although it took somewhere around 9 hours for them to get our food to us because my husband insists on ordering his steaks well done. Ruins a perfectly good steak in my opinion, but he says he just hates to hear the sound my steaks make when I cut into them - he says the mooing is distracting. By the time we finished eating it was exactly 7:00 and the movie started at 7:05. It wasn't far to the theater and I figured we would just miss the previews, but no, Mr. Gamblypants said we couldn't make it. Now, I know my husband well enough to know that if he gets settled into a casino and starts winning (heck, even if he's losing) he doesn't want to leave. I knew that if we didn't go to the early show, we wouldn't go at all. He assured me I was wrong. Mmhmm....riiiiiight, honey. So I pouted enough that he finally took off for the door. I figured he'd just go home, but instead he said, "Okay, you don't like to gamble here. Pick somewhere else. Because we are having date night and you are GOING to have fun." So I picked The Big Fancy Casino.

He gave me $20 to start and I promptly lost it. He gave me $40 more. I put in $20 of it and cashed out with $175. Not a bad start. I gave him his $60 back and put in another $20. I cashed out with $200 that time. Then another $20 gave me $300. Over the course of about an hour I won about $1600. Yes, SIXTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS. None of it was taxable because I won it all in small amounts. The most I cashed out at one time was $700. I know! It IS exciting! And my husband, who is a sore loser, took his turn pouting. So I started giving him money in an attempt to MAKE HIM HAVE FUN. We ended up blowing about $400 of my winnings before we left, but still I walked out with a good chunk of money and it was decided that I would pay Mom back the money I owed her from Christmas (She's a gem to pick up stuff for me if she finds stuff on sale) and take the kids shopping for summer clothes.

Saturday morning I got around and headed to town to get the kids from Mom's, Paul dragged out the big plastic totes full of last year's summer clothes and when we got back home we essentially trashed the living room. It looked like twelve clothing stores exploded in our house. Abby, of course, has outgrown EVERYTHING because she's AS TALL AS HER MOTHER NOW. Sam outgrew his jean shorts, pajamas and all of his shoes. Kady, as usual, has enough clothes to outfit a small third world country. She gets hand-me-downs from her big sister and from her cousin so we are never at a loss for clothes for her. After the Trying-On Of Summer Clothes 2008, we loaded up and headed for Joplin. We hit Target first and bought Sam jean shorts and pajamas and bought Abby her first real bras (God help us all) and some capris and poor Kady didn't get anything. She cried. Of course.

Instead of treating our kids to dinner at a restaurant we made them even happier by taking them to the food court at the mall. I will never understand why the food court is so awesome to them.

And then the mall shopping began. We went to Children's Place first and got Kady a sundress and some plastic Croc-looking shoes that are so adorable I wish I had size 13 1/2 feet. Abby got some more capris. Sam and Paul stood at the front of the store - Paul sighed heavily and Sam ogled the little Girl Scouts who were selling cookies out front. After that we went to Steve and Barry's and let me just say, if I could marry Steve or Barry or both of them, I so totally would. Everything in the store was $8.98 or less! How can you beat that? I mean, seriously???? Abby is totally in love with Amanda Bynes' clothing line, Dear and bought oodles of shirts because they say "Dear AB" on them. I mean, if I could find shirts with my nickname on them I'd buy oodles of them, too. Paul got three nice summer dress shirts, Abby and Kady both got new jeans, Sam whined that his feet hurt and that shopping was stupid and girls are weird for liking it. After that we went to Old Navy where Paul got some shorts, the girls got some sundresses and Sam continued whining and declaring that girls are mentally unstable. Then we hit Payless for shoes. Kady ended up crying because the first pair she tried on was too small and she busted into tears and said, "What if we can't find any that fit me and I have to be SHOE-LESS!!!" We sent Ab off to the women's section because OMG, HAVE I MENTIONED SHE IS AS TALL AS HER MOTHER AND WEARS REAL BRAS AND HAS FEET THAT ARE ROUGHLY THE SIZE OF DELAWARE?? Sam and Paul picked out two pairs of shoes in about 1.2 minutes and then sat down to gripe and complain some more while Kady and I argued and she cried and I threatened until finally we found her some shoes and no, she won't have to go shoe-less this summer. Paul's nerves were shot, Sam was just utterly exhausted (he said) so I bought everyone ice cream to shut the males up. It worked. After that it was to Bath and Body where I got two tubes of chapstick and two new lip glosses. One last stop (we thought) at the bookstore where Sam bought YET ANOTHER Captain Underpants book and Kady got a Fancy Nancy Goes to the Museum, a Step One reader, and Abby got nothing because she simply HAD to go to Claire's before the mall closed because she "SO needed a new purse! Duh!"

Did anyone notice that I won a boatload of money and I walked out of the mall with two chapsticks and two lip glosses? Anyone? Okay, just checking. I thought it was just me that noticed.

Sunday was church, a church dinner, a pizza party for the basketball team, and laundry. Lots of laundry. Because apparently we bought an entire mall the day before.

Yesterday was when the bottom dropped out and that's when the world just plopped its fat hiney down on my shoulders and said, "Here, carry me."

I went to Ellis' funeral and I'm here to tell you people, if there isn't laughing at my funeral I will personally come back to haunt each and every one of you who had anything to do with it. I think funerals should be like the one I went to yesterday - stories were shared about growing up, about how much he loved his grandkids, and what a great person he was. I'd better look down from Heaven and hear y'all talking about how dang funny I was, is all I gotta say. I sat between Mom and a girl that was in Tater's class and between the three of us we shed enough tears to float a cow, as Kady would say. Some were tears of grief, some were tears of joy, but they were tears, nonetheless.

After that I went to the office and that's where things got incredibly worser. Of course, I can't share any of the details, but let me just say that the world that had already plopped itself on my shoulders decided at that point to shift around and bounce a few times and nudge it's butt bone into my shoulderblades. Oh and it gained 40,000 pounds.

My emotions were so raw and I was so sad that when Paul came home and told me that his friend who is currently stationed in Iraq had apparently had a stroke, I lost it. I mean, just lost it. I lost my doojies all over the place and then some.

I called my mom, because who better to bawl to than your momma, and unloaded on her. I hated to do that to her because I knew she was grieving herself, but I had to get it out. About an hour later she called and said, "We're on our way out. We'll be there in 15." When I asked why, she replied, "We're gonna have a Come To Jesus meeting." Turns out, they just came out to do what parents are supposed to do - comfort and listen. Pops hugged me and said, "I heard something about you today. I heard that you are pretty tenderhearted when it comes to kids. Listen to me, that's a good thing. Don't ever stop being tenderhearted." Of course, I bawled.

We got a phone call around 10:00 last night from Daniel's wife (Paul's ex-fiance. Yeah, that's WAY weird.) They flew Daniel to Germany this morning to do some tests, but it appears that he's fine. Praise God.

When Paul and I got into bed last night he pulled me into his arms and held me while I sobbed and questioned and he said he didn't have any answers, he didn't know why things happened, but he knew one thing - that he loved me more at that moment than he had ever loved me before. Of course, that sent me into more crying because how in the world did I get so lucky?

The world is lighter today. I still feel it there, occasionally shifting its weight, as a reminder that it's there, but it's lighter. I can handle it - I have new lip gloss.

A year without

Sunday marked one year without Papa. I spent the better part of the morning shedding intermittent tears, especially during the Veteran's Day service at church.

I just miss him so much.

The following is what I wrote after he passed and what I said at his funeral. It was hard, but I did it. And I wasn't alone. He was there with me.

This past week has kept all of us family members in pretty close quarters and oh, the stories we’ve shared about Papa. Scott, Keith, Sis and I have all mentioned how exciting it was riding in that orange truck. And now in the summer if we were in shorts we’d try as hard as we could to find a position to sit in so that those seat covers wouldn’t rub the hide off of the backs of our legs. Riding in that orange truck was a very big deal and even a bigger deal when that orange truck took us to the Townsman. Walking in there and being met with a cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of grease was a big deal for us grandkids. We’d sit in those booths and not have the slightest idea what anyone was talking about, but we’d sit there and itch the backs of our legs that were still raw from riding to town on seat covers made from God knows what and feel pretty darn important just being with Papa.

If there was a way to calculate all of the hours of Hee Haw and Lawrence Welk that we watched with Papa I’m sure that number would be in the millions. And if we were fidgety and not really into the show that night we were given a classic Papa "Be still!" Heather said it was years before she realized that when Papa said "be still" he just meant be quiet and that she really didn’t have to sit there not moving.

Heather and I both remember him saying ‘Hey Sugarbabe!" when we’d run and hug him. Keith said he’ll never forget how Papa would come in that back porch door at the end of the day. You’d hear the screen door open and shut and then you’d hear "HOWDEE!" as he walked into the kitchen. I don’t think any of us can forget it - no one could say howdy quite like Papa. Courtney told us about how they greeted each other every time - He’d say, "How’s my baby?" and Courtney would reply, "I’m good. How’s my Papa?" And he’d give her the same answer every time - "I’m better."

He was a man of few words, but the words he spoke were memorable.

Keith said the other night, "I will never ever forget the sound of the milkers" and before he could say another word Heather and I joined him with donk chhh, donk chhhh. I’d sit in the corner of the milk barn on a bucket turned upside down, the radio would usually be playing either some very twangy country music or sometimes the news, the milkers would be making their own music and I’d swat flies and watch Papa do his job.

I’m sure it was incredibly dangerous the places we played and the things we did on that farm, but we all survived and seem to be fairly normal adults in spite of it. If it hadn’t been for hanging out in the milk barn, prowling around the shop, climbing on farm machinery and spending hours and hours playing on the propane tank, picking blooms off the trumpet vine on the well house and making glass after glass of Ovaltine, I’m not sure I’d be the person I am today. We are all better for having known Papa - not just his kids and us grandkids, but every one of us here today.

As I grew up I spent less time at the farm and with Papa due to being a teenager, growing up and such. But as I had my own children I found myself getting reacquainted with him again. All five of Heather’s and my kids loved their Papa Leo so very much and we couldn’t make it into Mom’s house without them running across the yard to give Papa hugs and kisses. He was so proud of those great-grandkids. He’d see us drive up and come out onto the porch to see the kids. And he always kept a can of peanuts next to the couch. Now, I’m sure he ate a few himself, but I’m fairly certain that he kept that can there for the kids. Those kids could obliterate a can of nuts in no time flat and the next time they’d come over there’d be another one waiting on them.

Heather and I got to take him to his school reunion in Edmond twice. The first year Uncle Homer was with us. It only takes about 3 hours to get to Edmond, but he insisted on leaving at 5:30am. Of course, when you only drive 45, you allow a lot of extra time. That’s why Heather always offered to drive - but we still left at 5:30. We girls just wondered what we were going to do in Edmond for 2 ½ hours, but Papa took care of that. We got the guided tour of Waterloo and heard so many stories about growing up in a time that it took an entire day to get from Edmond to the City and back in a wagon. There were tons of stories. But the best part of the entire day that first year was on the way home. Heather was driving that big Lincoln and was just trying her best to keep it between the lines. You know Papa wasn’t a big conversationalist, so the car was pretty quiet. Heather and I were talking quietly about the kids or something when all of the sudden a semi started honking at us. She had just passed the big truck, but didn’t think she had done anything wrong. She said, "Kristin, why is he honking at me?" Then we heard a snicker from the back seat. We turned around to find Papa slumped down in the seat doing the arm pull thing to get that trucker to honk at us. He was grinning from ear to ear and said, "Ah, I haven’t done that in years."

There isn’t a person in this place today that wasn’t touched in some way by Papa. Your lives are richer and better in some way because of him - whether it was because you were related to him, you were a neighbor, you worked for him at the farm or because he helped you out at Ken’s Farm and Home. While people were coming up to visit him at the hospital last week, the one thing I heard over and over again was what a great man he was. We really did have the best.

I remember once when I was little, walking with Memaw back up to the house after we’d gone to see Papa out in the shop. I was holding her hand and looked up and asked her if Papa was saved. She looked down at me and said, "Your Papa is a good man." I said, "Yes, but is he going to Heaven?" She squeezed my hand and said, "Heaven is full of good men." That particular conversation stuck with me for years. And well, it took him awhile to get around to it, but Papa did take Jesus as his Savior and I know today that there’s one more good man in Heaven.

It's raining on prom night

Yesterday morning the home phone rang at 7:17am and I figured it was Paul for some weird reason. He had already left for work on the 4-wheeler at 6am, to be picked up by the secretary in his department and I figured he was calling to tell me to do this or that or whatever. Keep in mind, our phone lines have been under water for a week now and rather than a dial tone we have this screeching and squealing and squawking that might be mistaken for alien communication. I immediately cringe when it rings because I know I have to put the phone up to my ear and not only am I risking alien brain infection when I do that, but I also know it's going to hurt my ear. So I cringed and picked up the phone. Amidst the screeching I heard the neighbor say, "I just made it through in my truck! It stinks to high heaven, but I made it through!" I thanked her, hung up the phone and hollered, "Kids! Get yer clothes on - we're goin' to town!"

There were three super happy kids at that announcement. One super happy momma, too.

Before we left, I had some phone calls to make - one to the city to get the utilities put in the renters's names which I couldn't do, one to the gas company to get the gas put in the renters's names which I couldn't do either, but at least got a landlord thingy put on the account for future use, and one to the place that has a job opening to tell them that I am interested and would await her return call. (Which never came yesterday, but I did hear last night that she did get the message and now awaits my appearance in her office, wahoo!) By the time I did all that, then called the renters to tell them that they personally have to put everything in their names, then took a shower and got ready (I'd forgotten how to put on makeup and look me awhile to convince my skin to not shriek at the foreign substance being placed on it), we made it out the door at 11:20.

When the neighbor said "it stinks to high heaven" she totally was not kidding. Ever had a wading pool in your yard and you decide to drain it and move it to somewhere else in your yard? Yeah? And know how it smells underneath the pool when you move it? Yeah? That smell like rotting rot and the stench of rottenness? Well, magnify the smell under the wading pool by about 13 million. We literally gagged as we drove through. It's bad. Real bad.

The drive into town was sobering enough to turn off SpongeBob singing "The Best Day Ever" because even though we thought it was a pretty durn good day because we were finally out of the house, we were all struck silent at the wreck that has become parts of our city. Buildings literally gone, washed away, nonexistent now. Fences full of debris, trash and hay bales from God knows where, washed in from fields. Our favorite deli, waterlogged. A convenience store that has a gaping hole in the roof where the refrigerator floated right through the top. And the obvious death to all vegetation that water came in contact with. (Pardon that preposition there, dangling at the end of that sentence.) And the smell. My heavens, the smell.

7 days stuck in our house was nothing compared to what hundreds of people in my city experienced.

Then, to add insult to injury, Woody's Cafe, which has been a Main Street icon for like, ever has been renamed Mom's Home Cookin'. I am not exaggerating when I say that Sam nearly cried. He was so upset. His daddy took him to Woody's last year for breakfast and he still talks about it today. I remember going to Woody's for lunch with Nana after mornings of shopping downtown when downtown had shopping. To rename it is an abomination in my opinion.

So in order to lighten the mood I started talking about the Chinese food we were going to eat because we all had craved Chinese food for a week and kids isn't Chinese food great, let's eat Chinese food, yipeee! But instead the three kids mutinied and begged for McFood. Hello Kitty and FlyWheels in the Happy/Mighty Kids Meals won over a week-long craving of yummy, MSG-laden Chinese food. I just closed my eyes and pretended my grilled chicken - hold the mayo - was broccoli beef. It didn't work, but I tried.

While I was disappointing my tastebuds, I called the Miami Cineplex and got the matinee time for Ratatouille.

After lunch, we did our banking and went to Wal*Mart to buy a Transformer, a Littlest Pet Shop something or 'nother, some blue, pink and purple nail polish (Which, by the way, my nails are lookin' awesome coated in purpleness), new eyeliner and contraband candy to stick in the bottom of my purse. Then we headed to the Cineplex for 2 hours of air conditioning and darkness and not home.

Ratatouille was rather not that good in my opinion. Oh, it was cute in parts and the kids loved it, but the scenes where there were rats - LOTS OF RATS - in big ratty hoardes, scampering and, for the love of Pete, cooking gave me the heebeegeebees and I couldn't help but say "OH MY GOSH" out loud, loudly, several loud times. (shudder) It was long - two hours worth of long, rodent-filled kitchen scenes that made me never want to eat out ever, ever again. Ever. Yes, I knew before entering the theatre that the movie involved a rat chef, but I had no idea that scenes involving hoardes of rats cooking would be involved. (more shuddering)

Upon leaving the theatre, I found out when the first showing of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix will be. Oh yeah, I am that big of a dork. I have also been known to drive to Wal*Mart at 11:00pm in order to be one of the first to buy a copy of a newly released book, only to find that I was the first and only idiot to buy a copy at 12:01am. Yeah.

We came home around 5pm, after a stop at Sonic for yet more! fast food and glorious, glorious soda. I had sweet tea at lunch because sweet tea is the one thing Miami McDonald's does oh so right. We don't keep soda in the house as a general rule because we really like soda, so that first slug of a gigantonormous Sonic Coke was nearly orgasmic.

Yesterday was Ladies' Night at Buffalo Run, so we called Mom to see if she'd watch the kids, she agreed and we again, headed for town. Paul hadn't been to town through the Fairgrounds, on South Main and he was as dumbstuck as we had been earlier in the day. He, too, was upset over Woody's cafe's name change.

Paul's been brewing up a very sudden, what he's calling a cold since Sunday and spending an evening out amongst the mold spores, God knows what kind of rot germs in the air and then a smoky casino has made him sick enough to declare, "Get me a doctor's appointment today. I'm dying." For him to admit defeat after only 2 days, it must be bad. I'm wagering my bet right now that it's pneumonia again. Dangit.

Tomorrow is the day I go to visit the prospective place of employment and hope for a hire. It was going to be today, but Mom can't watch the kids for me. Her best friend's father passed away and they are having a very ceremonious tribal burial for him and she asked Mom to be there. He was the last remaining full-blood Seneca-Cayuga Indian. Mom said something about having to go earlier to be smoked. I'm not familiar with the ceremony, seeing as how firstly, I'm not Seneca-Cayuga and secondly, I'm only 1/128th Cherokee. Enough for a card, but probably not enough for a good smoking at my burial. I'm not making fun, please don't misunderstand. I'm just saying, my translucent skin and freckles don't lend to people automatically knowing I'm Cherokee. When I walk into the Indian Clinic, most stare and probably wonder, "What is this Irish chick doing here?" If there's any smoking at my funeral, it will be done by those also holding a bottle of Bud Light.

Oh yeah -- it's raining again.

Disappearing weeks

Last Sunday morning - one whole week ago, where has time gone? - I slept in a little. I couldn't do anything else - I was useless from being sick and exhausted. The kids and I pretty much laid around all morning, then I got up and started in on some much-neglected laundry, wrote what I wanted to say at the funeral and made it to Papa's house right around the time Paul got there from work.

Mom told me that Papa was ready and that I needed to take the kids down to the funeral home so they could see him, just us, no one else. When it was time, I went back to start rounding up kids. I said, "Come on, Kadybug. Get your shoes on." She looked up from her coloring and said, "Whewe awe we goin'?" I said, "We're going to go see Papa." She gave me a look that said Mother, you are sooooo very stupid and then said, "You mean we'we going to go see his body, wight?" I nodded and said, "Well, yes, that's right." The look on her face changed to relief as she said, "Whew! I fought you meant we were going to Heaven! And I'm just not weady yet!"

Don't let anyone tell you that kids aren't aware of what's going on around them or of anything you say and do.

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Monday night was the visitation. Mom and Uncle Larry arrived at the funeral home around 5:30. All of us cousins and Uncle David got there around 5:45. From then until just up to 8:00 there was a steady line of people in that chapel. The line went out the door, down the sidewalk. I think Aunt Janet said she counted either right under or right over 300 names - the funeral director had to get more pages for the guest book. I had done okay all day until I got in the chapel and saw all of the flowers and started reading the cards.....then I lost it again. Then seeing people I hadn't seen in years, folks from the old neighborhood I grew up in, people that have known our family for years, friends, family......it was a very long night. But don't get me wrong, there were plenty of laughs, too. You can't get us Glenns together and not expect some shenanigans and jokes, no matter what the situation.

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All three kids had been coughing all day Monday. I stopped at Walgreens and picked up some cough medicine and doped them up accordingly. After the visitation and of course, more eating, it was late by the time we got home. (I will never understand the need to feed people in mourning, but I'm certainly not complaining.) I gave them more cough medicine and put them to bed, then went up front to work on some Girl Scout paperwork. In the midst of all of this, we had our fall product sales fundraiser and I needed to get all of it tied up to turn in. It was about 1:30 when my eyes finally refused to focus any longer and I gave in to exhaustion. I was too tired to even turn down the bed and just collapased on the couch under a blanket. Paul was in the recliner, the fire was going, the house was warm..... I was tired.

About 3am I woke up to The Sound. That is literally what we call it in this house - The Sound. Kady calls it her Scawy Sound. It is the sound of Kady wheezing and gasping for breath during an asthma attack. I flew up off of that couch and ran down the hall to find Abby trying to get off of the top bunk and Kady sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes wide and mouth open. Abby said, "MOM! She can't BREATHE!" I scooped Kady up and ran back up the hall. I hollered at Paul to wake up and get the nebulizer ready, then took her outside. Usually being out in the cold night air will help her, but that night it didn't. Paul hollered that the machine was ready and we went in. The breathing treatment had no affect on her - she still couldn't breathe. I found a blanket, wrapped her up, handed her off to her daddy and told him to take her outside while I got my clothes on. He grabbed my van keys on the way out and started the van while I at least put on a bra and some shoes. When I got outside I found them by the van, Paul singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, which is what we always sing when we're outside during an asthma attack. (Singing makes them take deeper breaths) What better song to sing when you're outside at 3am under the stars?

Paul buckled Kady and I headed to town with a blue-lipped not-quite-5 year old, praying all the way. When I hit the highway I turned on my flashers and drove as fast as I felt I safely could.

Long story short, they did another treatment with no results, put her on a heart monitor, oxygen and pulse ox, then did a chest x-ray. After the chest x-ray the doctor checked her again and said that they way it was looking, she was going to be admitted. She had Respiratory Therapy to do a different kind of breathing treatment - racemic epi, such magic medicine - and Kady perked right up. We left the hospital around 6am. Kady talked nonstop all the way home and when we stumbled back in the house around 6:20, I was so tired I was nauseous. I put her on the couch with me, pleaded that she rest her lips awhile and fell asleep with her still talking. I woke up at 8 to find her crashed on my arm. Even though I wanted much, much more sleep, I got up and started getting clothes ironed and shooing kids and husband to the showers.

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The church fed the family at noon and Kady enjoyed all of the attention she was getting from telling everyone she came into contact with about her adventure in the ER mere hours before.

The service was the most beautiful funeral I've ever attended in my life. What a celebration of Papa's life. The two ministers who spoke did wonderfully. Paul Ingram Thomas sang and I guarantee if Papa was looking down from Heaven, he was nudging everyone and saying, "Why, look at that - they got Paul Ingram Thomas to sing at my funeral!" He never missed a concert when ol' PIT was out at "Bison Run". I spoke as well. I held it together until the last sentence. I know that I wasn't alone up on that stage that day - my Papa was right there with me.

We were escorted to the cemetary by 9 country sheriff cars and one Highway Patrol. The procession was so long that you couldn't see the end. Papa would've been impressed with that one, too. The military burial always gets me no matter whose service it is. Hearing Taps and the gun salute just causes me to break down and Tater and I sat and bawled uncontrollably. We had almost gotten ourselves together while they folded the flag, but lost it again when the soldier knelt before Mom and presented her with the flag. I had never been close enough to hear the words they say, but let me just tell you, I am so proud to live in this country.

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I took Wednesday off and had intended on sleeping and catching up on the mountains of laundry and the toxic waste dump in my kitchen, but instead took Kady and Sam to the doctor. He said there was nothing more to do for Kady, just time and patience. Sam has bronchitis, but of course, it's viral. But the doctor did put him on Singular and Claritin to help the allergy stuff that he's been dealing with for awhile now. I'm so tired of hearing that kid sniff, I hope the medicines work. Kady was still hopped up on albuterol from breathing treatments every 4 hours, so there was no hope of a nap that afternoon, but I did manage to lie on the couch and watch Boomerang. While it wasn't sleep, it was at least rest.

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The rest of the week passed by as usual. Thursday I took treats down to Sam's class for his birthday. Neither Paul nor I could do it tomorrow, so we fudged a few days early. Friday night we took the five cousins and Chandler to Pizza Hut and then bowling for Sam's birthday. Mom, Paul, Tater and I bowled, too. I forget how much fun bowling horribly is.

Yesterday was a two-hour gymnastics class and then we went to the sports store to pick out new shoes that the indians so graciously purchased for the kids. Abby and Sam both got some Nike Shox, something they would never have gotten if their momma had been paying for them. They both also got a pair of Adidas tennies and so did Kady. Sam's Shox are basketball shoes - now to get him enrolled and on a team......small detail.

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Now, before I go, I have another prayer request:
Thursday morning one of my daycare moms was in a really bad car accident. She was ejected from the car. The last I heard, she was still on the ventilator, but they had pinned her leg and her blood pressure was finally stabilized. Please keep her and her family in your prayers and thoughts.

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Thank you to everyone who left comments, sent emails, said prayers, kept us in your thoughts, sent cards and even sent flowers over the last few weeks. We wouldn't have made it without friends like y'all. If I could hug you all, you know I would.

Gone Home

He made it to Veteran's Day. I know he hung on for that. Veteran's Day was very important to Papa.



Wednesday evening we took the kids up to see Papa again. Tater's kids hadn't gotten to see him at all, but he had looked so bad and felt so bad that we weren't sure it was a good idea. But wow, Wednesday he was doing really good and Mom said if we were going to bring them up it was a good time to. He couldn't talk very well that night, but he was fully aware and enjoyed listening to them talk and tell about school and various other things important to the elementary school set. He did get enough breath to tell them he was proud of all of them. Before they left the room, hugs were given all around and he looked so happy to have seen them.

Tater and I stayed until probably 10 or so that night - the earliest night we went home all week. Papa was just doing so good, plus we had the kids and we were afraid DHS was going to be called because of the threats we were doling out. We had given the daddies the night off for good behavior - they were exhausted from going above and beyond their usual childcare duties.

After we left, he started his slow wind-down. He had seen all six great-grandkids.

Wednesday morning Mom had gotten a phone call from Papa's wife's sister. Papa's wife, Georgia, had called her sister and was talking kind of strange and said she had fallen and then the phone went dead. The sister had called Mom to ask her to check on her. When Mom walked across the yard she prayed she wouldn't find blood - Georgia had a history of being a little "confused" from time to time and Mom was afraid she'd done something to herself. Papa was the one to keep Georgia straight on her medications, but since Papa was in the hospital she had gotten a little off. During the night she had taken a lot of meds - sleeping pills, pain pills, Valium, God knows what else. She had tried to bake muffins under the recliner, made little piles of food in every nook and cranny of the house and while she was talking to Mom she poured herself a bowl of orange juice and drank it like that was the most normal thing to do. Mom and Aunt Janet took her to the hospital. Her heart was in arrythmia from all of the meds, so they admitted her to ICU until it kind of straightned out.

Now, please understand that we are not cruel people. But honestly, there was no emotional attachment to Georgia. There never has been. We accepted her and well, tolerated her out of respect for Papa. It was decided that morning that Georgia was going home to her family down South. We knew Papa was going to die and we couldn't take care of her. But instead things worked out on their own and Thursday morning Georgia had a massive heart attack and died.

Talk about raining and pouring and all that jazz.

Things kind of turned into chaos from there on out. Instead of letting Uncle Larry or Mom tell Papa, the doctor (who is a real butthead in my opinion, for more reasons than just this) took it upon himself to him. And Papa went downhill fast from there. Mom said I needed to get up there by afternoon.

I had two babies here that day, so I called them and asked them to pick the boys up by noon. Irish Divinity said she could probably make it by four, which I said would be okay. I'd just leave Paul here with Li'l Divinity and Kady and I'd go on up by myself. But I called Mom to ask an unrelated question and she answered the phone crying and said I needed to get up there right then. I loaded up the baby, Kady and Paul and we flew to town. Paul met Divinity in the parking lot while I got upstairs. Mom and Tater were in the hall crying and I thought I was too late, but heck everyone was crying. It was the worst he'd been that far. Paul went back home to get the kids off the bus, help them get their homework done and that night a friend that works with Mom - the kids call her "Grammy's Connie" - took the kids to her house for the evening. All five of them. (We hope she's still our friend.) The daddies picked them up and took care of getting them to bed. Tater and I stayed until 2am or so. We had planned on staying the night because he was doing so bad, but Mom told us to go. She and Uncle Larry were taking turns staying awake with Papa and she said we needed to go home to our babies and husbands.

Friday morning I got Paul off to work and the kids off the school and took Kady to Lab School. I think Friday was the longest day of my life. I kept Kady at the hospital with me all day. She was so aggrivated with us for not letting her go see her Papa Leo. We just told her he was resting. At one point she put her hands on her hips and said, "Mom. Just how much sweep does Papa Weo need?" When Paul got there after work he was going to take her home and pick up the other two from Bub. Kady was crying that she wanted to see Papa. Finally Mom agreed to take her to the doorway and let her blow him a kiss. She blew him about 47 hugs and kisses and whispered, "Bye-bye Papa Weo. I wuv you." Talk about ripping your guts right out.

Lack of sleep, emotional roller coasters and spending most of your time in a hospital are pretty much the perfect recipe for getting sick. I followed the recipe to a T and have come down with a humdinger of a cold. I was doped up on Motrin and Mucinex all day Friday and spent from about 9pm on wrapped up in a blanket when I wasn't sitting beside Papa taking my turn holding his hand.

They had moved Papa to a larger room, but there were so many of us we had to take over the small waiting area at the end of the hall and we dared anyone to try and sit in it. We had staked our claim with Sonic cups, Charlies Chicken boxes and pretty much just made ourselves at home. It was ours. It had become home to us in the hours after work last week. Around 8pm, though, we abandoned the waiting area and all of us moved into Papa's room. By midnight the conversations started to wane and we were going between dozing and watching his breathing get slower and slower. When Tater nearly fell out of her chair as she dozed she decided to go back to the waiting room for awhile - the chairs had arms on them out there. She had only been out there 10 minutes or so when Mom said to get her and bring her back in.

We were all there standing around his bed when his body finally just gave out. There wasn't a moment that you could actually say he drew his last breath - it was really just like he faded out. We had known it was coming, but when the nurse turned to us and said, "I'm sorry" it was such an emotional moment. He was really gone. Heaven got a big "HOWDEEE!" at that moment. And he was finally home with Jesus and Memaw.

Tater, Mom, Aunt Janet, Courtney and I had taken turns holding his hands all night. They were so cold and he didn't hold back, but just having that connection was a comfort to us. I wouldn't ever have just taken Papa's hand and held it while he was living. That just wasn't something I'd have done, but holding his hand that night was so precious. I will never forget that.

Being in such close quarters with my family this week has taught me so much about them. Watching my Mom comb Papa's hair was such a touching act in my eyes. Papa always carried a comb because he just didn't like for his hair to be messed up and Mom just worried about his hair being messed up when he couldn't worry about it himself. Papa had wanted cool washcloths on his neck and head for some reason. He wasn't running a fever, but I guess it just felt good. Watching Uncle Larry take those cloths, wet them and fix them back the way Papa wanted them showed me a side of my uncle that I hadn't seen before.

I asked Mom at one point, "What is he waiting for? Why can't he just go?" Mom said, "Kristin, Dad always believed in doing something to the fullest. If there was a job to do he did it with everything in him and he did it until it was done."

He drew us closer to each other this week. If that was his job, he succeeded.

Letting go

My papa is in the hospital. We were told on Monday that he had a week, at most, left with us. I cannot express to you the number of tears that have fallen since we found out this news. There is a whole family of mostly liberal Democrats (maybe a Republican or two, but I'm not saying who that might be) who have shed many a tear in the last few days.

The kids and I went up to see him Sunday afternoon. He had been in the hospital a week I think by then and I hadn't been up to see him yet. I figured the kids might cheer him up. Up until a month ago, Papa worked full time at the Farm and Home. He had developed a rather cute gambling affection. Since he found out that the cancer was back, he's pretty much given up. He's lost weight - weight he didn't have to lose. But the man I saw sitting in that hospital bed on Sunday, sitting in the dark with his head bowed down to his chest was not that Papa. He was a sick man. Surely not my Papa.

The kids did their best to talk to him, to get him to talk back to them, as distressed as they were seeing him like that. They love their Papa Leo and think he pretty much hung the moon. Sam told him about school, they all three talked about the carnival that Grammy and Uncle David had taken them to the night before. He would hardly raise his head. We didn't stay long, but the kids - of their own volition - hugged him and told him they loved him. While I'm glad they saw him, I'm also saddened that that may very well be the picture of him they keep in their heads. Abby asked me on the way home if Papa was going to die. I replied, "Honey, no one lives forever." The kid is so much more intuitive than I give her credit for. She read right through that one, saw past my, what I thought was, a clever question-dodge. She said, "Mom. He's dying.... isn't he?"

Yes, he's dying. And I'm not ready for him to go.

I cried continually all morning Monday from when Mom called and told me what the doctor had said - that we only had a few more days to say good-bye. I wasn't planning on saying good-bye any time soon and now I'm told I have to do it in a week? To quote my children - It's not fair. I thought that my tears were all gone by afternoon. But when I told Tammy, I sobbed on her shoulder like a child. (My gosh, what would I do without her?) I cried a little more when Paul got home from work. I cried on the way to the hospital. But when Papa took Tater's hand and said he wasn't gonna make it through the night and Tater lost it - that's when my tears took a break. It's like Tater and I can't cry together, as strange as it sounds. One of us has to stay strong while the other loses it. We're a team that way. Of course, I can't see my mom cry without crying. I've been that way since I was a kid. I want to be strong for her, but at the same time I want to lay my head in her lap and have her tell me it's going to be okay.

We called in my uncle who lives an hour away. We called in my cousin who lives 2 1/2 hours away. The whole family was there at one point. We spilled out of his room into the hall. All of us grandkids were lined up down the hall, some sitting, some standing. The staff has been amazing. One nurse felt sorry for Tater and I sitting on the floor and brought us pillows. She'd check on us every half hour or so. Cousin Courtney's husband entertained us all by making Hamburger Helper's cousin, Ground Turkey Helper, out of a rubber glove and an empty DaSani water bottle. We cousins sat in the hall and recalled the moments that make us wonder to this day how we survived our childhood on Papa's farm. From setting fire to egg cartons, jumping out of the hay loft, playing in the grainery, and hanging out in the milk barn (all of us knowing exactly what Keith meant when he said "I'll never forget the sound of the milkers - donk chhh....donk chhhh") to watching Papa's cigarette dangle from his hand or lip and waiting for the ash to eventually fall onto the arm of the recliner and rushing to make sure it didn't catch us all on fire, watching endless episodes of The Lawrence Welk Show and Hee Haw, daring each other to go into the cellar and getting flogged by that very nasty rooster - we sat in that hall and recounted our childhood experiences on that farm. Papa has given us so much and he probably doesn't even realize he's done it.

During one of the times that I found myself sitting in his room, I took the time to look around at my family sitting there with me. I have never seen my mom and uncles look so tired in my whole life. I consider my mom a very strong woman, but I saw her looking very vulnerable and so incredibly small and sad Monday night. Uncle Larry looked like he could drop at any second. He looked tired and sad and concerned. Uncle David is one of the most Godly men you could ever meet and he always has such a peace about him. In times of mourning and sadness, Uncle David can find peace and comfort in his faith and in God, but I watched him sit next to Papa's bed and cry that night and I felt so helpless. Cousin Courtney was the one who said it best - "There has never been a time that I thought Papa wouldn't be there. He's just supposed to always be here."

Tater and I stayed until 3:30am Tuesday morning. By that point Papa was breathing just a little better and was trying to rest. We knew Uncle Larry needed some sleep, too. Mom was coming up at 5, so we felt like we could go. We had kids to get up for school, husbands to get off to work, I had daycare kids arriving by 7. We left, both of us cried out and exhausted. I caught a few hours of sleep, got up and showered and began my day. Every time the phone rang, I jumped. No call came during the day and I tried to focus my attention on the sick babies crawling and toddling about my toyroom, praying that no germs were attaching themselves to me, obsessively washing and Germ-Xing my hands throughout the day. This is not a real great time for me to get sick.

Monday night the lights in Papa's room stayed off. The TV stayed off. His head remained down. He didn't speak, he didn't do anything more than struggle for every breath. We didn't do more than sit and watch him and pray and cry. When we got to the hospital last night, we noticed that from the parking lot his room looked completely dark again. They had moved him to a double room so the family could have more room to gather and not spill out into the hall so much. I'm telling you, the staff has been incredible. The lights were on, the TV was on - I breathed a sigh of relief. We stopped at the waiting area before going into his room and the cousins said he had drank some V8 and had even toasted them with it. He was listening to the election results and I thought, Okay, so the doctor was wrong.

But when Tater took his hand, we noticed his fingers were blue. It was a stark reminder that he's really not going to get better, no matter how much we want him to. His body is slowly giving out. They hooked him up to a morphine pump yesterday as well, to sedate him and help him breathe. He's not in any pain at all, though. For that, I am so grateful.

Every adult loses a close relative or two. Since getting married, I've lost a grandmother, two first cousins, a great-grandmother and a great-uncle. I mourned every one of them - some more intensely than others. Some were such a relief, knowing they were no longer suffering. I'm trying to look at it like that with Papa - when he goes Home, he'll be able to breathe again, that tumor will be gone and won't be squeezing his lung, he'll be with Memaw once again, he'll get to see his parents and Uncle Homer. I'm trying to look at it that way, but the selfish part of me wants to go in there and tell him that I am just not ready for him to go. None of us are. We still have gambling to do out at the "Bison Run" as he calls it. His great-grandkids want to go to his house so they can obliterate the can of cashews on his end table in 2 minutes flat. I want to hear him tell just a few more stories about growing up in a time when it took a whole day to get from Edmond to Oklahoma City in a wagon. I want to just know that he's in that house on G Street and that he's there if I need him.

But maybe he's tired and just wants some rest. I have a feeling that Mamaw's been working extra hard up there in Heaven's kitchen these last few days. She's probably made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, a few dozen custard pies and some of her hot rolls. Maybe it's time for him to rest and catch up with her. Maybe it really is time to let him go.




Please keep us in your prayers and thoughts, friends.