Gratitude.

Oh hello blog, I've been denying you lately. Life has been busy, with finishing my Master's and on top of that it's the holidays, but those are piss poor excuses for the self-deprivation of my creative outlet. You, blog, will carry on without my musings but my cup is pouring over with thoughts that need a permanent place.

And here I am...you knew I'd be back.

It's the holidays.  The purpose of holidays has served me well because I can't help but feel privileged for the family I have created around me. I have handfuls and pocketfuls of people I am grateful for and this post is in honor of them. There's a saying that floats around that goes something like this: “It takes a village to raise a child.” It only takes a couple seconds to understand the meaning, complexity, time, money, and energy it takes to have a baby and than raise him or her into an adult (and hopefully a non-deliquent adult). This quote speaks to the grandparents, teachers, doctors, coaches, librarians, driving school instructor, and the rest of the obvious ones. We need professionals, and non-professionals, to help us raise our children. Period. It is arrogant of us to think we can raise children alone. When misery attacks; ask for help. I learned to ask for help at an early age, when my mother had me in group therapy at 8 years old for children of parents with terminal cancer. Needless to say, I know how to ask for help. And now I'm in the profession of being the help.

Being a child doesn't require one to be grateful, although I hope it is still instilled. I didn't know what it meant to be grateful (even though I felt it inside) to the mothers who dropped food off at our door when my mom had chemotherapy. I didn't know how to be grateful to the parents of friends who let me stay at their houses for days at a time and oftentimes disrupt their family holiday traditions. I didn't know how to be grateful to my brothers for shielding my eyes to the sickness that drenched our house. I didn't know how to be thankful for the friends at school who would ask how I am doing. Or to the nursing aids who relieved my mom of the duty to take care of my dad. Or to the mental health professionals who helped me make sense of mortality and also, how to make sense of my brothers. I didn't know how to be thankful to the doctors, the nurses, the specialists, the crowd of people who cheered, applauded, encouraged, and loved us.

I know now, that without those people above, there would be no healthy minded me. Grateful.

It took a village to take my parents hands and walk them on mortality's road; to help them say goodbye to us (their children), to make them comfortable with their failing body's, to assist them in feeling spiritually empowered, and to ensure the lives of their survivors would continue to thrive without them. It took frozen meals and otherwise saved mileage to pick us kids up or drive her to chemo. It took the Schwan's guy (his name was Terry) to fill our basement freezer by himself so my mom wouldn't have to go down the stairs on her sick days. It took the garbage man to honk his horn when he arrived at our house; my mom would open the garage door so he could pull our garbage can and recycling from the garage for us, bring it back, and than close the door behind him. It took reading clubs that turned into support groups. It took neighbors mowing the yard, anonymous cards full of cash or gift cards, offers of grocery shopping for us, and people willing to give any amount of time to the needs of us.  

You know what's amazing about this village analogy? My mom needed the village but she was also part of the village. She used to buy Thanksgiving meals for people who didn't have one. But not only that, she hosted some meals too. I will never forget our last Thanksgiving together when my mom invited two of my dad's friends from the MS Achievement Center to our house. It made sense; with our ramp in the back of the house and the accessibility of bathrooms and bedrooms. We had four people show up instead of two people; that's five wheelchairs. It appeared that dad had taken a role call, assessing who had home cooked meals and who didn't, and invited all who would benefit from my mom's meal. When mealtime came, all three of us kids were feeding someone else, and ourselves. This taught me the value of family, the value of help, and the value of a village to raise an adult.

So it goes; it takes a village to raise a child. I argue now; it takes a village to raise an adult. When I was a child living in a home with two terminally ill parents, people answered the call of help. They saw us from miles away, in every season and in every city. We were catered to for being a sick family. And now, as an adult with a small child and family members that I am not quite close to or dependent on, people have noticed my need for help. The call has been less silent and obvious as when I was a child but it's still there, like a whisper. And people have come running just as they used to.

Bear with me please, this might take a moment.....

This holiday, I am grateful for the mom's (Chris F. & Maryann S.) of my friends who give me “mom hugs” exactly when I need one and the dad's (John S., Dave B., & Scott A.) who are protective of me despite trying not to be. To Megan, who is my confidante, my sounding board, my ally, my contender, and my other mother. To Doug, for being my constant protector. To Cole, for teaching me through his innocence how to be a child in an adult world.  To Allie, who has shared her home with me to share secrets and laughter and to rest well under the shelter of her love. To Kari, who without, I'd be less of a person; less me, less rational, and less able to find the humor in life's seriousness. To my teachers, who push me to think harder, to live to my potential that they see but sometimes I don't. To Deb and Alan, for being the most wonderful grandparents to the most wonderful daughter and for supporting my desire to continue my education and offering their time and energy to see it to fruition. To Derek, who is an adoring dad to our daughter, who trusts and supports my mommying decisions and who constantly strives to be a better daddy than yesterday. To my brothers, through their words and actions have taught me lessons that no textbook ever could. To the Kerns and their graciousness to my family.  To Pat's commitment to my dad and the support he has selflessly given my brother's and I.  To Sande and Dave and their infallible friendships to my parents, and their unwavering love for me.  To Tina, for being my “lifer” friend, whose constant calm and drive serves as an inspiration and motivation to be a better person, friend, student, mother. To Jimmy, for being the brother that I have always needed but never knew I needed. To Ally, for teaching me that friendship knows no qualifications.  To Ann and her kids, for being a pillar of strength to each other.  To the Farley's for the countless nights spent in their home, the meals that I devoured at their table, and the unmatched friendship that I established with Kelly which got me through the greatest heartache's of my childhood.  To the Massey's, for opening their home to me where I healed in their humor before I spread my wings to be a college student. To Karen, for letting her heart and home be my refuge. To Josh, Pat and John; three unexpected friendships I have established in Graduate School to men who have pushed my motivations, expectations, and learning.  To Laurie, for welcoming me into her family as if I have been a fixture for years. To Alex, for teaching me how to love unconditionally and be loved unconditionally; for supporting my unconventional life and taking me into his life with both arms and his whole heart, and for teaching me that my pipe dreams don't have to be dreams at all.  And last but not least, to Nollie, for pushing my limits, encouraging my constant growth of being human, and for seeing me in all my flaws as the most beautiful mommy ever.  

This is my village. Thank you.

Nostalgia

This season puts me in a constant state of nostalgia. I'm nostalgic for people that are no longer in my life (not necessarily dead), for homes that I used to occupy, the bellies of the pets I used to scratch, the schools I once attended, a wood fire that I never had, down comforters that swallow me, piping hot apple cider that burns my tongue, homemade pumpkin pie with a mountain of whipped cream... Nostalgia isn't those things in particular; it's the feeling associated with them.

This season makes everyone nostalgic. I use “everyone” loosely. Those who hate autumn would just prefer not to feel nostalgic. Time is changing in autumn and changing times remind us of what once was, what may never be again and the life that continues on; we keep growing older and the ones we love are doing the same. It's no wonder people relish in the feeling of summer when the air is thick, campfires rage until the small hours of the morning, and the smell of grilling burgers fill the air. Time stands still in summer. And when autumn strikes, and it does nearly every October of the year, we begin the countdown to March when the flowers begin to bloom and the delusion of stopped time emerges again.

Autumn: a period of maturity or incipient decline.

I associate Autumn with cooler weather and longer nights, I'm sure you do too. It's when I shake off my heavy sweaters, dig out my flattened boots and put flannel sheets on my bed. Autumn is when I relearn how to be okay with the “incipient decline” of the Universe, including the actual lives of people past and present. I never particularly like sitting in my “period of maturity” but I find it's as necessary for me as breathing is because I hate complacency and stagnant movement.

I hate missing things as much as you do, believe me, but there’s just something about nostalgia. I have to allow myself to long for the past that has happy personal associations because there's a satisfaction after the terror of the missing that is unlike any other satisfaction. For one, it means I get to experience, for a brief moment, what it feels like again to sit at the kitchen table on a blustery fall day with my mom, watching her wrap her hands around her blue coffee cup to warm them. She is in her pink bathrobe, preparing for chemo or maybe preparing to live and telling me to dress warm for school. John Lennon said it, “Life happens when you're busy making other plans” or something like that.

Another thing I relive in autumn is my brother, healthier than now, sitting in his red Probe (was it a Probe?) singing along with the Steve Miller Band. We are sitting in the parking lot to Hollywood Video, the one that was down the road from Columbia Heights High School, on the corner of 49^th and Central. We were having a brother and sister day and I was barely big enough to see over the dashboard of his car, my feet swung to the beat of “Joker.” We browsed the aisles for a movie to watch at home, I pretended to be looking because I was going to watch whatever he wanted. After all, my big brother was spending his entire day with ME and it didn't get better than that. Until, of course, he found me in my aisle of Disney movies and said, “Let's go to the theater.” We didn't know what was playing, or the times, so we went to Apache on a whim. He smoked a few cigarettes while we waited for our show and among my glory, I still can't recall the movie he took me too.

Among other feelings that I experience in the season of nostalgia is the excitement of building a home with my past boyfriend and father of our daughter. I remember the waiting-to-be-landscaped yard, the hours of elbow grease we put into the kitchen, the men who sanded the floors so they shined just enough to see your own reflection, and collapsing on a mattress on the floor among mountains of boxes. It was my first home that I made as a family. It is difficult, no doubt, to remember what was because the family I created is no longer together in that home but that's the complexity and perplexity of life: things don't last. I have moments of sadness that wave over me from time to time and I know they always will. It's called grief; the learning to accept the end of the life of my six year relationship with someone I still adore to this day because he is a good man. But happiness doesn't ride on the coattails of being a good man any more than it rode on the coattails of me being a good woman. Abigail Thomas said it best in her book Safekeeping: she loved this man she had been so unhappy with. I think he'd say the same about me.

These memories embody some kind of pain; I can't share blustery fall mornings with my mom, my brother's health is declining in his addiction, and my family of three is growing in opposite directions than the dreams we once shared. But if that's the “incipient decline” of the coin, than here's the “period of maturity”: I'm okay without it (if “it” is what I'm missing) or I'm okay with it (if “it” is what I have to live with missing). Tomato/Tom-ah-toe, I suppose. Bottom line is: I'm okay. The moments with my mom paved a road to appreciate what happens now, and not what I want to happen. The memories of my healthy brother plants seeds of hope in an often bleak forecast. And perhaps the greatest lesson is the one involving my past relationship: the end of something that didn't make us happy, created ownership of our happiness.

Some photos for your viewing pleasure: 

Nothing brings me more pleasure than colorful tree lines streets

What screams Autumn more than the color orange?

It's Time

You’re right; I changed the look of things around here.  I’m looking for change these days and hoping for improvement. 

The whole idea of ‘change’ started a few weeks ago when I quit smoking.  Unfortunately that’s where it stopped, until now, with the change in my blog.  You didn’t know I started smoking, did you?  Well now you know I stopped too.  I thought if I change some external things, than the internal changes would happen too.  Like happiness.   

Potential Master’s degree aside, the question that lingered before I ever applied for my graduate program still resides: what am I going to do with my life?  It’s unsetting.  Quit you’re bitching, you’re thinking.  And you’re right.  I already know people would kill to have the education I’ve been given.  I already know that I’m lucky to soon have the credentials that I’ll have but that doesn’t necessarily make a person happy.  Does it?  So perhaps the better question is: what am I doing to make myself happy?  I think this is the question that we all live to answer.  Happiness is the bones of life, the driving force, the reason, the meaning.  We search for happiness when we marry, have kids, own homes, pets, boats, cars, T.V.’s, luggage, and in my case seek more school.  But those things don't make us happy.  My schooling, as appreciative as I am to it, doesn't make me happy.  

What makes me happy is in between the lines of mommyhood and career.   It’s this, right here; pushing white buttons, deleting, reading, rewriting, highlighting, deleting again, copying, pasting, cursing, thinking, reading, rewording, cursing, paraphrasing, pushing more white buttons, and deleting again. 

The irony of this entire post is that I started this entry on a piece of notebook paper in the middle of a lecture at school titled, “Issues in Research Design.”  I love research and I live and breath school but if it made me happy I wouldn't be furiously scribbling and scratching and bypassing everything that is being taught in this three hour class for the simple joy of writing.  Being a counselor seems to fit like my favorite pair of Rockstar skinny jeans from Old Navy.  But it's not the jeans that make me happy, it’s the boots I wear with them.

Broke down more simply: maybe if I wasn’t spread so thin, I’d be happier.  Maybe if the lecture wasn’t so boring, I’d be happier.  Maybe if I wasn’t done with this program in December and worried about having to be an adult, I’d be happier.  Ironic, isn’t it, that life can throw me a child (the most beautiful child I never dreamt up in my wildest mommy dreams) but when it comes to the rest of life I feel entirely inadequate, unprepared, and unready. 

So I'm going to write, instead of worry. 

I thought I’d change my blog and hope to spend more time pushing these buttons and deleting and cursing.  I used to write “biannually,” I say, about subjects like my dead mom and dad and struggling brother.  But I’m making changes and starting fresh.  I’m going to start living in between the lines; write more.  About less morbid things.  Because it makes me happy and it’s a good start. 

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So far, not so good a start.

I know you know how hard it is to make changes.  I know you know. 

I wrote this post a couple weeks ago, typed it a week ago and it’s been blinking “post me!” all over my computer screen ever since.  The problem is, if I post it, it means I have to start making some changes.  It means I have to stop saying I will and actually do it.  It means less time for reading, more time for writing. So here goes holding myself accountable, throwing caution to the wind (whatever that means) and finding happiness therein.  And maybe a good pair of boots too.  

Dear Mom...I have some Questions.

Dear Mom,

How did you raise me to respect myself and love myself?  Do you know how many people don’t?  How was I one of the lucky ones?  What did you do that was different than other mom’s?  Is it because you were dying and you knew the importance of time more than anyone else?  What if you weren’t dying throughout my childhood?  What would have happened than?  Who would I be today?  How would I have turned out?  Where did my resilience come from?  Who gave it to me?  You?  Probably. 

I never wanted you to die, I need to get that straight.  I never wanted dad to die either. 

But I’m scared to know what my life would look like if you didn’t die. 

From the earliest of ages, I knew I didn’t have a choice whether you had cancer or not or that dad had MS or not.  Death was a normal topic at home – like “what’s for dinner?” is normal in most homes.  Like graduations, marriage and grandchildren is impending in most homes; your death was impending in our home.  Death was impending on our trips to Duluth, in the car, while mowing the grass, baking Christmas cookies, at the library, while showering, etc.  Long before you died, I knew my college graduation was going to be a motherless one and then you missed my 16^th birthday by one day so my high school graduation was motherless too.  Your journal proves your realism when you wrote: I just want to make it to see Travis start college, Taylor graduate high school and Breanne get her license.  I was the only goal you missed.  I also knew dad wouldn’t be alive to meet my children – much less you be around – but I had the wishful hope that he could wheel me down the aisle on his lap on my wedding day.  I guess some things just suck but, yet, I’m still not sure I would change it.      

Not changing it means you and dad would still have to suffer.  Not changing it means you and dad would still have to die.  Not changing it means bald heads, chemotherapy, hospitals, medical bills, colostomy bags, catheters, Hospice, wheelchairs, aggravation, humiliation, frustration, tears, funeral planning, cremation, picking out your plot and headstone for you and dad…  And, yet, I’m still not sure I would change it. 

What would holidays and birthday’s be like?  Imagining your house full of 5 grandchildren, diapers and pack-and-plays seems like such a dream.  Would you buy your grandchildren gifts that I asked you not to get?  Would you be one of those grandmas!?  I think you would.  I can hear you saying, “Oh relax Breanne.  It’s just a drum set, not a gun.”  Would you get on the floor and play with Nollie?  Run through the sprinkler with her?  Surprise Nollie with lunch at school?  Send her “penpal” letters in the mail?  What would you think of Kaden!?  His size?!  The presence of dad that he carries?  And I would love to know which one you think will inherent their father’s traits: Tanner or Makayla?  What would you think of KayKay’s sass and “mothering?”  Would she remind you of me when I was little?  And Tanner, I already know his gentle heart would win you over.  I think he’d be your favorite, but of course, you wouldn’t have favorites.  I would give so much to see you hold precious Arianna, your 5^th grandchild, and tell Travis how much she looks like her mother, just to push his buttons. 

It’s a big deal that you’re not around.  It’s a big deal because you have five beautiful grandchildren that will never know their amazing, liberal, crazy jewelry wearing, self sufficient, powerfully presenced grandma.  These families that Travis, Taylor and I have created…maybe they wouldn’t be our families today if you were alive.  And so, that is why I wouldn’t change you and dad’s deaths. 

Would we sit at the table and discuss religion and politics?  I think we would.  We would sit at your kitchen table and I would think you are wise and bold and your thoughts are beautiful, and I think you’d think the same of me.  It’s hard to imagine the little things, the day to day things that we would do if you were still alive: the last minute coffee dates, day trips to Duluth, organizing family dinners (“What should I bring?  How early should I arrive?”), the frantic phone call asking you to pick up Nollie at school because I am late (and you so happily oblige and take her for a Dairy Queen blizzard), the frequent weekly stops that I make at home without calling, the hugs. 

Hugs.  I can’t feel those from you anymore.  But what I can feel, is the way I used to rest my head on your lap when we sat on the couch together and your hand, always ice cold, rubbing the hair off my forehead until all my hair was a wave of golden brown across your lap.  When you were finished, your hand would rest across my chest and I would hold it with both of my hands.  These are happy moments that fill my eyes with tears.  I still wish I could feel your hugs. 

I don’t like that my life goes on without you because it’s hard to know I’m a happy person, even when you’re gone.  It’s called guilt.  I feel the guilt creep up on me every once in awhile…it’s a slow creep but when it hits, it hits hard.  My guilt is like a bottle of maple syrup – I wait and wait for it to come and when it does, it’s a flood of unwanted sticky shit.  My guilt comes from the idea that I should be unhappy or miserable without you – and I’m not.  I don’t like that I only had you for 16 years of my life.  It’s the one thing I can honestly say I loathe about my life.  I feel robbed of a mom because a mom is a mom to their daughter even when she’s 25, even when she’s 65.  Those who are lucky enough to still have mother’s at 65, would have had their mother 49 years longer than me.  To imagine having a mom at 65 is like imagining being able to receive a text message from you when you’re dead.  It’s unfathomable. 

The most painful of all thoughts though: A mom is a mom even when her daughter has a daughter of her own.  It’s a big deal that you and dad died because I have missed seeing you beam at my successes as a mother, a student, a lover, a friend, a sister, your daughter.  It’s the biggest deal that you aren’t alive because my heart never got to melt at seeing your eyes stare into Nollie’s for the first time.  But mom, I wouldn’t change it.  I lost you, the most precious thing to me, but your life and death created me who wouldn’t be the me I am today without your death, and the me today created Nollie who I wouldn’t trade for all the tea in China. 

I love you Mom,

Bre 

MS = Opportunity

MS=Opportunity.  Opportunity to not take my abilities for granted: to pay attention to my buttons and zippers, the way my wrist turns when I flip pancakes, the ease in which I bring food into my mouth, the way my feet follow one another without a moment's thought and how easy it is to use this instrument that I call a body.

I don’t know the facts of my dad’s Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis.  Unlike my brothers, I don’t have vivid memories of an actively moving dad.  I remember watching a movie when I was 4 in the basement with my mom when he came home early from a sailing trip because he was having vision problems and it was scaring him.  He was wearing red suspenders when he walked through the basement service door.  This memory of red suspenders is my ONLY recollection of my father walking without any kind of assistance.  I don’t know where all the other recollections went because everything before this was a dad I didn’t know and everything after this was canes, walkers and wheelchairs.  It’s as if this memory suspends itself above all the others just so I won’t forget it.  It is so vivid: my dad walking with red suspenders and weird waterproof shoes.  He walked so beautifully.  You won’t see your parents walk beautifully until they lose the ability. 

For some reason, the majority of us have an optimism in which we feel we are immune to disease.  It’s okay to admit it.  I have no business even acknowledging my naiveté with the genes I’ve been dealt, but still, I remain hopeful that I possess something no one else does that will keep me safe from disease.  Why?  Because I don’t want it, I’m not ready for it and it scares me.  I can’t imagine my dad ever thinking that at 51 he would be dead from Multiple Sclerosis.  I imagine he thought what we all thought – I’m strong, I’m healthy and those things don’t happen to people I know. The facts are: he was strong, he was healthy, he did take care of his body but he was not immune.  The 12 years of boxing he fought, the games he battled on the football fields of Columbia Heights and St. Thomas and the softball games he played recreationally were but tiny pieces of drowning flickering light after his diagnosis.

Let’s consider the life of an individual for a moment.  Some people manage to live to 80 these days, the lucky ones live into their 90’s and the miracles live to be 100.  In the infinity that life has on earth, 100 years is but a blip on the radar screen.  The people that live long enough to maintain their ability and health until old age when knees and hips and backs have problems because the human body is not meant to exist much longer, are considered lucky.  Then there are people like my dad, whose abilities get stripped earlier when their minds aren’t ready for it.  I wasn’t ready for it either, nor were Travis, Taylor and my mom.  Five lives changed forever after his diagnosis.  My dad lived to be 51, his diagnosis came at 38 which meant he had 38 years to live free of disability.  38 years is short.  When my dad was diagnosed he had a 10, 8 and 4 year old and he had only been married for 11 years.  38 years is a blink. 

My dad was talented, strong and smart, just like you reading this.  He had things going for him – me, for one.  He managed a couple of companies, worked long hours and he knew his shit (and if he didn’t know his shit than he knew how to talk his way into knowing it).  He was a coach for my brother’s sports teams, a divine breaded pork chop maker, a bit of a short fuse, a bragger, a flirt, a deep laugher, a chocolate lover, a prankster, a hard worker, etc.  He had passion, pride and gusto for life and a personality to beat.  And he loved my mother fiercely.  He was never shy about his emotions, assertive and gentle.  He was often misunderstood and sometimes much too abrasive and he never knew when to shut his mouth. But what my dad isn’t, is a man defined by Multiple Sclerosis. 

Why I am really writing this, on the week of March 14 2011, is to make you aware because it could happen to you. 

It’s extremely difficult to talk about losing our abilities.  Our abilities are what keep us and allow us to work, talk, have sex, eat, play – not to mention wipe our asses, smoke cigarettes and turn the channel on the television.  We have this incredible instrument that allows us to pursue our wants and needs without having to think about it.  Our brain tells us to punch a key on a keyboard and our body does it.  It’s a small miracle I am able to type this essay without thinking about the keys I’m actually pushing.  When we are stripped of those wants and needs, we suddenly realize how valuable being able to tie a shoe or take out the garbage really is. 

I can try as I might to imagine what may have gone through my dad’s head when he lay in bed, completely helpless, and listened to my mom and brother scream at each other into the wee hours of the morning.  MS physically confined my dad to a bed and trapped my mom into isolated parenting.  I can also try as I might to imagine what he really thought when I had to remind him four years later that his wife was still dead.  MS robbed him of a short term memory.  I can try as I might to understand how far low his self-esteem dropped when the friends who played softball with him, called him to share beer, sailed with him or just talked business with him suddenly vanished when the wheelchair became a burden.  And I don’t want to imagine what it felt like to be in a nursing home at age 48.  He lost his license to drive from MS.  He lost his job from MS.  He lost his ability to walk and it eventually took both arms right after it robbed his fine motor skills. 

My dad couldn’t feed himself, brush his teeth or even smoke a cigarette.  He couldn’t change the channel and on multiple occasions he would watch Looney Toons until someone would notice and help him.  On more than one occasion he lost control of his bowels and bladder.  If he had the flu or if he ever had to throw up, he had to do it on himself because he couldn’t stand up to make it to the bathroom.  It took 2 hours for him to get out of bed in the morning, assisted by a nursing aid.  Strangers (nursing aids) showered him so my mom could have a break.  Eventually, because my dad remained motionless for so long, he developed sores on his back and butt and one was so deep near the end of his life that you could see his tail bone.  Are you uncomfortable yet? 

Let me flip this paragraph to drill home the point: You can’t feed yourself, brush your teeth or smoke your cigarette.  You can’t change the channel on the television so you watch Looney Toons because you’re too embarrassed to ask for help.  On more than one occasion (uncountable occasions) you lose control of your bowels and bladder.  Where?  Driving the car, in church, at work, at the bank, at your son’s baseball game, etc.  What happens now?  You get a “bag” – a catheter to catch your pee and you’re only 45 years old.  If you feel sick, make sure you turn your chin to your chest and throw up on your shirt because it’s less of a mess.  Your damn legs just won’t make it to the bathroom fast enough.  It takes you 2 hours to get out of bed in the morning so forget about the TODAY show, the scrambled eggs and the cup of coffee because by the time you make it to the kitchen, it’s almost lunch.  People you don’t know will be getting you naked, putting you on a seat in the shower and washing you because you can’t do it yourself and because your partner needs relief from caretaking.  Yea, it’s not easy taking care of you but don’t feel like a burden.  And how do those huge sores that will never go away feel on your ass?  Pretty painful, right?  Don’t try to move to relieve the pressure from them.  It’ won’t work. 

The paragraph above is what MS did to my dad.  I did not think of him as disabled or unable nor did I feel sorry for him.  He taught me lessons that no one would have been able to.  He never gave up.  He never felt pity despite the loss of friends (and family) in spite of his disease.  He always smiled.  He always laughed.  Despite his motionless body, he continued to interact with the only two grandchildren he would ever know.  He never, ever thought of himself as unable and he never thought less of himself.  When people stared or when children pointed, he took it as an opportunity to show him what it means to be human.  He tried.  But above all, he always felt himself lucky because he had a beautiful family, he was alive, he had a working mind, he could still enjoy chocolate and he still knew how to love.  My dad taught me what it means to truly live. 

Disclaimer: I just want to make a note to point out that not all people with MS will die from it. In fact, most don’t.  And not all people will become paralyzed from it.  In fact, most don’t.  But it doesn’t mean that it won’t happen. 

From the Archives.

I found this post, buried in the "dark days of 2007" (February 21 to be exact).  It's a reminder of how far I have come but the shadow of her death still creeps around from time to time.  It's a painful post but one of growth.  I found it particularly interesting to read now that I'm studying addiction.  My words than ring so true to the millions of people who have loved ones suffering from the disease of addiction.  I could sit and psychoanalyze every word, every sentence and every emotion but I will let it be what it is: a stepping stone in my journey to hope and of course, my journey into my future....    


Today I needed you and you weren't here.  Today I saw him weak and tired and scared and mean and you weren't here.  I waited for this day because I knew it would come but mabye, somehow I was hoping that I wouldn't have to see him without you.  My stomach felt what my heart couldn't anymore.  I was so nauseous when my eyes met his.  He's not who he was six months ago.  He's not the person behind his name.  He's not my brother.  He's not your son.  You weren't there when I needed you more than I have since you've been gone, but that's okay.  He looked into my eyes mom and all I could see was darkness, all I could see was a funeral, all I could see was nothing.  I was filled with fear and I still am mom.  I just wish you were hear to unload this heartache from my body.  All I can feel is fear.  I don't know if my fear is for him or for me, without you. 

Sometimes life without you seems unbearable.  I know everything I am handed in life is bearable but your absence makes it feel different, like it takes more work to make it bearable.  Sometimes I want to stay in bed until you come back.  Sometimes I realize I'd be a waste of a human being and other times I still think you'll come back.  Even going to Target is unbearable.  I know you are laughing, and I know you might find me to be ridiculous with the whole Target thing but let me explain...Our Target in Fridley got demolished and rebuilt.  We, you and I, went there a lot, right?  Right.  Well, I can't walk through the new Target doors, ever, without thinking you haven't walked through those doors.  It sucks mom.  Most times I have a bitter taste about it, other times I just go to a different Target.  I wonder when these buildings will stop having significance just because you're dead. 

If you came back, the drive to Megan's wouldn't be as boring anymore.  There are shoppes all along 65 now.  Megan's my best friend now mom.  She's both our best friends.  Sometimes I wonder how awful my life might be today without her.  I wonder too, if you and her found each other in life for me because I wasn't going to have anyone after you die.  It's wierd to think about.  I miss our drives to Megan's no matter how much I complained.  Even when you're 13 years old 20 minutes feels like an hour but I knew our time on that drive was time I spent with a "time-limited" mom and I always cherished them. 

He's empty.  He's not who you named, he's not who you loved, he's not even who you kicked out of your house, yet he's all of that, just empty.  His life is gone now.  All I can do is resist my heart from aching because I can't lose another one.  It's not easy without you mom and it hurts like hell right now.  It's not easy to be alone but it's what you did for 8 years with cancer.  I shouldn't complain to you.  You knew you had people, just like I know I have people, but regardless of the support I have...I'm still alone in my fight against his emptiness.  How do you fill a person with life when he kills all the life he has left?  You don't.  You can't. 

There are days I'm mad at you mom, not for dying but because you were the only person that got what I got.  Maybe I have fictionalized you in my mind so we agree on everything, so I have something to talk to and someone to hear me.  In my mind, you see how I see.  I am you in a sense.  It's funny how I've become you and only know it because your friends tell me.  Maybe you gave me this ability to stay strong.  You gave me an ability to go on when I'm hurting.  I can't believe how sad I am, yet I feel so rewarded.  You gave me something that has allowed me to go on with my life despite your death.  I'm okay without you mom.  He's not. 

You fought so hard for your life so you could watch us grow into adults.  You fought so hard for your life because you believed in living even in pain.  He doesn't.  He's fighting his life for death.  There is nothing so lonely to watch than a man with more hope for death than life.  He hates himself and I love him but it's not good enough, it's not strong enough, it's not perfect enough.  My love can't be stronger than the drug. 

I'm not ready to be alone mom.  I'm not ready to be without his emptiness no matter how much it hurts.  I know I can remain strong and I know I can see this hardship through no matter what the outcome.  I'm just not ready for another crack in my heart.  Not yet.