Something Happened on the Way to the Courthouse (Part 2)

Need to catch up on Part 1?

When you find yourself under pressure or stress, how do you relax? I don’t know about you, but it seems that I decide to throw some fuel on the fire and make a move.  That’s right, another move.  This makes about 11 times in 11 years.  Give or take a house, a city, or a year.

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Moving into a new house during an ice storm is even less fun than it sounds.  Toss in some discontent, two boys under three and changing careers and you have a recipe.  A recipe for what I did not know.  You know those nights you come home from work and need to make dinner but find a limited amount of ingredients available?  You decide to make due with what you have and just hope something edible comes out of the oven.  It’s a crap shoot. It could turn out well and you are asked for more.  It could turn out very badly and you end up ordering pizza.  As you might imagine, I was ready to call for some delivery at this point.

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Asking for a separation was literally the hardest thing I have ever done.  I don’t care what you think of me or my decision, but frankly staying would have been easier. This was not a decision I took lightly.  Although I had thought about it for a couple of years, I talked myself out of it by using the old adage of “suck it up”, “its not that bad”, “other people have it so much worse than you do”.  I thought about how this decision would affect everyone; from my boys to my in-laws.  I thought about my friends and how they would have to choose sides and I worried about disappointing my parents.  Like most individuals that find themselves getting divorced, I never thought I would do it. As we stand at the alter in front of God and everyone, none of us could fathom we would one day rather be alone than with this person we adore so much.

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I admit I should have spoken up sooner.  I take that back.  I admit I should have spoken louder.  I take full responsibility for the surprise on people’s faces when word spread of the dissolution of “the perfect marriage.”  If I had only pushed a little harder to be heard.  If I had stood up for myself more when I felt strongly enough about something.  If I had shared what was going on with friends or family maybe things would have been different.  If I had stopped worrying about the perception we had created.  If I had stopped worrying about what other’s think.  Should of, could of, would of. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we would all have a Merry Christmas too…

To Be Continued

Something happened on the way to the courthouse (Part 1)

My father has always had a theory that when you reach the age of 30, you finally figure out what life is all about.  He describes it as an awakening of sorts.  I imagined myself laying in bed on the morning of  my 30th birthday watching the fog of my former self hover over me like an out of body experience.  Once the fog dissipates, I am left feeling refreshed and clear-headed, ready to tackle what had once eluded me.

Although Dad may have been a little off on the exact age, he was right about the event itself.  My “awakening” didn’t happen overnight, as I once expected though.  It seems that I like to take my time with these things, so my growth is a work in progress that has taken me a few years.

In 2005, I was 29 years old and gave birth to my first child.  As you might imagine, the next year I was 30.  In 2006 I gave birth to my second child.  As if giving birth twice in 17 months wasn’t enough, I decided to throw in some more excitement with a move from Florida to Missouri in 2006.

The second born was in a hurry to introduce himself so he decided to arrive a few weeks early.  Some four or five weeks early to be exact.  The Babe came home with us on schedule but needed to spend a few days in the hospital for a double hernia at 7 weeks of age.  At nine weeks of age he was diagnosed with RSV.  It seems big brother brought home a cold from daycare that the little man just could not kick.  During the ice storm of 2007 we found ourselves without power as we cared for our infant son on an oxygen saturation monitor.  As the second born was turning a year old, I then found myself selling a business that once defined who I was.

More change was in order as 2008 began.  I was no longer identified by the business I had owned and operated for nearly ten years.  I had two boys under the age of three and was struggling with some baby blues that I just couldn’t kick after the second born arrived.  I guess something about having a 17 month old, giving birth to a baby in the winter that was in and out of the hospital, moving back to a place where I had no family and selling a business had taken its toll on me.

I’m 32 by this time and I’m starting to wonder if I will ever realize my father’s prediction.  What the hell is going on here? Am I destined to continue on the current path?  I soon realized it was all part of the process…

To Be Continued

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find Out What It Means To Me

I was barely nineteen when my mom met the man I now call my step dad. The irony of the situation is my mom hasn’t been married for about fifteen years. Mom and Neal met when they were both still married to other people. Imagine my dismay when I learned of their indiscretion. My self- righteous nineteen year old self could not fathom what on earth they were thinking when they made the conscious decision to disrespect their current commitments. After all, in all of my nineteen years I had acquired more wisdom than either of them in their combined years (insert sarcasm here).

Mom and Neal were transferred to my birth state of North Carolina in 1997 and I soon followed them from Missouri my sophomore year of college. The decision to live with my mom and her new beau was not a difficult decision; after all, I had no money to speak of and no prospects of a job. Upon arriving to my new home it was obvious Neal had a way about him. To put it lightly, Neal and I did not always get along. There were many times the man made me cry at the dinner table. His comments or questions were never an attempt to hurt me, but to make me think. The only problem I had is his efforts worked.

Neal was, and still is, a stubborn man. He likes things a certain way and rightfully so. Neal has been in the construction industry for nearly forty years. He manages projects. He manages people. He facilitates. Although he has not been on his current job site for almost three weeks, Neal is still managing and facilitating. This time though, he is not constructing another East Coast hotel. This time he is facilitating the care of the love of his life. I watch this man bath my mother, rub lotion on her, take her to the bathroom and then I watch him quietly fall apart. I watch this big, strong construction man, with his wrinkled face and callused hands from years on the job, cry like an infant, and my breaking heart melts.

During my last visit east to visit my mother, Neal and I were walking from the hospital to the car after seeing Mom. I carefully brought up the subject of how mom wanted to be “taken care of”. It was my vain attempt to bring up burial services at a very emotional time. Neal laughed and said “your mom always said you and I were more alike than we want to admit”, “I was just thinking about turning her car in since her lease is up in two months”. We continued our walk to the car in silence.

Neal has three children from his marriage. Like me, his children were not pleased about how his relationship with my mother began. In their defense, Neal had been married to their mother for nearly thirty years. My mother, on the other hand, was married to husband number four and frankly my sister and I were not all that impressed with him. All of Neal’s children; two girls and one boy, live with their families in the town which I currently live. Laura is married with two teenage boys and runs a daycare out of her home. My two boys have had the privilege of being in her care during infancy. She is an example to mothers, daughters, wives, sisters and friends, and has forgiven her father. I am so lucky to say she is part of my family. Although I do not have a relationship with Laura’s brother and sister, I know what kind of people they are because I know their sister and their father. One day I hope they will see what I see in their dad. What I see in their father is a devoted, compassionate man. A man of conviction. A man that has my undying gratitude and respect.

Visiting Hours

Thirty four years ago yesterday, my mother was in a hospital in Charlotte North Carolina. She walked in as a wife and mother to a four year old daughter. Upon admittance, she brought her quick wit, and I am sure she immediately had the nurses doing her bidding as if it was the very thing they were put on earth to do. I can only imagine the pain my mother was in while she was in that hospital in 1976. Medicine was not as advanced back then, but giving birth to a child that was overdue was a relief with or without an epidural. Visitors came from miles and states away to see mom and the new addition to the family. They brought with them well wishes and congratulations. After all, the birth of a child is an exciting time that everyone wants to share. Mom walked out of the hospital with her husband and her two baby girls. She may not have had all of her strength back yet, but she had enough strength stored in her that during the next 34 years she would teach me what it means to be strong.

Yesterday morning I walked into a hospital in Fairfax Virginia. I walked in as a mother to a four and a half year old boy and a three year old boy. I held the hand of a man I have known as my stepfather for the last fifteen years. I thought of my mother as a rode the elevator to her room. I dug in my heels and tried to muster every bit of strength she gave me and I walked in the room she has lived in for over a week. I saw a woman that resembled my mother. Just days ago, this same woman thought Bush was the President and the date was May 2007. I said hello to this woman and she said “hi, baby”. There’s my mom.

I talked to my mom for a couple of hours before her radiation treatment. I tried to get her to stop messing with the stitches where the shunt had been placed in her head. I reminded her, as she has me so many times, to stop picking. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke here and there and at one point my mom flipped me off as her crooked smile curled. She was still in there. As I painted my mom’s fingernails I found myself counting them. I recalled counting the fingers and toes of my boys as I held them in the hospital after delivery and just being happy they were all there. I felt the same way about mom.

As my mother napped after radiation I sat with my stepdad in a small office near mom’s room. The two of us sat across from a doctor that would soon tell us the fate of my mother. The fate of a woman, that in her early 40’s beat breast cancer with one hand tied behind her back. The same woman, that in the last two years, all but beat an unbeatable lung cancer. The same woman that is called mother, sister, wife, daughter, friend and Senior Vice President of Sales.

“The oncology department is no longer going to follow your mother’s case”. “Palliative Care”. “Six Months will be a shock”. “A list of hospice companies”. They will offer my mother 10 radiation treatments and plan to send her home with hospice. There is nothing more they can do for her. The tumor in her brain that has metastasized from her lungs is incurable and due to the critical location is inoperable. Chemo would make her worse and the radiation buys us some time, but no one can tell me how much time.

Each time I visit my mother now, I wonder if it will be the last. Each time she closes her eyes I wonder if she will open them again. Each time someone says I am just like my mother I say thank you.

Like my mother 34 years ago, I walked out of the hospital a different person. I am still a mother, daughter, sister and friend, but I am stronger because of my mother.

I Pee Near You!

It had to be at least ten years ago. I wasn’t married yet and certainly didn’t have kids. The boys’ dad and I were back in Springfield visiting friends and family for a New Year celebration. As far as I can remember, the evening started as most would have that night. The last thing I remember is being driven through the Taco Bell drive through on the way home. I can’t recall if the person giving us food at the window used English as a second language or if English was my second language for the night. As he handed us our bag of food he gave us his New Year greeting of “I pee near you!”. At first I thought it was just me, since I was after all being the one driven. Once we pulled away from the drive through Brad looked at me somewhat perplexed and asked if I heard the same thing he did. Now you know why you may hear me say “I pee near you!”.  I am giving you a well wishes, not a warning.

I pee near you to you and yours!