Author: Sarah Brewer

This past Friday, I attended the 5th grade HERO presentation for Ben’s class. I mentioned in my previous post that Ben had chosen Ms. Brenda as his hero, who was his home/hospital teacher for third and part of his fourth grade years. Please see my PENGUIN post to see what an awesome lady Ms. Brenda is. The presentation was very touching and I loved reading Ben’s story. She is a very important part of our lives.

During this presentation, I saw another young man reading his story to the school social worker and I nearly burst into tears. First of all, I have a good relationship with the school social worker because we’ve worked together on ensuring that Ben and Madeline succeed in their academic environment. They’ve both been through considerable emotional struggles and Ms. Nikki (the social worker) has a great relationship with both kids. She is an amazing woman. I like her a lot. But this young man, I’ll call him “E”, has had an incredibly rough way to go and I was touched to see that he chose Ms. Nikki as his hero.

A bit of a backstory on E: he and his younger sister are exactly the same ages as Ben and Madeline. Mad and his sister were buddies and used to spend considerable time together the years they shared the same teacher. At one of Madeline’s birthday parties, I called to make sure E’s sister knew what time the party was and ended up in quite a discussion with their grandfather. He explained that their mother had disappeared shortly after E’s sister was born and the dad was a recovering drug addict. They were all living with the grandparents while the dad was trying to get his life back together.

Unfortunately, he never did. He died of a drug overdose about a year later. After a short stint in foster care, E and his sister ended up with the grandparents. They continued to attend the same school as Ben and Madeline. A couple of years ago, I was volunteering at the school library when E came in to check out a book. He got a big smile on his face before coming up to me and hugging me really hard. I just held him for a few seconds before he rejoined his classmates to search for a new book to read. One of the ladies working in the library actually said “I can’t imagine how that kid can possibly turn out to be any good.” It took all I had to not lay into her and berate her for discarding him as if he were nothing. I looked at her and told her it was our responsibility to care for him. It was our job to love him. That it’s nearly impossible to thrive when believing that nobody loves you. She wasn’t even giving him a chance.

So, when I saw him on Friday delivering his story to Ms. Nikki, my heart nearly burst. She does such a great job with these kids and it was evident that she was making an impact on young E’s life. I kept making eye contact with E as he was reading his story to her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because all the kids were talking to their heroes at once, so it was pretty loud. But my eyes watered a little bit and he kept glancing at me through his thick, dark eyelashes that hid big brown eyes that harbored so much pain. I was so grateful to see that little spark of happiness shining in his eyes as we stole brief glances at each other. The mother in me wanting to let him know that he was loved. That I was proud of him. That he’d chosen a worthy hero in Ms. Nikki.

After all the presentations were over, I walked over to E and gave him a big hug. He held on a little longer, a little tighter, as I smoothed down his hair and told him how proud I was of him. And, for whatever reason, I was prompted to say a little more: that he was an amazing boy who had so much life before him. He smiled like I’ve never seen him smile before and looked me right in the eyes as he told me he hoped I would have a great rest of the day. My eyes teared again as he turned away to rejoin his classmates.

I walked over to Nikki and hugged her, thanking her for caring enough about E to be his hero. She stated with great pain that she wasn’t his choice at all. His hero didn’t show up for the presentation. His hero was aware, but chose to not come. So, Nikki sat in for E’s hero. This little boy was let down again. Instead of having to give his presentation to an empty chair, Ms. Nikki stepped in. I’m grateful she was there, but my heart broke into a million pieces.

I smiled once more at E before I left the classroom. I walked out to my car and I cried for a good 15 minutes. Does he have a chance at being a good boy? Is he going to fall through the cracks? Will his pain prevent him from being the amazing boy I can see inside those soulful eyes? I think he can as long as he feels like someone cares even a little bit.

Pay attention, friends. These children are all over the place. It is our job to take care of them. We can’t save everyone but a little kindness goes a very long way. Let’s be heroes to those who have been forgotten. Let’s show them that they are more than capable, and tell the naysayers who don’t believe where they can stick it.

I’ve never seen a penguin in its natural setting unless you count the adorable boys who shoot pucks at “The Igloo” in Pittsburgh – at least that’s where they played when I’d travel three hours from Columbus to watch a hockey game back in the day. I know The Igloo has since been demolished and the Penguins have a new habitat, but in my mind, they’ll always play at The Igloo. Of course, the Penguins I’m referring to belong to Genus: National Hockey League; Species: Penguins VERSUS Genus: Spheniscus; Species: Humboldt Penguin.

I don’t really know a lot about Penguins other than they are flightless birds who primarily live in the Southern Hemisphere. This makes me wonder if they have distinct dialects, like my “South of the Mason-Dixon Line” relatives and their southern twang? Are there redneck Penguins? I’ll probably think about that for the rest of the day. What I do know, however, is that a wonderful woman named Ms. Brenda loves penguins and that’s all I truly need to completely endear me to these kooky little birds.

I met Ms. Brenda when she was assigned to keep Ben afloat scholastically after his relapse with Neuroblastoma. His relapse happened during the summer between second and third grade so we knew that school attendance would be intermittent at best given the intensity of his therapy. Ben attended exactly one day of third grade before contracting a fever due to his reduced blood counts so we made the decision to get a home/hospital teacher immediately. We had no idea how she would enhance our lives.

Upon meeting Ms. Brenda, she told us a bit about herself, including the fact that she absolutely adored penguins. She also said she liked hockey, which added another layer of awesome to her persona. Ms. Brenda came to teach Ben every school day, whether we were at home or if he was in the hospital. She took it at his pace (he does not love school) and she made it fun as possible for him. She encouraged him to read (which I’m confident is why he’s such a voracious reader today). She made a deal with him that a part of class time on Fridays could be spent playing Wii together as long as he got his work done.

Ms. Brenda saw me at my absolute worst. There were many days that she’d arrive to teach Ben and I’d retreat upstairs to cry – or to sleep – or to write. I was at a point where I was just so emotionally exhausted. I made sure that Ben and Madeline were cared for – medications dispersed, homework completed, etc. – but I did the bare minimum to care for myself. During those months I became an excellent depressive personality. I owned it. If there was a crown to be won for Ms. Depressed USA, I was the winner AND the first runner-up. Geez. Redneck Penguins and Personality Disorder pageants, I’ve just produced an excellent reality show.

Regardless, Ms. Brenda didn’t judge. She came and did her job. If she found the dishes overflowing the sink to be disgusting, she didn’t say. I know Ms. Brenda has seen her share of tragic situations. Her job is to teach children who cannot go to school for whatever reason. Cancer. Long-term illnesses. Body casts. She’s seen children suffering but is strong enough to say “sorry about your situation but you still need to learn.” And she does it with a unique brand of love. She is simply amazing.

Ms. Brenda taught Ben for well over a year – all of third grade and part of fourth. When Ben decided that he was ready to go back to school, it was hard for me in many ways. I was worried that he would get too tired. I was worried that kids wouldn’t be kind. I was not happy about losing Ms. Brenda. I knew that I would want to stay in touch. So, she’d come along to the movies with us. Her son taught Ben the basics of golf. She came to Ben’s birthday party. We remained a part of each others’ lives.

When Ms. Brenda learned that her very best friend had terminal cancer my heart broke for her. Here is this woman so selflessly giving her talents to children going through a tough time only to suddenly be thrust into a horror of her own. We would occasionally meet and talk about her BFF and how hard it is to navigate the horrible world of cancer. I learned that there is no possible way to soothe someone dealing with cancer. There are no right words. There are no right deeds to offer. You just have to be willing to LISTEN. And for all the wonderful things that Ms. Brenda had done for us, the least I could do for her was to simply listen. It hurt to watch her hurt. Maybe that gave me a little glimpse of how she felt for me all those mornings she’d come to the house, my eyes rimmed with red, my nose runny from the tears. But she was there. She was instrumental in getting my son what he needed and that helped more than I could ever express.

Ms. Brenda, unfortunately, did lose her BFF to cancer. I know that she will mourn that loss greatly for a long time to come but one of the incredible pleasures that came from it is that Ms. Brenda has chosen to continue living her life with verve. She’s made a bold decision to move to Arizona simply because she wants to. I admire that. We should be bold in our everyday lives because we simply don’t know what tomorrow brings. I hold Ms. Brenda in the greatest esteem. Through her actions, I’m changing myself (albeit a little more slowly!) I want to live this life. The only way to do that is to do it.

And I know without a doubt that my Ben feels the same way about Ms. Brenda because he has chosen her for his HERO project that he is presenting at school tomorrow. I cannot wait to hear for myself how he feels about her and watch her expression as she listens to his heartfelt presentation. She IS a Hero in every sense of the word.

There is no doubt that we’ll miss having instant access to you once you move, Ms. Brenda. But you’ll remain in our hearts forever. All I can say is Thank You for being the teacher who changed Ben’s life. Who encouraged him. Who listened to him. Who loved him. He will never forget that.

Neither will I.

You, my friend, are cooler than any penguin. And you don’t even have to sit on ice. 🙂

Recently, I went to Victoria’s Secret to purchase a bra. This is probably one of my least favorite activities on the planet because I tend to test drive a bra before I purchase it. This requires an extended study of various arm/body movements: walking with a normal gait while exhibiting a mild swing to the arms; a light jog with arms filled with imaginary bags of groceries; chasing after an imaginary dog in an imaginary rainstorm; handstands (in case I ever do one at a party, I don’t want my bra to fall off)… And all these scenarios require WAY more room than they provide in those teeny-tiny fitting rooms. The associates must think I’m mad.

Finding the proper support with comfortable straps and elastic that doesn’t cut off your circulation requires a much more than just trying it on and seeing how your boobs look when you pose in the mirror making duck lips at yourself. And color has very little to do with it. Suffice it to say that finding a good bra is extremely difficult. But once you find the perfect one, you’ll never let it go. Your best bet is to buy them out so you’ll never be without proper support again.

So, when I learned recently that I’ve been wearing a bra that is two sizes too small (!!) imagine my relief when the nice lady brought me one that actually fit! I felt like a ding-dong though. She asked me my size and I said **. She cocked her eyebrow in disbelief and said “No.” Then she whipped out a measuring tape and headed for my lady bits. My shoulders thrust forward to defend my honor, to which she summoned me to relax. After all, this was her job. I needn’t be embarrassed. But I was. Here I am – nearly 45 years old – and I had been wearing the wrong size bra for who knows how long! That’s something one should know about themselves. I had been needlessly living an uncomfortable life for a long time. I was kinda pissed that I’d wasted so much time living a lie. But it was encouraging to learn that I finally earned some boobs – I suffered from “surfboard-itis” for many years – which makes for a miserable high school experience.

And here’s where I segue into what I REALLY want to talk about: Support. When Ben was first diagnosed with cancer, I felt completely alone. Sure, there were family and friends and tons of people sending cards stating their encouragement, but I was alone. Matt had work. Mom got to go home at night. Friends who visited returned to their well children. And I sat, day after day, watching my son battle something I couldn’t see. A monster that was tearing him apart on the inside. And while I was comforted by holding my sweet toddler in my arms, I couldn’t really discuss with him how I was feeling. The doctors were always very professional and brief… they weren’t there for emotional support. The nurses were better… often answering my questions and telling me how they all fought to care for Ben because he was the best kid ever… but they had other patients. I had friends who’d had miscarriages and even a couple who’d experienced a stillbirth. All tragic. But no one of my acquaintance knew the insecurity. The unknown. The terror. The hope or lack of hope. The anger. It was isolating and paralyzing. And, to make it worse, I knew of NO ONE who had survived the same diagnosis that Ben had. There had been children with lower stages of neuroblastoma who had survived, but no stage IV’s who had survived long-term. It was horrifying.

Then, a lady came to visit me one day while I was in the hospital with Ben. She was part of a support group called Kids-N-Kamp. She gave me the information of who they were, what they did, and when they met. I stuck it in a folder and forgot about it for a few months while we were in the thick of Ben’s treatment. I’m not sure how it all transpired, but I ended up going to a mom’s night out – a monthly potluck – and fell in with the greatest bunch of ladies EVER. Initially, I felt much like I did when that lady tried to measure me for a bra. Don’t touch me in an intimate spot. I’m going to thrust my shoulders forward and bar you from coming closer. However, we started sharing like we were members of a 12-step program and from there the healing truly began. They showed me it was okay to cry. It was okay to be scared. It was okay to laugh inappropriately and make some really ridiculously “un-politically correct” statements. I was perfect how I was.

This group of beautiful women knew how I felt. Some of them were done with treatment. Some of them were still battling. Some were facing a relapse. Some had lost their children. But they all had a knowledge that I had been seeking. They got me through some major crap. And when we moved to Colorado, I mourned the loss of those ladies. I tried to find a way to reproduce that group here, but it just never worked out. My Kids-N-Kamp ladies set the bar so very high.

One of my precious memories was the Mom’s Retreat Weekend. Once a year, the KNK moms would get together and head to Amish country. The house we stayed in was beautiful. Relaxing. An opportunity to discuss heavy stuff, laugh about silly stuff, eat a bunch of junk food, and take a small break from cancer. My first Mom’s Retreat was while Ben was still in therapy. My roommate was Aimee. She had lost her infant son to leukemia. I remember staying up late with her and laughing hysterically like we were at a grade school sleepover. I know we were pissing off our neighbors who were there to partake in the quiet Amish atmosphere, but we couldn’t help ourselves. And just as we would settle down, one of us would start up again, giggling like we were as carefree as children. It was so precious.

The following day I went outside to walk the extensive grounds. The sun was shining and the warmth surrounded me like a thick blanket. I sat down on the grass to take in my surroundings. The llamas wandering around were fun to watch, but what caught my eye was a small, white flower standing alone amidst blades of vivid green grass. I thought that it must be lonely standing there on its own. But as I opened my peripheral vision a little further I noticed a few more flowers. They were all surrounding this one lone flower. And as I started to see the symmetry between myself and that flower, I noticed that it was not alone at all. There were many like her – just like her – all around. Just waiting for her to say she was ready to let them step in to offer their support.

My KNK moms are leaving for retreat tomorrow. Oh, how I wish I were going. Have fun, my dear friends. Know I’m thinking of you and hoping you have the opportunity to get all you need. Please know that I’m still here. I might be 1200 miles away, but I’m thinking of all of you. Knowing some of you are tired. Knowing some of you are scarred from the battle. But I’ll light my candle – the one that bonds us all together – and reflect on our times fondly.

All of you are better than any bra I’ve ever had.

When I was around eight years old, my step sister used rope to tie me to a chair and torture me for hours on end. She would release me just moments before parental guidance showed up and threaten me with bodily harm if I dared tell anyone. If she was willing to tie me in a chair then who knows what she was truly willing to do to me if I happened to tell on her. This happened often. Not daily, but at least once a week for several years. No one seemed to notice. Of course, I wore long sleeved shirts and pants in the summer to hide rope burns, blaming my desire to be fully covered on the fairness of my skin. It’s a lie I’ve been telling myself my whole life.

The interesting thing is, when my mom finally uncovered a journal that described in gory detail all the horrible things she used to do to me, mom confronted me with the writings first. I denied them. I so desperately wanted to tell mom what had been happening but I was so scared of what my step sister would do. I hid in my room while mom confronted her with the journal. I heard them in the hallway discussing it. And what was so interesting was the unflinching way she totally confessed to what she had been doing to me. “Yep! I did that.” She didn’t lie. She didn’t make up a story. She didn’t try to blame me for making her life so difficult that she had no choice but to tie me in a chair because I was that bad. She fully confessed and seemed kinda proud of it.

I admired her lack of cowardice. Because here I was taking it all these years and making excuses as to why I deserved it. I blamed myself for her poor behavior. I let her do those things to me without a fight. I was the epitome of a coward. And it kinda set me up to take everyone else’s bullshit for the rest of my life. I’ve surrounded myself with people who don’t deserve the strength I’ve been hiding for so long. I’ve been giving it to the wrong people for years and they’ve sucked me dry.

I’m done. If you have malicious feelings for me, we’re through. If you enjoy gossiping about me, we’re through. If you’re sick of hearing about my struggles with my sick child, don’t listen. Here’s a news flash: I DON’T NEED YOUR HATE AND I’M THROUGH CATERING TO YOUR MENTAL ILLNESS. Work on yourself. I’ve got my own stuff to do.

I’ve enlisted the help of a handful of people I completely trust to start my life over. No excuses. I can’t change what’s already there, but I’m done with the self-loathing path I’ve been on because I’ve been conditioned to believe that I deserve it. If you don’t wish the absolute best for me then you’re out. I’m not saying I haven’t screwed up and hurt other people. I have. But overall, I’m a pretty awesome person who has a lot of love to offer. And I give it pretty freely until I get to the point where I’ve been hurt too many times.

Let’s all take responsibility for our own actions, shall we?

I probably shouldn’t write when I’m mad. 🙂

Most people who regularly read my blog understand that I am a big fan of music, especially classic rock. For me, there was never a reason to journey far past my love of such masters like The Beatles, The Eagles/Joe Walsh, Peter Frampton, Elton John, and Boston. There are, of course, some bands that I’m not as enamored of, like Pink Floyd (they made me wreck my car in 1997), AC/DC (all their songs sound exactly the same to me), and, much to the dismay of my great friend, James, RUSH.

I will admit that RUSH has had a prolific output of 30+ albums over the past four decades. To be able to span the years like they have – and maintain their original three-man line-up – is amazing. Plus, the sound that they are able to produce with just three musicians is phenomenal. I will give them credit. They have surpassed what most artists only dream of doing and they will rightly take their place in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this coming Thursday as a 2013 inductee. It is long overdue. How Madonna got in before they did will always astound me. Of course, my beloved Peter Frampton is NOT in the Hall of Fame as of yet, which is a whole different point of contention for me.

I admit that RUSH are legendary musicians. I do enjoy their instrumental work. But there is something about lead singer Geddy Lee’s voice that unhinges me. It’s not so much in their later work, but in the first couple of mainstream releases, especially “Closer to the Heart,” his voice is way too high and it scratches my soul like a needle skips across an entire album. Now, in their later work, his voice comes down at least an entire octave. Perhaps he hit puberty and his voice dropped in their later work? I don’t know the answer. But, to me, the vocals on, say, “Roll the Bones” is much more palatable than “A Farewell to Kings.”

And here’s how my choice of not embracing RUSH has ruined – or will ruin – my life:

a) I will never gain full access to “The Boys Club” consisting of my good friends James, Scott, and Stick. Granted, I don’t have that pesky “Y” chromosome, but that fact in addition to my disdain for RUSH has kept me from being fully invited into this group. Two major strikes. The Boys did relent and let me go record shopping with them once, but I am banned from major club events like a prized invite to the annual NHL draft. No non-loving RUSH girls allowed. This has had a profound negative effect on my life. Just think of all the young, hot, hockey players I haven’t had the opportunity to meet!

b) The members of RUSH are Canadian. I’m fairly confident that loving RUSH is a law in Canada. So, when I am a famous author and am embarking on my first International book tour, I will not be welcomed in Canada. Sure, I like moose, ice hockey, and the Mackenzie Brothers. Heck, I’ve even embraced curling! But my non-love of RUSH will certainly encourage those of the Great White North to dub me as a “HOSER” thus making my agent have to work that much harder to gain acceptance of my work.

c) I have not been invited to any of this year’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame festivities, which adds to my chronic depression. Walking a red carpet is definitely something I want to accomplish before I die and I’m only getting older. I’d like to do this sometime before needing my first face lift, which is right around the corner.

I’m sure there’s more, but this is all I have right now.

Okay, here’s WHY I’m writing about this. I lost a bet with James D. Queener. He is one of my best friends. While we have many things in common, we have quite a diverse array of things we do NOT agree on. We both love a well-crafted beer, hockey, baseball, the movie “Slap Shot,” and music (especially concept albums). However, we generally don’t agree on anything political. I’m a bleeding heart liberal (to some degree) and he is very conservative. He hates vegetables. I love them. He thinks cats are evil and, well, I’m beginning to agree with him to some degree on that one. 🙂 Anyway, at the beginning of hockey season, we make a bet based on our favored teams. James follows the Columbus Blue Jackets religiously and I am a big fan of the Colorado Avalanche. Now, being from Central Ohio should dictate that I pay allegiance to the Blue Jackets. And I do. Unless they’re playing the AVS. My reasoning is this: I lived in Colorado for the inaugural season of the Avalanche. They won the whole shebang their first time out, which was nothing short of amazing. I was hooked. When Columbus decided to get a team of their own, I was excited. However, I was dedicated to my AVS. I wasn’t going to break up with them just because another team came along. I root for the AVS no matter what and I root for the CBJ whenever they’re not playing the AVS. I think that’s fair.

So, the AVS and the CBJ had three games against each other during this short season. The AVS won the first game. CBJ won the second game. Last night was the final showdown. The first period was unimpressive but something happened in the second period that set both teams on fire. After that, it was a nail biter. Of course, if I won, then James would have to do something he didn’t really want to do (which I’m saving for next year.) And if he won, I would be required to write about anything he chose. Unfortunately, this is the second year in a row that he has won the bet. Last year I had to write a confession about what I did with his prized X-Files VHS tapes that I “borrowed” in 1994, and now this year I have to write about his favorite band. I can’t imagine what he’ll make me write next year – IF he wins yet again. With all this writing he’s making me do, I guess I’ll have no choice but to make him my agent. Hey! Since he loves RUSH so much, he’ll afford me that Canadian audience I so greatly desire. Problem solved!

So, James, I truly missed the boat on RUSH. I’m standing on the shore, waving my arms, asking – no, PLEADING with them – to come back for me. After all, Geddy has finally gone through puberty and I feel more comfortable being in a committed relationship with them now.

At this very moment, my friend, Lori, is in Philadelphia with her nine-year-old son, Justin. They’ve been traveling all over the United States trying to get rid of effing cancer. Justin has been to Denver, New York, Michigan and now, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia in hopes of eradicating neuroblastoma. Let’s pray this time it works.

Justin and Ben have the exact same disease: Neuroblastoma, Stage IV, high risk for relapse, unfavorable tumor, with the nmyc gene “unamplified.” This means minimal to the average person but to us, it’s terrifying. The one benefit of Ben and Justin’s identical diagnoses is that the nmyc gene is unamplified. This generally means that the neuroblastoma isn’t as aggressive. Most children with advanced NB have an amplification, which makes it tougher to battle because it spreads like freaking wildfire.

So, when Lori and I first met, we took that imaginary breath that stated “it could be worse.” However, where my Ben has relapsed just one time, her Justin has relapsed FIVE times. They get it under control only to have it come right back. Ben and Justin were on the same study in NYC. In fact, while we both live here in Aurora, CO, we happened to see them more in NYC at the Ronald McDonald House. We were traveling that much.

Ben and Justin both love video games and Legos so they would often hang out with each other and play. Justin is a couple of years younger than Ben, but they are both old souls. They get along very well. They don’t talk about their cancer. They just go in with the understanding of “Hey, this crap doesn’t define us. Let’s just be kids and play some Wii.” Lori and I would sit there and do the worrying for them.

My lovely Lori. She has incarnated nearly all her nine lives with so many relapses. She remains positive and keeps up the fight. Like me, her marriage didn’t work out. Having a chronically sick child does that more often than not. But, we have to trudge on. And she does that better than anyone I’ve ever met. She’s definitely on my “most admired” list, because I’m not sure how I’d handle what she’s going through right now.

Justin is in a lead-lined room receiving high doses of MIBG radiation. This means he’s alone. His mother can’t hold him. His mother can’t comfort him. He has to care for himself. Now, I don’t know about my other friends with children, but asking a nine-year-old to care for himself – when he is SICK – is ridiculous. My heart is breaking.

I kinda know what he’s going through. In 1993 I had thyroid cancer. After my surgeries to remove all the tumors, I was given high doses of radiation and stuck in a lead-lined room. No visitors. Everything I took in with me had to be destroyed as contaminated waste. I took in a lot of magazines and watched a lot of television. I was violently ill and in a lot of pain. But I was 25. I could take care of myself. This little boy is alone. His mother can see him but she’s totally helpless when he throws up repeatedly. She can’t wipe him off. She can’t hold him in her arms. She can’t cuddle on the bed with him. She needs that so very much, but he needs it more. To take away his right of having his mommy, well, that’s so very cruel. Unfortunately, their options are so limited at this point because his disease is becoming resistant to every other treatment currently available.

When I was released from my isolation, the hospital staff told my mother not to hug me and to keep her distance for at least a couple of days post-release. There were a lot of crazy rules that had to be followed, but my mom called bullshit. She said, “You’re releasing my daughter after a week of isolation and I’m not supposed to hug her? Are you crazy?” Then she ran to me as I was still in my hospital gown (I had no clothes with me because they would have had to have been destroyed as contaminated waste) and hugged me like never before. Everyone needs their mommy when they’re sick. Even when they’re 25.

So, Lori, only a couple of days to go, my friend. I cannot imagine the torture you’re experiencing and how tight you’re going to hug him when he can finally come into your arms. I mean, what’s a little residual radiation, right? You already glow with love for your sweet Justin, a little radiation will make you glow that much brighter. 🙂

I’m here. We’re here. We all want Justin to be completely healed and for you to get to hold him for the rest of your lives. My heart hurts so much for you both right now. I know you’re tired. I know Justin is tired. But I’m praying this therapy is the answer you so greatly deserve.

Don’t get too excited, friends. This post is NOT Jail: Part II. It’s coming soon, just not today. Patience, dear friends. It’s been a busy week and I haven’t had time to write due to all the fun we’ve been having.

Last weekend the kids and I headed to Summit County to ski. Our good friend, Miguel, set us up with passes at Keystone so we skied there one day and then A-Basin the next day. Ben – having a week of private lessons in Aspen last month – amazed me with his skiing abilities. Madeline – after having one lesson a couple of weeks ago – did awesome! By the second day of skiing she was heading down blues without issue. Well, one epic wipeout, but she made the most out of it. And, I survived two ski outings without incurring a second concussion.

Then on Monday we headed to Estes Park to spend the night at the famous Stanley Hotel. This was at Madeline’s request (she loves creepy stuff) so we invited her BFF, Tayti, to tag along. Ben wasn’t too terribly excited (he does NOT love creepy stuff), but he ended up being the only one who slept through the entire night. I have to say that it WAS creepy. I’m glad we had the experience, though.

Wednesday was Madeline’s 9th birthday. I can’t believe my sweet little girl is nine! We made cupcakes and went to the movies… we had fun. The rest of the week was rounded out with a trip to the zoo and her birthday party with nine of her best friends. Matt set up the basement at his house like a dance club – including a fog machine and disco lights. The girls had a lot of fun. And, for the first time ever, there wasn’t a crumb of cake left over.

So, party week/spring break is officially over and it’s back to school tomorrow. As I was writing in my diary as to what I need to get done in the next week, I noticed that today is the 10 year anniversary of the death of my cat, Bob. I know I’ve said that I don’t normally do the whole anniversary thing, but with Bob, it’s different. Over the last few years I’ve turned from a cat person to a dog person, mostly because most of our cats have turned into coyote snacks or have bitten me, so I’ve turned my affections to dogs. Granted, my dogs are the size of a small cat, so I still enjoy some cat-like qualities, but I have to say that I’ve never, ever had a pet quite like my Bobcat.

I got him in 1997. I had been living in Summit County, Colorado but had recently – and unexpectedly – experienced a broken engagement. This event occurred just days before our planned wedding date. Not knowing what else to do, I ran home to Ohio. As most of my readers know, I went on my Hawaiian honeymoon without my groom. Once I returned from that trip, I decided that I’d remain in Ohio. The Colorado community just wasn’t big enough for the two of us. My broken heart wouldn’t let me stay.

Shortly after moving home my Aunt in Pennsylvania called to say that she had a barn full of new kittens. This wasn’t new for her, she always had a new crop of cats every spring. These cats weren’t pets, per se, they just lived in the barn and came and went as they pleased. But one cat in particular caught the special attention of my Aunt. He was born with some developmental issues and my Aunt was afraid that this kitty wouldn’t survive. I knew it was my purpose to go rescue this cat.

I immediately jumped in my dad’s car (mine was still in Colorado) to drive the four hours to Pennsylvania. Upon my arrival, I noticed this teeny-weeny kitten hiding in the corner. I knew he was the one. He appeared to be the runt of the litter and he was missing a tail. Some cats are bred specifically for this trait, but for this kitty it was a birth defect. I was in love. I could see the diamond through the long, matted fur and goopy eyes. Maybe it was due to my compassionate, social worker-esque nature, or perhaps I’m simply just a sucker. But I would have no issue loving this mangy, no-tailed cat. I gingerly scooped him up and drove him home.  Somewhere in West Virginia, I decided to call him Bob.

The vet clucked her tongue at my new kitten’s condition. She determined that in addition to his being full of worms and needing a drastic haircut, that his tail would cause long-term issues for him health-wise. His nerves did not extend down through his tail like a normal cat. His nerves stopped at the middle of his back. She said he would live without issue for a while but not to expect him to be a long-term kitty. I didn’t care. He needed me and I needed him.

During those first few months post-breakup I would wake up crying in the middle of the night. Bob would be standing over me, staring at me, as if to say “I’m here.” It was so endearing. Or, perhaps, he was just pissed that I woke him up yet again. Who knows? Anyway, over the next few years, he moved several times with me. We moved back to Colorado and, eventually, back to Ohio. On our car trips he always sat between the headrest and the back of my neck. He loved to look out the window as I drove and I loved feeling his silky fur against my skin. He was my bestest good buddy.

Eventually, the nerve damage caused too many issues with his ability to have a bowel movement. It had always been a struggle for him but, with time, it got to where he couldn’t go at all. After doing all I could for him, I knew what had to be done. I held him in my arms and sang to him as the vet administered the pentobarbital to put him to sleep. He closed his eyes and died peacefully. My heart broke all over again.

I had my Bobcat for six wonderful years. So many changes happened for me during Bob’s life-span and he saw me through every single one of them. He always seemed to know when I needed extra love.

I can’t believe it’s been 10 years since I last held him. Sometimes I feel like his short life prepared me for what I was about to endure with Benjamin. That may sound silly, but for the years before I had children, Bobcat was my child. I was determined to care for him. To help make him well. To prolong his life. To love him fiercely. It was like my “trial-run” at being a parent to a special needs kid. I can’t truly compare the two, of course, but I think it gave me a little emotional preparation of what was coming.

Thanks for our time together, Bobcat. You were the best cat ever and I sure do miss you.

It’s time. I’ve been sitting on this story for a while now but today is the day that I must start spinning my epic yarn. I’m sure I’m going to have to break it down into parts, otherwise I’ll be writing for days. Before I get started it must be told that I come from a family with a lot of legal knowledge. My dad is a lawyer. My mom was a paralegal. My sister worked at the Franklin County Courthouse. My dad’s new wife is a former Franklin County Judge and current attorney. And my part in this long line of impressive legal heroes? Jail Bird. Here goes PART 1:

October 18, 2011. A Tuesday. I had just returned to Colorado from a trip to Ohio for a wedding and visit with friends and family. And, yes, I saw my boyfriend while I was in town. Matt and I were less than two months away from our court date to finalize our divorce. Unfortunately, we still inhabited the same house despite the fact that he was supposed to vacate the premises due to an increase in his menacing behavior. When asked by his attorney why he hadn’t vacated, he simply said that he merely thought it was “a suggestion.” Regardless, we were separated and the divorce was pending. Things were stressful to say the least.

The Incident: Matt informed me that Madeline had stayed home from school the prior day because she had pink eye. He hadn’t made me aware of her condition prior to this statement so I asked, “Is she supposed to stay home today?” His response was, “Go ask her yourself.” So, I headed downstairs to wake her up and ask her myself. As I was walking down the stairs, Matt pushed by me and jumped ahead of me. He then ran into the room where Madeline was sleeping and jumped ON TOP OF HER and started screaming “JUST LEAVE US ALONE, SARAH!” and “YOU’RE A LIAR, SARAH!” Madeline woke up to mass confusion and Matt screaming at me while he was on top of her. He was positioned on his stomach. In order to get to her, I scooped my arms under his arm and leg to roll him off of her. It was not violent. Basically, all I did was move him so I could get to Madeline. He continued to scream at me. I placed my hands on his face trying to get his attention. Again, it was not violent. I was trying to get him to make eye contact with me to tell him to SHUT UP! His screaming was just making it worse for Madeline. At that point he said “I’m calling the cops.” I comforted a sobbing Madeline as he left the room. His concern was not for her. Her wide eyes wet with tears, she shakily asked why daddy was going to call the cops. I simply said I didn’t know. I took her upstairs to get her ready for school. On my way up the stairs, I took a moment to text my boyfriend to say “Matt just called the cops.”

The morning went on as usual. I got breakfast ready for Ben and Madeline. I made lunches. I got them dressed. Ben had cut his hair at school for some odd reason so I was trying to even that up when the cops arrived. Matt met them outside. I overheard him saying that I was finished “raging” and had calmed down considerably. So, I can only imagine what he said during his original 911 call. The cops talked to Matt while the kids were eating breakfast. Then the cops talked to me. I told them exactly what happened. Unfortunately, I know now that in Colorado, regardless of the circumstances of a domestic call, that one party will be going to jail. It doesn’t matter what the story is. Somebody goes. So when the cops spun me around and affixed my arms with plastic handcuffs, in front of my crying children and a smirking Matt, I was in complete shock. Madeline cried “But mommy didn’t do anything wrong.” I hadn’t. In fact, Matt’s exact words on the police report were “I was shocked and alarmed.” Not that he was hurt. Not that he felt threatened. Not that he was scared for his life. He was “shocked and alarmed.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but if society routinely arrested people for shocking and alarming others, well,  most of the world would be behind bars.

The cop went into total “bad-ass” mode. I didn’t have my shoes. All I had on were sweatpants and a t-shirt. No coat. No shoes. He asked if I wanted shoes. I said yes. In my confusion I started looking around for my shoes and he said “play your games somewhere else,” and pushed me out the door. I walked across the street to the cruiser with two policemen guiding me. It was October. It was 7:34 in the morning. It was cold. My feet and mind were completely numb as they ducked me into the car. And off we went.

The cop called ahead to the jail that they were bringing me in. I was sitting on the edge of the hard plastic seat because the cuffs made it impossible to sit all the way back. Plus, it was gross. I didn’t say a word. The cop told me that I should be ashamed of myself. I didn’t respond. Then, he said, much to my surprise, that my husband should be ashamed, too. That made it clear to me that they found his call to be a total over-reaction and completely unnecessary. But, the law is the law, and since he made the call, I was the one arrested. Funny how criminals find amazing loopholes to jump through but those who are not guilty have to face something they truly don’t deserve.

Riveting so far, right? I hate reliving this part because it’s STUPID. And I’d like to remind you that there are TWO SIDES to every story. This is MY side. Anyone who knows Matt got his side long ago. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to tell this piece because the average reader needs to know the “WHY” part of my being in jail. It was so unnecessary and a total play to ultimately hurt me, but the story gets better from here. I came away with an incredible experience that has only made me stronger. Plus, now I have street-cred. Anyway, tune in soon for Part II.

For so many years I kept my feet under tight wraps. I was of the mindset that the thicker the socks the better. I can pinpoint a couple of reasons why feet were a distress-filled trigger for me: my step-sister was missing a couple of toes and traumatized me deeply with her left-over raisin-like nubs. She would invoke her most spooky sounding voice and say “they’re coming to get you…,” much like the opening scene from “Night of the Living Dead.” I would run for my life around the tiny confines of the bedroom that I was forced to share with her on my rare sleep-overs at dad’s house until I collapsed, searching for breath, as her toe-nubs victoriously made contact with my sensitive skin. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t have toes, but she certainly didn’t use her lack of toes for GOOD.

Then there was the fact that the paleness of my skin made me so self-conscious. Honest-to-Pete, I didn’t willingly wear sandals until I was around 25. I hated the sight of the tops of my feet. My first pedicure took place when a girlfriend plied me with wine and FORCED me to allow her to paint my nails. I was 30 years old. I know it’s weird, but that’s a special skill of mine: weirdness.

My mother was from South Carolina and we would travel there for a family reunion every August. It was always sweltering. Again, due to my issues with being pale, I would wear sweatpants and tennis shoes despite the ridiculous heat. One of my cousins encouraged me to take off my shoes while we were swinging outside. Eventually, I did. I allowed my feet to skid through the silty sand and within seconds they were completely filthy. I was so bothered by how foreign the dirt felt on my skin that I would run inside every five minutes to rinse off my feet. My relatives thought (and probably still think) that I’m completely nuts.

Now that I’ve entered into my middle-aged years, I’ve learned that it feels good to step on soft grass warmed by the sun or splash in a puddle with a child-like enthusiasm. My feet are still wildly pale but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’d rather kick off my shoes and experience the pleasures (and occasional pain – like stepping on a Lego) than deny my senses of what’s waiting out there just for me.

It’s funny that my friend, Paula Wagner, gave me the word Barefoot on a day that we’re being plied with many inches of snow. I’m sitting on my couch (with my socks off) only going outside to let my dogs relieve themselves. Yoshi loves his barefoot status where Princess is more of a “You want me to go WHERE?” I should really get her some boots. It’s funny to watch her find a way to go potty using as few paws as possible.

I don’t wanna talk about feet anymore. I want to talk about Paula Wagner because she’s awesome! I met her at Ohio University in 1986. I was still painfully shy, which came off to others as abrupt and rude. She was walking by my room as we were moving in Freshman year. I was hanging up a poster of Jim Morrison on my wall. She said, “Hey! Do you like The Doors?” Apparently, I muttered a simple “Yes” and closed my door. I was so happy that someone spoke to me but just didn’t know how to handle it. I had very poor social skills. 🙂 Regardless, she kept at it. Tenacity is certainly a good descriptor of my dear, sweet friend. Eventually, thanks to her, we became life-long friends. We roomed together in my very first apartment. We’ve had a bazillion adventures together. We even have secret passwords. She was the friend I’d been waiting for. A sister. A social skills mentor. Paula had a sense of confidence in herself that I sorely lacked. I admired her for it.

Honestly, I could write a book about how I perceive our friendship and some of the adventures we’ve had. Her ability to embrace life showed me that I could (and should) do that myself. Paula, your friendship was the beginning of my awakening as a human being. And I’m so grateful that all these years later, we still know each other. I’m not just saying that because you live in Hawaii and I wanna come visit. 😉 But you really and truly are a beautiful piece of my life. Remember that day you called me (about 15 years ago) and I’d just made myself a Bloody Mary? We talked for so long that I went through nearly a whole bottle of Bloody Mary mix and by the end of it I was sloppily baring my soul about what an incredible friend you are and how you’re the best friend I ever had? Well, I know that is the most cliche thing a drunk person can do – and I did pass out in the bathroom after our conversation – but I’m sitting here on my couch, barefoot and 100% sober, and I’d like to say the same thing. You were a game-changer for me. I owe so very much to you and your friendship. Without you, I’d have no paprika. And that’s the spice of life.

If you don’t know Paula Wagner, you should. Besides, she lives in Hawaii! I think we should get a big fat group together and go crash her wonderfulness. That would be the perfect remedy for a snowy day. Who wants to go? I’ll drive.

So, I asked for this word a while ago and didn’t stick to my plan of writing about it right away. It wasn’t out of apathy over the potential path of the topic, I just got stuck. And then I got busy. Then I got a concussion (skiing on a GREEN RUN at A-Basin!). And now I have a cold. Seeing how there will always be something trying to keep me apart from writing I figured I just needed to buckle down and deal with it already.

I’ve never seen a ghost. I’ve certainly had intermittent odd feelings (pseudo-supernatural?) over the course of my life but have never seen – nor do I really want to see – an apparition. I figure if they have unfinished business with me they can leave a message at the front desk that I’ll receive when I check in, wherever that may be. I’m sure if modern technology can span the globe like it does these days, then there must be a way to communicate between heaven and hell. You can Instant Message in heaven but the only mail carrier in Hell is the USPS? I don’t know. I’m just assuming here.

Regardless, I know many people who have had experiences. In fact, my son has had a couple. Like me, he hasn’t seen anything but he’s spoken in clear detail about two experiences: One was about a kiddo who died when Ben was younger, and the other was when we toured the Stanley Hotel last year. The Stanley is located in Estes Park. It has a beautiful, rich history, and just happens to be the hotel Stephen King was staying in when he was inspired to write “The Shining.” Apparently, the fourth floor has the most paranormal activity and the moment we stepped onto that floor with the tour guide, Ben grabbed my arm and drew very close. The hair on his arm was standing up and he said “I don’t like it here.” We’d been on the tour for about 45 minutes prior to this piece but this was the first time that he reacted like he did. He was clearly freaked out. Shortly after, the tour guide explained some of the paranormal shenanigans that commonly occurred on that floor, many of them involving children. It was a wild experience and certainly left Ben feeling very uneasy. I believe that he has a sensitivity to such things. He is wise beyond his years and is able to see and feel things that most people simply cannot comprehend.

Meanwhile, my daughter is CRAZY about scary stuff. In fact, I’m taking her for an overnight stay at the Stanley for her birthday in two weeks. She is so excited and specifically asked to stay in a haunted room. I did NOT put in that request with the front desk because I’m not sure my nerves could handle it! It’s her big wish though (and there was a Groupon offering an awesome deal) so off we go. I’m sure I’ll have a great blog post after our stay there!

I do like to be scared on a small scale. My brother and I used to have scary movie marathons when we were younger. We could act out “Halloween” in its entirety (minus the naked scene). My step-mom always let us watch the craziest stuff on HBO back in the day. It was one of my happier memories from my kid-years. But just because I like scary movies doesn’t mean that I want to live them out in reality. Besides, this life is scary enough as it is. I don’t need a knife wielding maniac or any sort of poltergeist chasing me in my high heels and short-shorts. I got enough going on. Seriously. If someone were to show up at this moment and say “I’m here to scare the hooey out of you,” I’d probably just give them my “mom look.” You know, the one that communicates “Are you flipping kidding me? Don’t waste my time.” I’m just that tired.

But since that probably won’t happen anytime soon (well, I DO live in Aurora… there’s some crazy things that happen here) I think I’m safe for now. And with that, I’m off to bed. I’ll pull the covers up high so the monsters won’t eat my head first or so I won’t see that scary clown from Poltergeist crawling out from underneath the bed to get me.

Thank you for this word, Sue Kreft. She is an amazingly wonderful woman who was the director at Ben’s school when he was a wee lad. Sue is INCREDIBLE. I’ve opened up to her about my fears and concerns and she never fails to come through as my cheerleader. She encourages. She loves. She accepts. She prays. Unconditionally. For whatever reason she is someone I trust with all my heart, and trust is something I am incredibly guarded about giving. So, thank you, Sue. Thank you for caring for my son. And for me. I love you.