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In 2004, I was taking a small break from the hospital to run home and pick up some things. I had been living at the hospital with my sick toddler and newborn for several weeks and needed to go get a new cycle of clothes. Heck, who am I kidding? I simply needed a break from the machines and needles and children screaming in pain. I would have used any excuse to make a break for it because my heart was at capacity. My mom came to relieve me for a couple of hours so I could get some fresh air.

On the 20 minute drive to Dublin from downtown, the clouds moved in. I felt comforted. A good rain would be cleansing for me. As the sky grew blacker I let my heart do the same. I screamed at other cars as they passed me. I cursed. I let my anger loose. And as my mood grew more wrathful, so did the clouds. I pulled into the driveway just as the clouds could hold no more. I got doused in a chilling downpour in the 15 steps from the car to the front door. Admittedly, I didn’t make a run for it, I kinda wanted to get soaked. I was hoping it would be refreshing. It wasn’t.

Walking into the house after such a long sojourn at the hospital, I was overcome with the eerie silence. It felt dead inside. And it seemed like I had been gone for ages. I wondered why the housekeepers hadn’t draped everything in white sheets? Oh, wait. We had no staff. And we hadn’t been on vacation. I grew angrier still. My house was a voided shell. The baby swing sat empty. The toys were scattered as if abandoned in the middle of play. As I walked through the house, it was clear that the church had sent some kind women over to clear out the refrigerator and dust away the obvious. My heart warmed a little bit. Then I headed to my bed, turned on the tv and pulled the covers up high. I just wanted to do something that I had control over. MY remote. MY blanket. MY bed.

The storm outside raged on, pelting the side of the house with its fury. I think I must have been smirking at it… my mind saying something like “Hahaha! You can’t get to me in here! I’m safe from you. You can’t hurt me.” Then the crash came. It shook the foundation. I heard the crack of a tree. I felt the vibration in my head and the rattle of my teeth. Then that metallic taste that overcomes your mouth – the one that is usually reserved for life altering moments: the avoidance of ramming into the back of the car, the news that a loved one has died, hearing the words “Your son has cancer….” I knew I’d been too close to the source of the strike. But while I was technically still safe, my beloved television was not. It was dead.

After a few minutes of stomping my feet and cursing that my “ME-time” had been destroyed by an outside force, I had to pull myself together and get on with it. I picked up some fresh clothes, packed some new toys for Ben, restocked my toiletries, and went back to the hospital. I tried to run away, albeit for just a brief moment, but that dream had been dashed by the actions of the storm. And, ultimately, even though I didn’t want to be in my current situation, I had no choice. I had two little people who needed me desperately. I was so very tired. But looking back on it all and knowing now that I survived it all – that we’ve all survived – we’re better for that storm.

I try to be prepared for whatever weather is coming my way but my internal meteorologist often makes the wrong prediction. It is inevitable that something will come swooping into your life and make a big mess. And it’s okay to stomp your feet and get mad and even curse, but it’s all in how you pick up the pieces and salvage what’s left that makes you better. Stronger. And able to rebuild.

Gina Blauhorn Jones gave me today’s word. She knows all too well what a lightning strike can do to your life since she’s survived a daughter having AML and going through a bone marrow transplant. While Gina and I have never had the time to sit down over lunch and share our lives with each other, being a part of this “club” that no one wants to belong to has bonded us forever. I hate our situation but it has certainly given us the opportunity to meet wonderful people. To learn. To grow. And find the courage through each other to pick up the pieces and rebuild after such a destructive strike. Love to you and your family, Gina. <3

It’s Valentine’s Day. Personally, I’ve never been a fan of it. There are many reasons behind my disdain but I’ll tell you one thing: not celebrating Valentine’s Day has scored me a lot of dates. Boys think I’m the coolest cat in town because I’ve lowered the bar on my expectations of them. While my problem with Valentine’s Day started in the first grade (revisit my post of  being falsely accused of cheating on the word “Valentine” on my spelling test) I decided long ago that it was a dumb holiday. Pink and red have never been my favorite colors and WHO decided that a heart was shaped like that? It resembles the human heart in no way, shape or form. So, when I learned that the symbol of Valentine’s Day was no more real than Santa Claus, leprechauns, Easter Bunnies, or jelly beans and toast for Thanksgiving Dinner, well, I discarded it along with the stack of other dumb holidays. The only holiday that matters is Halloween, because ghosts do exist. Just watch Ghost Hunters for proof of that. 😉 I’m just kidding. What it comes down to is that I’m a cynical soul and holidays make me uncomfortable. That, and love stinks.

Actually, I love celebrating with my kids. I enjoy making little treats and cards for their classmates. In fact, I try to do it for all holidays because I do sincerely love giving gifts like that. It was nine years ago today that I was wrapping treat-filled cups for Ben’s preschool friends. I was pregnant with Madeline and desperately worried because nobody could figure out what was wrong with Ben. He’d been getting increasingly worse. Constant low-grade fever, intermittent limping, crying and saying “Ouchie” with his sweet two-and-a-half year old voice. It broke my non-Valentine’s shaped heart. Within a week of Valentine’s Day we would finally learn that Ben had neuroblastoma. After SIX MONTHS of doctor after doctor, urgent care after urgent care, misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis. I try not to get caught up in the “what-if’s” but it’s hard to not wonder if he would have had to endure less pain and therapy if someone would have just done a simple blood test and spent less time patronizing me by saying I was nothing more than a “nervous first-time parent.” I knew something was wrong with him, and, unfortunately, I was right.

February 19 is the nine year anniversary that Ben was admitted for tests to rule out cancer. Oh, how it pains me to say that they didn’t rule it out. When those doctors came in to say those horrible words that Ben had a 20-30% chance of survival, my heart flooded my ears with blood. I inserted my own Emergency Broadcast System noise in place of those horrible words. I clung to Matt because I knew I was going to collapse if I didn’t hold on to something. My son. My baby. How could this be?

I looked over at him laying on my mother’s lap while she rocked him in a rocking chair. He was sleeping soundly. He was wearing a little blue hospital gown and his diaper was full from all the fluids they were pushing through his IV. He had a board taped to his arm to not only keep his little arm straight, but also to discourage him from trying to pull the IV out on his own. The doctors kept talking. A long list of what he was going to have to endure if we wanted him to survive. I heard minimal of what they had to say because that buzzing in my ears was much louder than the volume of their heart-breaking words.

In addition to not loving Valentine’s Day, I generally don’t get too worked up about anniversaries, either. I usually enjoy birthdays – both my friends and my own – but other anniversaries kinda float in and out of my mind, with the exception of February 19, 2004. The start of finally getting some answers. The day it got worse before it got better. Ben certainly had worse days after starting treatment – days that nearly killed him – but, if it weren’t for that day and finding out about Neuroblastoma invading my son’s body, we might have lost him altogether. It’s certainly a bittersweet anniversary.

So, with my non-Valentine’s-shaped heart, I’m going to finish wrapping up treats and take them over to the school. I’m going to celebrate the fact that I still have my son – and of course, Madeline, too. She was born into this crazy world and has been subject to her own torture throughout his illness. But, in an effort to remain positive, their beautiful souls were ultimately enhanced by this horrible disease that we’ll have to live with for the rest of our lives (in some shape or form).

Nine years. It’s so hard to believe it’s been that long. But as I look back on all the memories, the most important one is to embrace the life that we’ve been given, regardless of all the bumps. And love is pretty darn important after all.

Happy Valentine’s day!

I gave myself this word. I’m awesome (and humble).

Redeem: to recover possession or ownership of by payment of a price or service; regain. To exchange (trading stamps, coupons, etc) for goods. To reinstate in someone’s estimation or good opinion; restore to favor.

There’s so much I could talk about but the main memory that keeps popping into mind revolves around my grandparents. I lived with my biological father’s parents for a brief period of time during the early 70’s, when I was about five years old. My grandma, Sarah, was very kind and loving – perhaps a bit overprotective – but she spent hours playing with me, which I craved desperately. My grandpa, Jake, was a cantankerous old man. He taught me how to fish. He had moments where he was very kind and loving but was, unfortunately, a professional alcoholic. He’d get so drunk – nearly every day – that he didn’t remember his actions. I’m sure many of the things that he said – and did – were fueled by nothing more than the alcohol. Nevertheless, it left a lot of unnecessary scars that I’ve carried with me for nearly 40 years.

My grandma and I would spend hours talking about what my life would eventually be like. How I would go to school and do something amazing… be able to take care of myself and not have to depend on anyone else for help. I understand now what she was saying, but back then I just thought she wanted me to have a fancy job and make lots of money so she and I could go live in Hawaii. That’s what we talked about doing anyway, running away from our dreary lives and living in the sunshine. But in her own way she was trying to instill in me the confidence to be my own woman.

My grandparents were in no way financially stable. Money was very tight and they scraped to get by. My grandma would hide money in the lining of her coat because she knew that if grandpa found it he’d take it to the liquor store. So, in order to make ends meet she collected coupons and stamps. Grandma and I were constantly clipping coupons from the paper to redeem for groceries. She also collected S&H stamps (which is still in operation!) to exchange for presents that she gave to others. The one that I remember the most, though, was at the gas station. When coming home from our early morning fishing trips at Buckeye Lake, grandpa would always stop by the same gas station to get gas. This particular station had coupons that you could trade in for stuff… and he always redeemed them to get a Matchbox car for me. Now, I don’t remember playing with these cars but I was always so excited that he used those certificates on something just for me. I’m sure that back then you could trade them in for convenience items or even cigarettes (which he did smoke), but he always spent them on me. I think those mornings he took me fishing and stopped by the gas station for a car were his way to try to restore his favor with me – to redeem himself. He never said much to me unless he was drunk – and those usually weren’t kind words – so the cars were tokens of him saying “I’m kinda trying.” I loved them. Then as I grew older I resented them. Now, well, I’m a work in progress. The bad stuff is slowly slipping away.

Eventually, my grandpa died and I thought that grandma would take her life back. She had paid a high price of sacrificing most of her life with this man who was horrible when he was drinking, which was nearly all the time. She had every right to redeem her life. But she didn’t. She stopped eating and caring for herself and eventually died because she didn’t know what else to do. She’d been in that horribly abusive relationship since she was 13 years old and had no idea how to do it for herself. She’d saved all her coupons to use on a day that never came. I was kinda mad at her for that.

But what it comes down to is that my grandma had a ton of redeeming qualities. Some of my fondest memories are of times I spent with her. Turns out that my grandpa had a couple, too. I’m getting to the point where a Matchbox car holds mostly good memories for me. I’ve learned that we’re all human. We all make mistakes. Some of them are pretty freaking terrible. I’m not sure what demons my grandpa felt that he had to drown in alcohol but I wish I could tell him that – despite his shortcomings – I loved him. He could be a total turd but if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t exist. So, ultimately, he was good for something, right? 😉

It just goes to show that even when what comes out of us is the worst, there is nearly always a redeeming quality that will eventually pull us through.

Shelly Neer Adams gave me this word. She is a dear friend of mine who has faced many heartaches and hurts over the past nine years that we’ve known each other. We met in 2004 at Children’s Hospital on the oncology unit. Her step-daughter, Eden, fought Neuroblastoma along side of Ben. Shelly and I walked the halls together, shared some laughs and definitely some tears. While the oncology unit wasn’t a community I was excited to be a part of, Shelly certainly was a bright spot of sunshine to look forward to. Eden lost her battle with Neuroblastoma and I’m not sure how Shelly has survived it all. My heart breaks for all she’s endured. Shelly, here’s hoping you’ve found some sunshine during your dark times and found that life has many redeeming qualities. <3

I’m fairly confident that I have a completely different view of what Paradise should look like compared to others. If I could sneak into people’s heads I’d probably find visions of palm trees swaying against an azure backdrop tinged with vivid orange and gold as the sun sinks into the sea. While that is a truly beautiful image I have to admit that it immediately makes my bottom itch because I can feel the presence of sand in my swimsuit and prom dresses. I can find things to entertain myself in that sort of setting but it wouldn’t be my version of Paradise.

I’ve never been a beach girl. While I like boating and swimming and other activities that go along with water, lying on a beach has never been the type of vacation that calls to me. I got wicked sunburns on every trip to the ocean as a kid, which, if you add sand to that, makes for a very miserable redhead. So I wonder why it is that I made plans to get married on the beach in Maui in 1997? Sincerely. What on earth was I thinking? Given my predisposition to sand and salty air, why would I choose that location to marry the love of my life? It had failure written all over it. As it turned out, we broke up just days before our planned wedding/honeymoon in “Paradise.” I took the trip without him, which furthered my disdain of tropical destinations. I ended up taking surfing lessons and wondered why there was never a shark around to kill you when you needed one. We ended up getting back together and married a year later – at a beautiful cabin in the mountains – but he ended up not being the love of my life after all. I’m sure it was ultimately the beach’s fault.

Regardless, when I close my eyes and dream of my Paradise, I cannot pinpoint a singular place. It all depends – on mood, on situation, on feelings. I fell in love with the rocky beaches of Rhode Island during a spring break from college. Setting foot on the top of the Continental Divide during a starry night prompted me to move to Colorado in 1993. Walking the theater district of NYC gives me an incredible thrill. And it’s not always a destination. It’s often a memory. Or a person. Something that makes my heart feel bigger. Like my daughter’s leg intertwined with mine as we snuggle on the couch, laughing at some ridiculous movie. My dog laying his furry little head on my shoulder. Holding a lover’s hand while walking through the crunch of fall leaves. Hearing a song that reminds me of an old friend. Listening to the quiet of the snow pelting my ski jacket. Laying with my son in a hospital bed, feeling his steady breathing on my neck, knowing he is resting comfortably despite the circumstances.

Paradise can be found anywhere. In any situation. Even if the situation is less than ideal, you can close your eyes and find the joy and contentment. It’s something that you can always keep in your heart and visit whenever you wish. Free of charge.

And without leaving sand in your crack. 🙂

Melissa Birkhimer gave me this word, probably because she’s on a fabulous beach vacation with friends as I type this. Now, admittedly, if they would have invited me to come along with them, I would have gone. I’m always up for making new memories, sand or not. Now, I’ve never met Melissa in person, but thanks to the genius of Mark Zuckerberg (or the Winklevoss twins) we’re friends on Facebook. I look forward to meeting her in person someday since she is obviously close to the heart of someone I greatly admire. 🙂 Hope you’re having a blast on your trip, friends!

When Ben was an infant, my mom and I would take him on outings around the Columbus area. When he was cranky, we’d drive the 270 outer belt like the Indy 500, incessantly looping and looping (and looping) around the city. It gave us the opportunity to chat or fight – or both – depending on Ben’s level of backseat activity. Of course, we’d make pitstops along the way. My mom loved Sam’s Club despite the fact that her household consisted of just her and my dad. She’d cram the back of her wagon full of toilet paper, boxes of V-8 Fusion, and bricks of cheese. Unfortunately, her supply of toilet paper far outlasted her. I’m sure my dad is set with 2-ply for the rest of his life.

Anyway, on one visit to Sam’s, I was wandering the aisles with Ben, who was comfortably confined to his baby seat. He was diverting his gaze between the goofy faces I was shamelessly making and the bright toys dangling from his car seat handle. He was probably about four months old. Now, I was not a fan of random people wanting to touch my baby because he was MY baby and you should keep your germy hands to yourself. Plus, for whatever reason, I tend to attract people who have absolutely no verbal filter. For instance, shortly after the September 11 attacks, I was carrying my infant out to the car from WalMart. A little old lady approached me and tried to touch Ben. I smiled at her as I slowly tilted Ben just out of her reach. She looked at me and said, “That’s an adorable baby. You sure picked a rotten time to bring another person into the world.” While I wanted to say, “Well, I really wasn’t thinking about that while I was in the backseat of that car,” I just smiled and backed over her as I exited my parking spot. I’m just kidding. I think I quoted Bob Dylan or something like that. Then I kicked her. Just kidding again. Actually, I didn’t have anything to say. I loaded up my son and left with her words permanently burned into my brain.

Back to that day at Sam’s Club. We were rolling through the aisles as mom loaded her own cart full of goodies. I stopped at an intersection to let other carts pass by when I caught the eye of an elderly gentleman who worked there. He smiled at me and asked, in a thick Eastern European accent, if he could help me locate anything in the store. I told him no, that I was entertaining my son as my mom shopped. He raised his hand to point at me and said “I’ve been watching you and that baby for sometime now. You are clearly dedicated to that child.” He came over to look in the car seat at my cooing son. Surprisingly, I moved aside so he could get a better look. His weathered finger slid along Ben’s face. He said something that I didn’t quite understand, perhaps it was something in his native tongue? As he continued to touch Ben I caught sight of something on the old man’s arm. Numbers. Tattooed. A permanent reminder of a horrible hell. And here he was, surviving all these years, and making a connection with my son.

He kept talking to Ben in a language I didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I’d love to know now what he said to my Ben, but at the time I couldn’t bring myself to ask. My eyes welled with tears and the lump in my throat rendered me speechless. I just watched. He turned to me and said, “He’s special, this one.” I shook my head in agreement, unable to speak. I knew Ben was special way back then. I didn’t fully understand just how much. The man winked at me and walked away, ready to care for his next customer. How could I make this man understand what just happened? How could I explain it myself? How could I communicate the intensity of this event to my son when he was old enough to understand? It was one of those moments you walk away from completely changed.

How did that kind old man get to this place in his life? To fight for survival in a concentration camp only to end up at a Sam’s Club in Ohio? What did he lose along the way? Who did he lose? Did anyone tell his mother that she chose a rotten time to bring another person into this world? Did she, herself, think that as she watched her child be tortured for doing absolutely nothing wrong? Did she ever blame herself for the hell she had no control over? I know I did that myself during Ben’s battle with cancer.

So, I brought my son into the world at a rotten time. But he’s changing this world for the better. I see that every day. And, as his mother, I am dedicated to fostering his great talent. To building him up. To helping him understand that he is amazing. And if I could go back in time and meet someone, I’d like to meet that man’s mother. I’d like to know what happened to her. I’d like to hold her hand as she cried. Perhaps she saw her son carried off by the Nazi’s? Perhaps she had to make some horrible choices regarding her children? But I want her to know that her son survived hell long enough to encourage me to continue my dedication. I would have continued that without his encouragement, but thanks to his beautiful spirit, he reinforced it for all eternity.

I asked Annmarie Conrad-Croswell to give me a word and this is the amazing word she gave me. I often cry over this memory. Looking back on how far Ben has come in his short 11 years, and understanding what that beautiful old man went through. His dedication to his own life encourages me to quit my bitching. Anyway, Ann is a dear friend from high school. She’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Not just physically, but a whole beautiful package. I appreciate the encouragement you’ve offered, the friendship you are so frivolous with, and the warmth I feel whenever you cross my mind. I’m happy to say that you are in my thoughts often. You are a wonderful woman, dedicated to your family, and someone I greatly admire. 🙂

For the past several years I’ve kept a small Christmas tree reserved for the names of children who have passed away from cancer. Most of these kids died from neuroblastoma but there were some children who died from other cancers – children who became a part of my family in the halls of J-5 in Columbus, Ohio. I got to know these mothers as we wandered the halls at night, wondering how we found ourselves here, trying to figure out what to do with this beast named cancer. We’d stand in the hall in our slippers and pj’s, giving updates on how our children had fared the prior day. We’d cry, celebrate, mourn, and laugh together. We probably wouldn’t have known each other in the “normal world,” but here we were, forced together. Some of these ladies became my dearest friends.

And as some of the battles were lost, I’d watch my friends move on. Emptying their rooms of the balloons and stuffed animals and whatever comforts got their dying child through a day of treatment. We’d say we’d keep in touch. Sometimes we would. Sometimes we didn’t. But as each child was lost I’d write about it. Mostly for myself because I didn’t make a lot of sense. The anger. The heartbreak. And, yes, the guilt. I’m so grateful that my son is not only surviving, but thriving. And not that it’s a competition, but, well, I just don’t understand any of it.

I’m just now getting around to taking down my Christmas decorations because I’ve been sick since Christmas. It’s true that I am a procrastinator by nature but I normally get my decorations down in between Christmas and New Year’s. So, with my classic rock station blaring I got in clean-up mode. My Gold Ribbon tree was on a small table near my entryway, where I could see it every day and remember the sweet children I’d loved and lost. I kneeled before the tree and took each name off, remembering their faces and how their hands felt in mine. I remembered the laughter and tears I shared with their moms. I relived watching my friends walk down the hall of the hospital, hands filled with their children’s belongings but their hearts empty of their child’s presence.

I’ve never had to know that pain. The closest I get is this tree. As I sat with my hands full of names, “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd came on the radio. A freezing breeze flowed under my door and mixed with the warmth of my tears. The sun shone through my window and I had an amazing feeling that all of these children were being taken care of. They didn’t need me to cry for them. They don’t need anything this earth has to offer. I got the feeling that they’re happy to not be here anymore. Most of them only knew cancer in the few short years they were here. Why would they miss that?

It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss them, though. But I think I learned today that it’s okay to let them go. I will always hold their memory dear, but I think I’m going to stop living in fear of what might be coming my way. The fact is we never know when our time will be up. Ben might develop a secondary cancer. I might get hit by a bus (although I tend to think I’m going to die trapped under ice). But I think I’ve been hanging on to things for the wrong reasons. There’s nothing wrong with honoring memories, but I’m going to quit wishing for things to be different. They aren’t. It is what it is. Being sad can be useful at times but I think I’m done swimming in it until I get pruny.

Cross my mind when you want to, sweet children. I miss you but am so glad you’re no longer suffering. I’m going to remember your sweet smiles. Your bald heads. Your laughter. And how your mommies looked at you as they were trying to burn your every feature into their memories.

I’m forever changed for the better thanks to all of you. <3

The summer in between elementary and middle school was pretty traumatic. One of my classmates was hit and killed by a car while riding his bike just down the street from where I lived. I hadn’t experienced anyone dying before, except for my super old and creepy great-grandfather. Admittedly, I used to be terrified of the elderly but am coming to terms with it, especially now that I’m middle-aged myself. I will blame my irrational fear of old people on the Pine Kirk nursing home because THAT place was horrifying. Those of you from Kirkersville know all about that place and I’m sure you agree with me (am I the queen of tangents or what?) Anyway, I was forced to consider that even children die while doing something as simple as riding a bike. I didn’t ride my bike for the rest of the summer.

Just days after my classmate’s death, I was in my sister’s room checking out her pet bird. Now, this bird was a pretty blue bird but nothing exotic. It didn’t sing or talk or do anything special, it just sat in his cage. His only true moments of activity were when someone walked into the room, which would cause the bird to jump off his perch and scuffle across the bottom of the cage. Newspaper was shredded and bird seed scattered everywhere from his erratic movements. It wasn’t really what I would classify as a pet. Regardless, my sister loved it.

I cannot fully recall the exact chain of events on this particular day but the bird was out of his cage when the family cat came sauntering into my sister’s room. Before anything could fully register, the cat had the bird. It was almost like the bird flew directly down to the cat. Of course, the cat took off, running with its body low to the ground in that stalking motion that cats have perfected, the bird’s feathered, blue butt protruding from the cat’s gripping jaws of death.

I stood in shock. I’m sure my 11-year-old scream pierced through the town of Kirkersville – not so much because the bird was dead (like I said, it wasn’t much of a pet) – but because I had allowed it to be killed by having it out of his cage. Now that I look back on it (I still feel tremendous guilt) I kinda think that bird wanted to die. I mean, it could have flown away but instead it flew directly to the cat. He killed himself, right? There’s no way to ever know, I guess, but at least it eases my conscience to think the bird was suicidal. I’m pretty confident that my sister is still pissed about it. 🙂 It wasn’t the only thing of hers I ever ruined, but I’m hoping it’s the only thing of hers that I’ve ever indirectly killed.

I sincerely cannot keep up with the inner workings of my brain, so I often take a backseat and just go along for the ride. My strange and wonderful brain takes me on wild journeys. I have absolutely no desire – or need – to try mind altering drugs because my mind naturally “trips” on its own. Often “we” contemplate what sort of animal we’d like to be. I used to think I wanted to be a cat but then I remembered that the majority of domesticated cats are living out the rest of their lives in shelters behind bars. Now, I’ve been in jail before and I have NO desire to ever revisit being caged again, even if there was the silver lining that I might eventually be adopted. Although, I have to admit that I know what it’s like to be “rescued” from such a plight, so I’ll take this opportunity to promote adopting a pet. 🙂  Besides, if I had to eat an entire bird – bones and all – I’d rather be euthanized. I would NOT make a very good cat.

So, as I run through the catalog of potential animal personas I could take on, I think I’d choose to be a bird. It must be so incredible to defy gravity and soar over the earth, occasionally pooping on a statue, some random person, or a freshly washed vehicle. I don’t know what sort I’d be, perhaps a hummingbird because they’re tiny and like copious amounts of sugar (like me). Or an eagle. One that kicks ass and has its own majestic soundtrack. I’ve always wanted my own theme music. Ack. I just remembered that they eat animals, too. Never mind. I will NOT, however, choose to be any sort of bird who is flight-challenged, like a domesticated chicken or emu.

Or, apparently, one who’s suicidal.

Thank you, Laura Martin, for today’s word. You are one cool cat (albeit a vegetarian one). Laura is the sort of person who is peaceful and loving and groovy – all which are synonymous with being a vegetarian. You are very dear to me and I aspire to be more like you: peaceful, loving, and especially groovy. I’m glad you are a part of my life. Happy New Year! xoxo

Where on earth did the year go? It seems like five minutes ago 2012 was brand new… I was bidding adieu to one of the worst years of my life and hoping for so many positive things to happen moving forward. Adios, 2011. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out. What a freaking waste of 12 months that year was. A truly ghastly vintage.

I can’t say that 2012 was really much better. Overall, there was a lot less drama but I didn’t get my sh*t together like I thought I would. I’ve slowly worked toward some goals but I didn’t push myself to get published, which was something I really wanted to do this year. I wrote a lot, but mostly just personal. And that won’t mean anything to anybody until they find my mummified body under a mountain of dirty laundry. Posthumous is, unfortunately, how my work is going to get out there because I’m just not brave enough. I did take a writing workshop, and my work was well received by my instructor, but I’m still too insecure to share it with anyone but him. Honestly, my finger would hover over the “submit” button for long stretches of time because I was terrified to let him read it, too. And while my instructor would often start his critique with a “Wow” I never got up the nerve to share it with the whole class. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess I’m just not ready.

This hasn’t exactly been a year of cheer. Then again, it hasn’t been all bad, either. I started a new trend with the kids. We broke the year up into quarters, Ben and Madeline named them: Summer of Fun, Fabulous Fall, Wonderful Winter, and Super Spring. We make a list of things we’d like to do and make sure we do them. Some highlights of 2012 included indoor skydiving, trips to Estes Park, and Glenwood Springs. This week we’ll be skiing and starting a scavenger hunt of Denver points of interest. We WON’T, however, make any more plans to attend movies in our pajamas – especially a midnight showing of Batman. That was way too close for comfort. For those of you who don’t know, we went to the midnight showing of Batman on July 20 (in our PJ’s) at a theater just a few miles away from where the massacre happened. When we exited the theater there were swarms of cops everywhere. I just grabbed Ben and Madeline’s hands and walked quickly to the car. My phone was blowing up from all the calls and texts asking if we were okay, which, fortunately, we were. I would have been pissed had we been killed doing something on our Summer of Fun list. Kinda defeats the purpose.

Anyway, I’m working on getting my groove back. Admittedly, 2012 has been a year of transition, and while it’s been uncomfortable, I am genuinely trying to make the best of it. Being the type of person who is absolutely obsessed with movies, I often think of how my life would play out on the silver screen. Right now is when the sad music plays. The pivotal point where everything looks pretty bleak for the protagonist but there’s something wonderful waiting around the corner. I’ve decided that I don’t want normal. For a long time I’ve wanted NORMAL and now I’ve decided that I’m just too unique to be NORMAL. While I haven’t quite figured out how to fully embrace my personality, I know that I’d be wasting ME to settle for a life that is anything short of extraordinary.

Besides, the end of my movie is going to be filled with hilarious bloopers that will make you fall off your seat with laughter. Even the most tragic stories deserve an ending like that, right?. I mean, wouldn’t our lives be more cheerful if the credits of, oh, say “Das Boot” had a blooper reel? How about “Million Dollar Baby?” Or, perhaps, “Dead Man Walking?” We’d certainly all walk out of the theater in a different frame of mind.

So, my friends, get ready for 2013. I can’t say that I’m going to skyrocket into the greatness that I believe is right around the corner (or at least getting closer to my neighborhood), but I’m sure that I’ll collect more moments of hilarity for all to enjoy. That will be my gift to all of you. Cheer(s).

Scott Foor supplied today’s word. He is one of my inner circle friends and sincerely brings a lot of cheer to my world. We almost lost him a couple of years ago when he decided to slip on some ice and scare the bejeezus out of us. Scott, you didn’t need to suffer a TBI for us to love you more, it’s simply not possible. I love you bunches, my friend, and I appreciate all the cheer you supply in my life.

We all have one. Whatever our past is made up of – good and/or bad – it shapes us. It doesn’t have to define us, but it certainly affects who we are as an individual. We can succumb to the direness of our bad situations, we can forget how wonderful our lives truly are, we can suppress the aches of unfairness or rise above it all and be better for it.

There’s always a trigger, though. Recently, someone said something to me – in jest – but the tone of how it was said shot me back to  a horrible memory. I know it was nothing more than a joke on their part and they had no idea what had happened when I clammed up – unable to say anything else for the memory that was playing in my mind. My peripheral vision blurred. A metallic taste overcame my mouth. A shot of adrenaline coursed through me at warp speed, reminding me of a moment that I had put in my mental filing cabinet that I had no intention of ever revisiting – even to purge. I felt bad because my reaction threw this person off.  If only they had requested a CARFAX report on this particular model of Sarah, they would have known my entire history, thus avoiding the awkward moment altogether.

But it’s not that easy to catalog the wrecks of our human psyche. We are all a different make and model. Some of us can weather any storm. Some of us just need a better pair of tires to get us through. Some of us require premium gas where others can survive on the lowest grade available. It’s important to remember who we are and what makes us run, but we cannot discount those who care for us. If we’re letting someone drive, they have to take the time to clear the windows and inflate the tires or they’re not going to get our maximum performance.

And why are there some of us who will let just anyone drive? My transmission has been stripped so many times. I’ve rebuilt my engine over and over again. And there have been times that I’ve allowed myself to rust. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming anyone for my situation or how I feel. I am ultimately in charge of that. But when you allow people to treat you poorly, well, it’s a hard habit to break. As Leo Tolstoy wrote in Anna Karenina, “There are no conditions to which a person cannot grow accustomed.” This statement rings so true. I had to figure out how to live with my son’s diagnosis. I’m having to learn how to live my life as a single person. And I figured out – as a child – how to live with people abusing me. I can’t say that I did it right, but I’m proud that I have used my past experiences to become the person I am today.

My ex-husband used to say that I kept a “book of personal harms” in my mind – just like Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rainman. He’s right to some degree – I do have that mental filing cabinet I mentioned above. I’ve stored a lot of heartaches and poopy memories in there. And I usually keep it to myself. Because when I open up to people, when I let them in and tell them who I am and what I’ve experienced, they often find a way to use it against me. They start to see me as a lemon. Okay… even I’m getting tired of the car analogies. 🙂

I AM BROKEN. But there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts. My kind of love isn’t for everyone. I am sarcastic and quirky and guarded and funny and wounded and smart. I tend to hide when I don’t know what else to do. If you cut me down, I’m quick to believe you. But I’ll eventually figure out that you’re wrong and find someone else to drive (sorry, it just seemed to flow. Last one, I promise.)

I may have let a lot of people/events own me during my lifetime, but it’s made me who I am. Don’t judge. Don’t ridicule. Don’t hate. You have a history, too, and my plan is to love you for it.

Even if I have a difficult time doing so.

I’m so grateful that I have all my senses. Before you pipe up and debate me that I have no sense at all I’m not talking about common sense. I’m talking about the five senses: touch, taste, sight, hearing and smell.

I just spent an hour picking up a package at the post office. People were waiting in line, patiently moving forward at a snail’s pace in order to send their packages off to who knows where. I spent a lot of time looking at random packages, wondering where they’d be going. One package was heading to Florida. I wondered who the recipient was. An elderly woman? A sister? Someone the sender felt obligated to send a gift to? Were the contents something that would elicit a squeal of joy? Would it be re-gifted? Would it end up at Goodwill? Was it frivolous or was it something they truly needed? Who knows. I waited patiently for my turn. What was waiting for me behind the massive counter at the USPS? Did I want it? Or would the box be more useful than the contents?

Turns out it was from my sister. She told me she’d be sending something that wasn’t necessarily a Christmas present so I could open it right away if I wanted to. Of course, I opened it as soon as I got home. I love presents and I stink at being patient when it comes to gifts. As I slid my paring knife along the strong packaging tape, I smelled something I hadn’t in nearly two years: the scent of my mother. My sister had sent me a box of mom’s belongings – some jewelry and a couple of her gardening hats. As I took each hat out of the box I felt it between my fingers. Smelled what was undoubtedly her scent. Remembered seeing her wearing them as she tended her garden. Hearing her voice as she explained to me what each plant was. The only sense I didn’t use was taste. I didn’t lick it.

Her scent brought back a flood of emotions. This time of year is hard for those who have lost someone and I’ve really been missing her lately. It seems I have some questions that only she could answer… she was always very astute at answering tough “life stuff.” I didn’t fully appreciate how often I asked for her help on something until I lost that privilege. Even though we often butted heads like rams I knew that I could always go to her no matter what.

So I’ll sit here, holding her hat, finding a stray hair or two, and wondering how it’s going away from us. In my search for answers I haven’t quite figured out this heaven place that people speak of. I want to believe that it’s real and that mom is there tending a garden or curled up with a bed full of cats. Or maybe she’s decorating a Christmas tree or something? I envision Heaven a lot like high school. They must have an arts and crafts period, right? I mean, after home room and the class that debunks the use of the Gregorian calendar. I cannot fathom that mom is nothing more than ashes in a box near my bed instead of hanging out with her friends who have passed on and kicking some angel ass during a hearty game of dodge ball.

Meanwhile, I’ll use my senses to remember her. Perhaps cry a little bit for how much I miss her.

But I’m still not going to lick it.