Two constants in life are death and taxes. As any semi-regular reader of my blogs knows, death has struck many times over the years, everyone from my father to my priest's wife. But when death strikes and you can't comfort the grieved, you're at a loss.
Wednesday at work, the flu infected me to a degree that even my co-workers could see the progression over a few short hours. One scurried around the office with Clorox wipes disinfecting every surface I had touched during the day. Another insisted that I go home. NOW!
It was upon checking my cellphone for urgent office email on Thursday morning that my friend's email stunned me. Her niece committed suicide on Wednesday night. The girl shot herself. Her father found her.
The time stamp on my friend's email was 2:34 a.m. She had wanted to come over for a shoulder of support. The problem is that she is also the primary caretaker of her elderly parents who suffer from dementia (her dad) and a gaging reflex that requires a feeding tube for nutrition (her dad) to pneumonia (her mom) because of a stroke (her mom). The last thing she needed was to take my flu germs back to her parents just when both of them were out of the hospital.
So she wrote a lengthy email containing her pain and anguish and despair. And I was at a loss for words.
Of the two teenage suicides from my circle of friends, they were both gunshots. There are some sights that can't be unseen. Death, especially a tragic, traumatic, bloody death, is one of them. One that no father should ever have to see.
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
6.1.12
14.12.11
(Excuse My French but) FML
Original plans for today: Go to court to contest a traffic ticket where the officer gave me a ticket for running a yellow light that changed as I was halfway under it.
Actual events for today: Alarm goes off. "What time is it?" "6:30." "Okay . . . crap! I was supposed to meet C at 7:00!"
Skip shower. Pull hair into a bun. Dress and run out of the house with Mr. Gaelic to drop him off at the subway. Tap the ears to make sure the earrings are there which reminds Mr. G to check for his phone, billfold, belt. "Forgot the belt! Let me out here and I'll take the bus."
Arrive at meeting place. No C. "Didn't she call last week to cancel? I can't remember. I think she did." Get back in car and drive home.
Log onto office computer from home and check email. Deirdre calls and needs me to bring her literature binder to school by 11:00. Find binder in her room and place it next to my purse. Okay, traffic court is at 9:30. "I should take it before court."
Look out window at Baby, next-door-neighbor's dog, and dog from around the corner playing in yard. Baby is a 140-pound, eight-year-old Great Pyrenees. Go to front door to say hello to neighbor from around the corner. "Baby is limping? Did you know she's limping?" "I just saw her and she was fine." Sure enough, Baby is barely able to walk.
Call the vet to get an appointment as soon as possible. "We have 10:30 and 11:15." "Uh, I have a 9:30 meeting and I'm not sure when I'll be out. Do you have anything later?" "1:00." "I'll take it."
The clock says 8:50. Not enough time to get to the high school and back to the courthouse by 9:30. But she needs the binder by 11:00. And, oh dear! Deirdre is driving the truck today. Baby can't ride in the car. There's not enough room for her. And the gas gauge says 11 miles to empty.
Drive to the courthouse and find two-hour on-street parking. Walk into anteroom and realize I'm the only Anglo there. How many other cases will be called before mine? How many will need interpreters? No time for this!
Find the cashier's window and pay the fine. There goes my clean driving record! And it was yellow when I when through it!
On way to car, see friend from church whom I haven't seen in months. Talk briefly. Once in car again realize Deirdre's binder is still on the kitchen counter. Lack of breakfast is catching up with me. Need coffee!
Call Mr. G for moral support. He offers to help me get Baby to the vet. Stop by house to shower, fix hair, change clothes, and retrieve binder. Drive to high school to leave binder. Gas gauge down to 3 miles to empty. Pull into gas station and, while filling up, watch verbal fight between female driver trying to pull to pump and male cabbie blocking the lane. Station manager intervenes. "Please don't let me get caught as an eye-witness to an assault." No time for that.
Swing by Mickey D's for drive-thru latte. The Starbucks across the parking lot requires getting out of car and standing in long line. No time for that. Mr. G calls to say he'll be at home subway station in 15 minutes. Stop by house to check office emails. Back in car to pick up Mr. G. On way to high school with Mr. G's truck keys, boss calls for explanation of what meetings were moved and canceled on today's calendar. He doesn't follow my explanation and hangs up. Mr. G repeats back to me what he heard and it's exactly right.
Deposit Mr. G next to truck. He offers to stop at Mickey D's for lunch. "May I have a sweet tea as well?" Back at house, type email to boss with minute detail of which meetings were moved and canceled. Mr. G arrives, takes his burger upstairs to eat as he changes clothes. Wolf down my burger standing over kitchen sink.
Together, lift Baby into back of truck. Mr. G helps me get her inside the vet's office then steps out for conference call on his cell. Vet tells me that she tore the left ACL. She tore the right ACL two years ago. As he tells me this, both of us sitting in the floor with Baby, he looks like he's about to cry. Reading his mind, ponder whether the high cost of the surgery offsets Baby's age for such a gentle giant of a dog. Immediately ask about surgery rather than any other option.
Mr. G helps me get Baby into truck again. At home, Baby refuses our help and attempts to jump out of back of truck. In jumping, she knocks the tailgate open against the side of my head. Fall into car parked behind us, then to curb. Mr. G doesn't know who to help first, Baby or me. Give Baby pain medicine. She whimpers as she sleeps. Want to cuddle her but she needs rest.
Decide to work from home rest of day as does Mr. G. At some point temperature drops. Mr. G builds fire. Heat up leftover spaghetti. Wonder if had lunch. Don't remember. Then see cup from Mickey D's.
Want to send text to Finola saying, "FML." Will recount story and she'll understand.
Actual events for today: Alarm goes off. "What time is it?" "6:30." "Okay . . . crap! I was supposed to meet C at 7:00!"
Skip shower. Pull hair into a bun. Dress and run out of the house with Mr. Gaelic to drop him off at the subway. Tap the ears to make sure the earrings are there which reminds Mr. G to check for his phone, billfold, belt. "Forgot the belt! Let me out here and I'll take the bus."
Arrive at meeting place. No C. "Didn't she call last week to cancel? I can't remember. I think she did." Get back in car and drive home.
Log onto office computer from home and check email. Deirdre calls and needs me to bring her literature binder to school by 11:00. Find binder in her room and place it next to my purse. Okay, traffic court is at 9:30. "I should take it before court."
Look out window at Baby, next-door-neighbor's dog, and dog from around the corner playing in yard. Baby is a 140-pound, eight-year-old Great Pyrenees. Go to front door to say hello to neighbor from around the corner. "Baby is limping? Did you know she's limping?" "I just saw her and she was fine." Sure enough, Baby is barely able to walk.
Call the vet to get an appointment as soon as possible. "We have 10:30 and 11:15." "Uh, I have a 9:30 meeting and I'm not sure when I'll be out. Do you have anything later?" "1:00." "I'll take it."
The clock says 8:50. Not enough time to get to the high school and back to the courthouse by 9:30. But she needs the binder by 11:00. And, oh dear! Deirdre is driving the truck today. Baby can't ride in the car. There's not enough room for her. And the gas gauge says 11 miles to empty.
Drive to the courthouse and find two-hour on-street parking. Walk into anteroom and realize I'm the only Anglo there. How many other cases will be called before mine? How many will need interpreters? No time for this!
Find the cashier's window and pay the fine. There goes my clean driving record! And it was yellow when I when through it!
On way to car, see friend from church whom I haven't seen in months. Talk briefly. Once in car again realize Deirdre's binder is still on the kitchen counter. Lack of breakfast is catching up with me. Need coffee!
Call Mr. G for moral support. He offers to help me get Baby to the vet. Stop by house to shower, fix hair, change clothes, and retrieve binder. Drive to high school to leave binder. Gas gauge down to 3 miles to empty. Pull into gas station and, while filling up, watch verbal fight between female driver trying to pull to pump and male cabbie blocking the lane. Station manager intervenes. "Please don't let me get caught as an eye-witness to an assault." No time for that.
Swing by Mickey D's for drive-thru latte. The Starbucks across the parking lot requires getting out of car and standing in long line. No time for that. Mr. G calls to say he'll be at home subway station in 15 minutes. Stop by house to check office emails. Back in car to pick up Mr. G. On way to high school with Mr. G's truck keys, boss calls for explanation of what meetings were moved and canceled on today's calendar. He doesn't follow my explanation and hangs up. Mr. G repeats back to me what he heard and it's exactly right.
Deposit Mr. G next to truck. He offers to stop at Mickey D's for lunch. "May I have a sweet tea as well?" Back at house, type email to boss with minute detail of which meetings were moved and canceled. Mr. G arrives, takes his burger upstairs to eat as he changes clothes. Wolf down my burger standing over kitchen sink.
Together, lift Baby into back of truck. Mr. G helps me get her inside the vet's office then steps out for conference call on his cell. Vet tells me that she tore the left ACL. She tore the right ACL two years ago. As he tells me this, both of us sitting in the floor with Baby, he looks like he's about to cry. Reading his mind, ponder whether the high cost of the surgery offsets Baby's age for such a gentle giant of a dog. Immediately ask about surgery rather than any other option.
Mr. G helps me get Baby into truck again. At home, Baby refuses our help and attempts to jump out of back of truck. In jumping, she knocks the tailgate open against the side of my head. Fall into car parked behind us, then to curb. Mr. G doesn't know who to help first, Baby or me. Give Baby pain medicine. She whimpers as she sleeps. Want to cuddle her but she needs rest.
Decide to work from home rest of day as does Mr. G. At some point temperature drops. Mr. G builds fire. Heat up leftover spaghetti. Wonder if had lunch. Don't remember. Then see cup from Mickey D's.
Want to send text to Finola saying, "FML." Will recount story and she'll understand.
2.10.11
You'll Never Work Alone
"I'm not joining today."
"But why, my child? I've prepared the feast just for you."
"I have anger issues that I haven't finished dealing with."
"I know. I know everything about you. You even admitted your anger a few minutes ago. But I forgive you. All I ask is that you forgive."
"But she hurt Deirdre with that letter she sent. She blamed Deirdre for her bad decisions and didn't accept any responsibility for her actions."
"I know. I know Deirdre's pain. You're like the lioness protecting her cubs. I chose a good mother for Deirdre. Perhaps it's yourself you need to forgive. Now come to my table."
"I thought that if I partake when you and I aren't in communion that the bread and wine can do more harm than good."
"That's an intriguing thought."
.
.
.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you supposed to tell me what to do?"
"You already know."
.
.
.
"I'll come to the table but not partake."
"Go on."
"Today."
"And?"
"I'll come to your feast next week."
"Is that all?"
"Who are you? The Wizard of Oz and I'm Dorothy? And 'if I ever go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!'"
"Hahaha. But you didn't finish."
"I know. My work as a mother isn't finished. It will continue. Your task for me is to raise Deirdre with an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works."
"Yes. I chose Deirdre's mother very well. See you next week?"
"See you next week."
.
.
.
"One other thing."
"Don't worry. I'll be beside you tomorrow too."
"Even if I don't remember to talk to you?"
"Even when you refuse to talk to me. You'll never work alone. Because I love you."
[Title taken from this.]
"But why, my child? I've prepared the feast just for you."
"I have anger issues that I haven't finished dealing with."
"I know. I know everything about you. You even admitted your anger a few minutes ago. But I forgive you. All I ask is that you forgive."
"But she hurt Deirdre with that letter she sent. She blamed Deirdre for her bad decisions and didn't accept any responsibility for her actions."
"I know. I know Deirdre's pain. You're like the lioness protecting her cubs. I chose a good mother for Deirdre. Perhaps it's yourself you need to forgive. Now come to my table."
"I thought that if I partake when you and I aren't in communion that the bread and wine can do more harm than good."
"That's an intriguing thought."
.
.
.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you supposed to tell me what to do?"
"You already know."
.
.
.
"I'll come to the table but not partake."
"Go on."
"Today."
"And?"
"I'll come to your feast next week."
"Is that all?"
"Who are you? The Wizard of Oz and I'm Dorothy? And 'if I ever go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!'"
"Hahaha. But you didn't finish."
"I know. My work as a mother isn't finished. It will continue. Your task for me is to raise Deirdre with an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works."
"Yes. I chose Deirdre's mother very well. See you next week?"
"See you next week."
.
.
.
"One other thing."
"Don't worry. I'll be beside you tomorrow too."
"Even if I don't remember to talk to you?"
"Even when you refuse to talk to me. You'll never work alone. Because I love you."
[Title taken from this.]
26.7.11
Do You Like Me? Do You Really Like Me?
In the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, there are hard challenges and easy challenges. Today's is easy:
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
Growing up in a very small town in the South, you went to school with the same people you went to church with, did Girl Scouts with, took ballet class with, sang in the church choir with, and on and on and on. So when one girl decided to turn all the other girls against me because she didn't like me, it made for a long eighteen years. Thank God for college! And that in my graduating class only five of us went away to a four-year college. And my bête noire went to the cross-state rival. Praise the Lord!
High school. Ugh! My cousin was the fun one. My bête noire was the head cheerleader. I was the smart one. Plus, at five-ten in stocking feet, I towered over all but two boys. I also weighed in at 110 pounds soaking wet. Long and lanky. Geeky is more like it. Thank goodness I never had braces or wore glasses!
How many times did a guy from my high school ask me for a date? Zero.
How many dances did I attend where a boy asked me to dance? Zip.
Going away to college where no one knew me changed all that. There was the sorority, the fraternity where I was a little sister, the college newspaper editor who wrote a front page story about me as a way to ask me out, the month I never made it home because I had an average of five dates (with different guys) in a weekend. Yes, average.
But deep down there is still that little girl from that little town who is terrified of being alone, of not being liked. And that, my friends, is my biggest insecurity.
[Title taken from this.]
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
Growing up in a very small town in the South, you went to school with the same people you went to church with, did Girl Scouts with, took ballet class with, sang in the church choir with, and on and on and on. So when one girl decided to turn all the other girls against me because she didn't like me, it made for a long eighteen years. Thank God for college! And that in my graduating class only five of us went away to a four-year college. And my bête noire went to the cross-state rival. Praise the Lord!
High school. Ugh! My cousin was the fun one. My bête noire was the head cheerleader. I was the smart one. Plus, at five-ten in stocking feet, I towered over all but two boys. I also weighed in at 110 pounds soaking wet. Long and lanky. Geeky is more like it. Thank goodness I never had braces or wore glasses!
How many times did a guy from my high school ask me for a date? Zero.
How many dances did I attend where a boy asked me to dance? Zip.
Going away to college where no one knew me changed all that. There was the sorority, the fraternity where I was a little sister, the college newspaper editor who wrote a front page story about me as a way to ask me out, the month I never made it home because I had an average of five dates (with different guys) in a weekend. Yes, average.
But deep down there is still that little girl from that little town who is terrified of being alone, of not being liked. And that, my friends, is my biggest insecurity.
[Title taken from this.]
23.7.11
Long Time Coming
Lazy usually doesn't describe me. Laziness didn't keep me from continuing my daily installments of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Terror did.
Before the explanation of how terror paralyzed my blog posts, here are the past and future (daily) challenges.
The past:
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
Today:
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
The future:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
The timing of Day Fifteen's request was poignant in that I'm still not completely cleared of suspicious cancer cells. Skin cancer. So "what do I want to do before I die?" has become a very real question.
Bucket Lists are fun to think about. But when the shit hits the fan, they're not all that realistic. Seriously? Sailing around the world? If it's really that important, make it happen now. When it can be enjoyed. Even when I posed the Bucket List question on Facebook with a caveat of only one thing, people's suggestions were too broad or grand for the immediate.
My "List" has been revamped. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say that if I were ever diagnosed with some terminal disease, I would climb Mount Everest. Because if I'm going to die, at least do something fun. But no more. I'm a wimp. I'm not an Alpinist; I have only recently rejoined the world of exercisers; and to top it off, I'd have some disease that could be a lethal burden to my fellow climbers. No, I would want to surround myself with all the love and comfort I could for as long as I could.
My "List" is quite simple. To be with the people I love in a place I love. My family, at home. No grand adventures, no thrill seeking, no fastest or highest anything. Just Mr. Gaelic, Finola, Deirdre, Maeve, Baby, Thing 1 and Thing 2.
And no regret that I never summitted Mount Everest.
[Title taken from this.]
Before the explanation of how terror paralyzed my blog posts, here are the past and future (daily) challenges.
The past:
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
Today:
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
The future:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
The timing of Day Fifteen's request was poignant in that I'm still not completely cleared of suspicious cancer cells. Skin cancer. So "what do I want to do before I die?" has become a very real question.
Bucket Lists are fun to think about. But when the shit hits the fan, they're not all that realistic. Seriously? Sailing around the world? If it's really that important, make it happen now. When it can be enjoyed. Even when I posed the Bucket List question on Facebook with a caveat of only one thing, people's suggestions were too broad or grand for the immediate.
My "List" has been revamped. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say that if I were ever diagnosed with some terminal disease, I would climb Mount Everest. Because if I'm going to die, at least do something fun. But no more. I'm a wimp. I'm not an Alpinist; I have only recently rejoined the world of exercisers; and to top it off, I'd have some disease that could be a lethal burden to my fellow climbers. No, I would want to surround myself with all the love and comfort I could for as long as I could.
My "List" is quite simple. To be with the people I love in a place I love. My family, at home. No grand adventures, no thrill seeking, no fastest or highest anything. Just Mr. Gaelic, Finola, Deirdre, Maeve, Baby, Thing 1 and Thing 2.
And no regret that I never summitted Mount Everest.
[Title taken from this.]
15.6.11
Little Girls
Getting down to business, in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, here are the last three.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Yes
11.A picture of something you hate - Yep
12.A picture of something you love - Now
Another short one tonight. Mostly because of the highly stressed week in the office. And it's only Thursday. Something I love? Finola, Deirdre, and Maeve!
[Title taken from this.]
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Yes
11.A picture of something you hate - Yep
12.A picture of something you love - Now
Another short one tonight. Mostly because of the highly stressed week in the office. And it's only Thursday. Something I love? Finola, Deirdre, and Maeve!
[Title taken from this.]
11.6.11
How I Do Love Thee!
Rule #1: Never blog under the influence. I only drink on special occasions. Last night with the gals from the office was a special occasion. But the beer tainted my words. Perhaps what was said should have remained unsaid. Before moving on here are the last three topics in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.
This one is E-Z. This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor. The one who wiped my tears when she died. Who wrote her obituary. The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness. (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.) The person who sat with me as I watched my father die. Who wrote his obituary. The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.
Mr. Gaelic, of course.
Title taken from this.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.
This one is E-Z. This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor. The one who wiped my tears when she died. Who wrote her obituary. The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness. (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.) The person who sat with me as I watched my father die. Who wrote his obituary. The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.
Mr. Gaelic, of course.
Title taken from this.
8.6.11
The Circle of Life
Three guesses what the most treasured item is for a genealogist and family historian. Go ahead. Before you read any further. Make your guesses. The most treasured item is today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. As usual, here are the last three.
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Done.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Check.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Here!
It took me a while to figure this one out. Family heirlooms crossed my mind. Photos from the present to almost the earliest photographs. It was hard to narrow the list to one until I asked myself what one item I would save if the house was on fire.
So what are your guesses? An old portrait of a Civil War soldier in his dress greys? My grandfather's dog tags from World War I? A pocket watch? How about a Bible?
The answer is my great-grandparents' Bible. There are six generations recorded on the pages between the Old and New Testaments. Being my great-grandparents' Bible, they listed themselves on the main lines and both of their parents under, well, Bride's and Groom's Parents. As the children came along, they filled in the names and birth dates. And in some cases, death dates. They listed marriages and the in-laws' names.
After my great-grandparents' death's, the Bible became my grandfather's. He recorded the birth of his daughter and passed it along to her. My mother recorded my sister's and my births. She recorded our marriages and the in-laws' names. And she passed it along to me. Mostly because my sister had no children. I recorded the births of my children and am awaiting the times I will write the marriage dates and their husbands' names. Sadly, the job of noting my parents' deaths fell to me as well.
But that's what life is. It's cyclical. We are born, give birth, and die. And new generations replace us. I am a generation to be noted, just like my parents, and my grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. I have given life to the next generation who will bring forth the next.
Just one big circle of life.
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Done.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Check.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Here!
It took me a while to figure this one out. Family heirlooms crossed my mind. Photos from the present to almost the earliest photographs. It was hard to narrow the list to one until I asked myself what one item I would save if the house was on fire.
So what are your guesses? An old portrait of a Civil War soldier in his dress greys? My grandfather's dog tags from World War I? A pocket watch? How about a Bible?
The answer is my great-grandparents' Bible. There are six generations recorded on the pages between the Old and New Testaments. Being my great-grandparents' Bible, they listed themselves on the main lines and both of their parents under, well, Bride's and Groom's Parents. As the children came along, they filled in the names and birth dates. And in some cases, death dates. They listed marriages and the in-laws' names.
After my great-grandparents' death's, the Bible became my grandfather's. He recorded the birth of his daughter and passed it along to her. My mother recorded my sister's and my births. She recorded our marriages and the in-laws' names. And she passed it along to me. Mostly because my sister had no children. I recorded the births of my children and am awaiting the times I will write the marriage dates and their husbands' names. Sadly, the job of noting my parents' deaths fell to me as well.
But that's what life is. It's cyclical. We are born, give birth, and die. And new generations replace us. I am a generation to be noted, just like my parents, and my grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. I have given life to the next generation who will bring forth the next.
Just one big circle of life.
7.6.11
Aren't They Lovely?
What would you need to know about someone to switch places with them for a day? The great thing about the loss of privacy in the past 40 years is so much is known about so many people that there is not a single person I would want to switch places with today. In all of history is a different matter entirely.
The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today. In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it
It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge. There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day. The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.
The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd. She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699. To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring! How exciting that would be! Yes, it's official. I am weird. I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night. Why her and not any of my other ancestors? With her, things are tangible. I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary. For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.
The other person from history to switch places with? Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness. Her name is unknown to me. As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children. All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church. From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children. But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside. For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside. The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.
[Title taken from this.]
The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today. In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it
It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge. There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day. The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.
The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd. She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699. To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring! How exciting that would be! Yes, it's official. I am weird. I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night. Why her and not any of my other ancestors? With her, things are tangible. I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary. For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.
The other person from history to switch places with? Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness. Her name is unknown to me. As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children. All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church. From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children. But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside. For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside. The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.
[Title taken from this.]
6.6.11
Somebody's on the Beach*
When the house is full of noise, and the kids are asking "Why" and "What" and "Who", and the dishes need washing, escaping to a favorite memory would be like a trip to a tropical island paradise. Favorite memory is today's challenge in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. In an effort to keep you up to date, here are the last three challenges.
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show - Check
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Today
So come escape with me. Imagine being on the island of Puerto Rico. The turquoise Caribbean Sea rolling onto the white sand. The warm sun (even in November) caressing your skin. The shadows of the palm leaves dancing across the pages of your book as the breeze gently moves them. And huge iguanas scurrying underneath your hammock. Nobody on the beach but me.
It was my first sabbatical after becoming a full-time mother. Time away just for me. Alone. No kids, no husband, no dishes to wash, clothes to iron, carpool to drive. Just me and my book and the beach.
Typing this tonight, Finola was reading over my shoulder about today's topic.
"Mom, do any of your favorite memories involve us?" she looked up at me from the floor where she lay petting Thing 1.
My mind raced through all three of their births and how happy I was. I paused and heard the other two and Mr. Gaelic arguing about who ate the ice cream. The brand new container that was full last night but was now half eaten. Out of the container itself!
I looked lovingly into Finola's eyes and assured her, "Not right now."
She rolled her eyes at me.
*Title taken from this.
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show - Check
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Today
So come escape with me. Imagine being on the island of Puerto Rico. The turquoise Caribbean Sea rolling onto the white sand. The warm sun (even in November) caressing your skin. The shadows of the palm leaves dancing across the pages of your book as the breeze gently moves them. And huge iguanas scurrying underneath your hammock. Nobody on the beach but me.
It was my first sabbatical after becoming a full-time mother. Time away just for me. Alone. No kids, no husband, no dishes to wash, clothes to iron, carpool to drive. Just me and my book and the beach.
Typing this tonight, Finola was reading over my shoulder about today's topic.
"Mom, do any of your favorite memories involve us?" she looked up at me from the floor where she lay petting Thing 1.
My mind raced through all three of their births and how happy I was. I paused and heard the other two and Mr. Gaelic arguing about who ate the ice cream. The brand new container that was full last night but was now half eaten. Out of the container itself!
I looked lovingly into Finola's eyes and assured her, "Not right now."
She rolled her eyes at me.
*Title taken from this.
18.5.11
Go to Sleep You Little Baby*
I know a couple whose first, and so far only, child is nine months old. There were crying jags when he wouldn't sleep for the world. My heart went out to them but my mind quickly remembered my own sleepless nights with crying babies. Been there, done that, no thank you.
There were countless readings of "Goodnight Moon", "The Velveteen Rabbit", "The Giving Tree", "Where the Wild Things Are". And the singing! Oy, vey! The singing! My repertoire consisted of "Hush, Little Baby", "Amazing Grace", "Down in the River", and any other gospel that my brain could remember at least a couple of lines.
And how many times would I start out of the door but the baby would realize I was leaving and start crying again? They all have a knack for knowing when a parent is suffering from sleep deprivation and, in the back of their evil little minds, want to drive us over the sanity cliff.
So it was with much laughter that I stumbled upon a soon-to-be released children's book. "Go the F**k to Sleep". Those exact words crossed my mind more than once. And anybody who claims that they love their baby every minute of every hour of every day and would never, never, never think something like that? Well, as the author says in an interview I heard on the radio recently, "they're just full of sh*t."
*Title inspired by this.
There were countless readings of "Goodnight Moon", "The Velveteen Rabbit", "The Giving Tree", "Where the Wild Things Are". And the singing! Oy, vey! The singing! My repertoire consisted of "Hush, Little Baby", "Amazing Grace", "Down in the River", and any other gospel that my brain could remember at least a couple of lines.
And how many times would I start out of the door but the baby would realize I was leaving and start crying again? They all have a knack for knowing when a parent is suffering from sleep deprivation and, in the back of their evil little minds, want to drive us over the sanity cliff.
So it was with much laughter that I stumbled upon a soon-to-be released children's book. "Go the F**k to Sleep". Those exact words crossed my mind more than once. And anybody who claims that they love their baby every minute of every hour of every day and would never, never, never think something like that? Well, as the author says in an interview I heard on the radio recently, "they're just full of sh*t."
*Title inspired by this.
8.5.11
Mama Loves Days Like This*
My girl card is about to be taken away. To me, a date on the calendar to celebrate love (February 14) or mothers (the second Sunday in May) or birthdays (for me, August 6) is not necessarily an excuse to shower me with presents. My family knows me so well.
Since today is Mother's Day, as with most holidays, we have a family traditional breakfast. Mr. Gaelic and the girls prepare eggs Benedict, hash browns, fruit salad, LeConte sunrise, and coffee. No gifts, no cards, only verbal wishes for a Happy Mother's Day. Except this year Deirdre, who has trouble saying things to me sometimes, gave me a card that expressed her appreciation for all I have done for her.
The rest of the day was picture perfect. An hour or so of working in my vegetable garden was followed by an extended manicure. Coffee, naptime, and a trip to the dog park with Baby, all with Mr. G, felt luxurious on a lovely spring day. When I retired to my boudoir with my laptop for some alone time, what was delivered to my room outdid everything else.
About to text message Mr. G to see what he was up to, his footsteps were heard on the stairs. Looking up as he opened the door, I noticed that he didn't have a load of laundry under his arm or a look of consternation on his brow from dealing with the kids alone. Instead he carried an antique martini glass by the stem. One bleu cheese-stuffed olive sat at the bottom of the clear liquid. His gift of making me a dirty martini was almost too much. My face lit up into the biggest smile possible and my profuse thanks delighted him.
A perfect way to end a perfect day.
*Mama said click here.
Since today is Mother's Day, as with most holidays, we have a family traditional breakfast. Mr. Gaelic and the girls prepare eggs Benedict, hash browns, fruit salad, LeConte sunrise, and coffee. No gifts, no cards, only verbal wishes for a Happy Mother's Day. Except this year Deirdre, who has trouble saying things to me sometimes, gave me a card that expressed her appreciation for all I have done for her.
The rest of the day was picture perfect. An hour or so of working in my vegetable garden was followed by an extended manicure. Coffee, naptime, and a trip to the dog park with Baby, all with Mr. G, felt luxurious on a lovely spring day. When I retired to my boudoir with my laptop for some alone time, what was delivered to my room outdid everything else.
About to text message Mr. G to see what he was up to, his footsteps were heard on the stairs. Looking up as he opened the door, I noticed that he didn't have a load of laundry under his arm or a look of consternation on his brow from dealing with the kids alone. Instead he carried an antique martini glass by the stem. One bleu cheese-stuffed olive sat at the bottom of the clear liquid. His gift of making me a dirty martini was almost too much. My face lit up into the biggest smile possible and my profuse thanks delighted him.
A perfect way to end a perfect day.
*Mama said click here.
3.4.11
The Touch, The Feel of Gaelic
There are five senses. Yet there are only four here so far in my non-Bucket List list. There have been sight, sound, smell, and taste. Have you ever realised that most of your senses are located in the head region? The only one that covers more than just the head region is touch.
What is on my want-to-feel-before-I-die list? This:
Perhaps Number 11 on the list should be "a day without pain in the finger." But whining doesn't feel so good either. So we'll stop at Ten.
What is on my want-to-feel-before-I-die list? This:
- The Dead Sea keeping me afloat
- My grandbaby's soft skin
- The wind from a tornado as I chase the storm (with a professional, of course)
- Spray from the ocean on my face while sailing in the Greek Isles
- The silkiness of my daughters' wedding dresses
- Sheets made of silk
- Weightlessness
- Cool dirt while digging for truffles
- Spongy trails as the elevation increases on Denali
- My wedding rings on my left ring finger (they were cut off when I shattered the bone in my finger and won't be repaired until there is no more swelling in my finger)
Perhaps Number 11 on the list should be "a day without pain in the finger." But whining doesn't feel so good either. So we'll stop at Ten.
25.2.11
Getting Something Off My Chest
My promise to Tim rings hollow today - this blog isn't a follow-up to his nominating me for the Stylish Blog Award as it was supposed to be. No pie-crust promise this time, Tim! The next blog *will* be in response to the Stylish Blog Award.
Today, there's just something I have to get off my chest. Uh-um... Out of my chest? Oh, bad pun (you'll understand after reading the entire blog). Someone please, for god's sake, get the image out of my head!
The Gaelic family is adventurous when it comes to food. Deirdre adores Brussels sprouts. Finola has eaten venison, buffalo, and elk. I tried rattlesnake once, frog legs a couple of times, and alligator on several occasions. Yes, even Rocky Mountain Oysters. There is a beef liver, tongue and heart in my freezer waiting to be cooked up in a hearty dish. But there are limits.
Raw oysters never cross my lips anymore following an experience with a bad one many years ago. Mr. G and I had some bad sea urchin once, never again. And that Japanese fish that's poisonous? No thank you.
Now comes news of things that really turn the stomach. Especially two pieces of news this past week.
In a small town in New Zealand is an annual food festival that in past years has served up such "delicacies" as wasp larvae ice cream and deep-fried huhu grubs. This year the craze will be shots of strawberry-, chocolate-, or vanilla-flavored horse semen. Yes, you read that correctly. Horse baby gravy. Claims are that it tastes like a milkshake.
On the other end of the spectrum (in every literal sense) is news from England of a new ice cream flavor - Baby Gaga. Made with Madagascan vanilla pods and lemon zest, it's said to be very rich and creamy. Rich and creamy? You be the judge of that. It's made with free-range human breast milk! But this free-range human won't be volunteering to help produce or consume it. And I have better ideas for Madagascan vanilla pods.
There are just some things I draw the line at. Horse semen shots and breast-milk ice cream are two of them.
Today, there's just something I have to get off my chest. Uh-um... Out of my chest? Oh, bad pun (you'll understand after reading the entire blog). Someone please, for god's sake, get the image out of my head!
The Gaelic family is adventurous when it comes to food. Deirdre adores Brussels sprouts. Finola has eaten venison, buffalo, and elk. I tried rattlesnake once, frog legs a couple of times, and alligator on several occasions. Yes, even Rocky Mountain Oysters. There is a beef liver, tongue and heart in my freezer waiting to be cooked up in a hearty dish. But there are limits.
Raw oysters never cross my lips anymore following an experience with a bad one many years ago. Mr. G and I had some bad sea urchin once, never again. And that Japanese fish that's poisonous? No thank you.
Now comes news of things that really turn the stomach. Especially two pieces of news this past week.
In a small town in New Zealand is an annual food festival that in past years has served up such "delicacies" as wasp larvae ice cream and deep-fried huhu grubs. This year the craze will be shots of strawberry-, chocolate-, or vanilla-flavored horse semen. Yes, you read that correctly. Horse baby gravy. Claims are that it tastes like a milkshake.
On the other end of the spectrum (in every literal sense) is news from England of a new ice cream flavor - Baby Gaga. Made with Madagascan vanilla pods and lemon zest, it's said to be very rich and creamy. Rich and creamy? You be the judge of that. It's made with free-range human breast milk! But this free-range human won't be volunteering to help produce or consume it. And I have better ideas for Madagascan vanilla pods.
There are just some things I draw the line at. Horse semen shots and breast-milk ice cream are two of them.
21.2.11
Smells and Bells
Third in my series of lists of the senses is smell. Mostly in memory of that sense which our family lost last week when we all developed head colds of varying degrees. (Cue the Dies Irae.) My first list was sight; the second list, sound.
Without further ado, I give you scents I want to experience before I die:
Without further ado, I give you scents I want to experience before I die:
- That baby-smell on the top of a grandbaby's head
- Sweet-shrub wafting through my open bedroom window on a warm spring morning
- White Shoulders as I nuzzle in for a hug (my grandmother's signature)
- Chanel No. 5 as I nuzzle in for a hug (my mother's signature)
- Mrouzia in Marrakesh
- Rogan josh outside Lakshmana temple in Khajuraho
- Spruce and firs giving way to glaciers in Denali
- Varnish remover while refinishing an antique [fill in the blank] by myself
- Lavender fields in Provence
- Body oil with patchouli being massaged onto me while at a beach-front spa in the Caribbean
16.2.11
When a Friend has Cancer, May I Complain About Having a Cold?
Everyone always says that they need a vacation from their vacation. Well, I need a sick day from my sick day.
There's a cold going around work and it finally landed on my desk. After a noontime meeting and eating at my desk, the last thing I needed was four more hours of work. Especially since I had been in the office for six hours. Mr. Gaelic (we carpool) drove me home and wrapped me in a blanket. I had some fun websites to visit (thanks to a chat session with Laoch), hot apple cider to soothe my throat, and three layers of fleece to help settle me in for a nap. I slept for all of 30 minutes.
Not that my body didn't need the sleep and could have used more, but that our neighbor from across the street called asking if his two girls could come to our house after school. The wife was recently diagnosed with lung cancer which has already spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder. The husband had to take the wife to the hospital because her pain medicine isn't blocking the pain. Even sick with a head cold, you don't turn away the kids of a woman with cancer.
Fine and good. They stayed in the family room with Maeve playing Wii until supper. But I still heard them. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt! Having a five-year-old saying, "I want..." and "Why...?" does not make for a restful afternoon. Maybe it was easier when they were my own kids. Maybe I'm becoming a codgerly old woman. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm plain sick and tired.
There's a cold going around work and it finally landed on my desk. After a noontime meeting and eating at my desk, the last thing I needed was four more hours of work. Especially since I had been in the office for six hours. Mr. Gaelic (we carpool) drove me home and wrapped me in a blanket. I had some fun websites to visit (thanks to a chat session with Laoch), hot apple cider to soothe my throat, and three layers of fleece to help settle me in for a nap. I slept for all of 30 minutes.
Not that my body didn't need the sleep and could have used more, but that our neighbor from across the street called asking if his two girls could come to our house after school. The wife was recently diagnosed with lung cancer which has already spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder. The husband had to take the wife to the hospital because her pain medicine isn't blocking the pain. Even sick with a head cold, you don't turn away the kids of a woman with cancer.
Fine and good. They stayed in the family room with Maeve playing Wii until supper. But I still heard them. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt! Having a five-year-old saying, "I want..." and "Why...?" does not make for a restful afternoon. Maybe it was easier when they were my own kids. Maybe I'm becoming a codgerly old woman. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm plain sick and tired.
12.2.11
Can You Hear Me Now?
Second in the non-bucket-list list of things to experience before I die is sound. Last time we explored things I want to see before I die. This go-round it's sounds. For your listening pleasure, I give you my Top Ten (to be experienced in person, of course).
- Mendelssohn's Bridal Chorus at my three daughters' weddings
- My grandbaby's giggle
- An iceberg calving
- Gurgling lava and its hiss upon running into the sea
- Adhan in Istanbul
- Oseh Shalom in Lodz, Poland
- The wind while standing at 29,029 feet above sea level
- A wolf's howl while tent camping along Slough Creek in Yellowstone
- Dinka hymns in Juba, Southern Sudan
- My husband's Russian outside the Church of Spilt Blood in St. Petersburg
7.2.11
Oh Say Can I See
This isn’t a “bucket list”. It’s just a list. Maybe this will be the first in a series of lists.
Things I want to see before I die:
Things I want to see before I die:
- The Nazca Lines
- The Roman Catacombs
- The aurora borealis
- Penguins in their natural habitat
- Polar bears in their natural habitat
- Victoria Falls
- The Road of Bones from the back of a motorcycle
- A grandbaby’s eyes
- The world from the highest point in Africa
- The winter solstice sunrise from inside Newgrange
16.1.11
Bring It On
What I'm about to say will piss off any number of people. But this is my rant. If you don't like it, too bad. 'Cause it's the way I feel.
I am no longer a full-time mother. And I hate hate hate that. My new job demands over 50 hours a week. Including the 2 1/2 that I put in today. Today! A Sunday! The Sabbath! So much for keeping all Ten of the Commandments.
My paid job is a full-time office position. The entire family eats breakfast together before Mr. Gaelic and I carpool to our respective offices and Deirdre drives Maeve and herself to school. We eat supper together every possible night. Mostly five of seven, since Deirdre and Maeve both babysit and Deirdre has a boyfriend.
But there is no way that I can in good conscience call myself a full-time mother. Other women, upon hearing me call myself that in the past, would say that they work as a whatever at such-and-such a place. Then they'd tack on that they were full-time mothers as well. Hell no you're not!
Can you be a full-time surgeon and a full-time high school principal at the same time? No. Then what makes you think you can be a full-time whatever and a full-time mother at the same time? You can't. Because you're not there for your kids full time. When they need you. When they come home from school upset and claim that nothing is bothering them, until three hours later when they've finally decided to tell you what's wrong.
I miss my kids terribly. I was an awesome full-time mother. It was my calling in life. We chose for me to stay home with them and our finances suffered for the first few years after the transition. Only in the last three years had we fully recovered financially from going down to one bread-winning salary.
Mr. Gaelic has heard this rant before. He understands that he's not a full-time father. He understands that no parent who works at any job other than parenting can claim to be a full-time parent. That goes for parents who work from home, too. How does Junior feel when you say to him, "Mommy can't play with you right now because I've got to take this call and finish this report"?
I was fortunate to be able to be a full-time mother for 14 years. I experienced my youngest's infancy and my eldest's graduation. I also realize that taking a paying job is something I do for my children. I am providing Finola with the opportunity to attend the best possible college for her. I will continue in the paid workforce if Deirdre and Maeve want to attend prestigious private universities as well. What I do I do for them.
I just wish there were some way to provide the best for them while providing the best for me and Mr. Gaelic. We miss our former lifestyle of a home-cooked supper on the table at 6:30 every night, no lines at the grocery store or dry cleaner, and being able to do absolutely nothing on Saturdays and Sundays.
I want to be a full-time mom again.
I am no longer a full-time mother. And I hate hate hate that. My new job demands over 50 hours a week. Including the 2 1/2 that I put in today. Today! A Sunday! The Sabbath! So much for keeping all Ten of the Commandments.
My paid job is a full-time office position. The entire family eats breakfast together before Mr. Gaelic and I carpool to our respective offices and Deirdre drives Maeve and herself to school. We eat supper together every possible night. Mostly five of seven, since Deirdre and Maeve both babysit and Deirdre has a boyfriend.
But there is no way that I can in good conscience call myself a full-time mother. Other women, upon hearing me call myself that in the past, would say that they work as a whatever at such-and-such a place. Then they'd tack on that they were full-time mothers as well. Hell no you're not!
Can you be a full-time surgeon and a full-time high school principal at the same time? No. Then what makes you think you can be a full-time whatever and a full-time mother at the same time? You can't. Because you're not there for your kids full time. When they need you. When they come home from school upset and claim that nothing is bothering them, until three hours later when they've finally decided to tell you what's wrong.
I miss my kids terribly. I was an awesome full-time mother. It was my calling in life. We chose for me to stay home with them and our finances suffered for the first few years after the transition. Only in the last three years had we fully recovered financially from going down to one bread-winning salary.
Mr. Gaelic has heard this rant before. He understands that he's not a full-time father. He understands that no parent who works at any job other than parenting can claim to be a full-time parent. That goes for parents who work from home, too. How does Junior feel when you say to him, "Mommy can't play with you right now because I've got to take this call and finish this report"?
I was fortunate to be able to be a full-time mother for 14 years. I experienced my youngest's infancy and my eldest's graduation. I also realize that taking a paying job is something I do for my children. I am providing Finola with the opportunity to attend the best possible college for her. I will continue in the paid workforce if Deirdre and Maeve want to attend prestigious private universities as well. What I do I do for them.
I just wish there were some way to provide the best for them while providing the best for me and Mr. Gaelic. We miss our former lifestyle of a home-cooked supper on the table at 6:30 every night, no lines at the grocery store or dry cleaner, and being able to do absolutely nothing on Saturdays and Sundays.
I want to be a full-time mom again.
14.1.11
Here We Go Again
Parents die before their kids. That's the way it should be. It's not always that way.
Christina-Taylor Green was too young to die. Her parents should never have gone through what they've been through. The only good thing that came out of her death was that her donated organs have already saved one child's life somewhere on the east coast.
Last summer, a friend was diagnosed with stomach cancer. With a wife who couldn't take unpaid leave from work, I sat with him, tried to get him to walk, and helped with his meds and his feeding tube. At his funeral, his eldery mother was completely distraught.
Now death is lingering around our neighborhood again. Just yesterday came an email from a husband telling me to tell the other neighbors about the wife's diagnosis. A non-smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer which has spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder blade. Her children are 7 and 3. Her parents still live in Massachusetts.
There should be a law that no parent should bury a child. It's far too inhumane. You can see it on the faces of John Green, my friend's mother, and any other parent who has survived a child.
Christina-Taylor Green was too young to die. Her parents should never have gone through what they've been through. The only good thing that came out of her death was that her donated organs have already saved one child's life somewhere on the east coast.
Last summer, a friend was diagnosed with stomach cancer. With a wife who couldn't take unpaid leave from work, I sat with him, tried to get him to walk, and helped with his meds and his feeding tube. At his funeral, his eldery mother was completely distraught.
Now death is lingering around our neighborhood again. Just yesterday came an email from a husband telling me to tell the other neighbors about the wife's diagnosis. A non-smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer which has spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder blade. Her children are 7 and 3. Her parents still live in Massachusetts.
There should be a law that no parent should bury a child. It's far too inhumane. You can see it on the faces of John Green, my friend's mother, and any other parent who has survived a child.
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