Sometimes, It's Personal

I have no doubt that yesterday's post made some readers uncomfortable. In fact, I am sure within the nearly 80 readers yesterday, someone thought to themselves, "Why would she expose herself to the world like that?" Or, "Why would she want people to know so much about her personally?" Better yet, "It has been two years, shouldn't she be over this now?" "How long is she going to go on about this?"

The fact is, many of us have had similar experiences with death - sudden, sharp, deeply painful and life altering. You can read through my blog in January and February about the painful grief that I was revisiting, two years after the fact. It was a complete shock to me that the tears, crying, loss, loneliness and sense of abandonment rivaled that of the first month after her passing. I believe that other circumstances in my life brought this unfinished business of grieving to the surface at this time. A catalyst, if you will, to force me to toil through it. Grief is a never ending, in my experience. Maybe it goes away for periods of time, but it will always rotate back into play.

It doesn't take much to bring back just how big of a loss it is to my life. A friend was with her sister at a women's retreat and their interaction was bittersweet to me. I have needed a permanent helper with my scout group and realized this week, that she would have been my co-leader. My (step)brother is getting married in May and my (step)sister is getting married in June - celebrations at which she should have been in attendance.

Yet, at times I don't feel like I can share that with anyone. Why? Well, society says suck it up and deal. Life moves on even though we may not be ready to move with it. Even our employers think we should be fully functional after 2 or 3 days. Every one has their own stories, their own grief, their own lives...who has time to sit and listen to my sad song just one more time. Mine is but one of millions. Mine is not that special.

This is also not a call to the pity party, though Lord knows I can throw the best of them, complete with hats, streamers and a big ol' cake I devour on my own. And you can waller along not living life only so long. It will creep up on you and then you will be forced to deal with more than just your grief. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.

However, in my quest for transparency and authenticity, I find that the more I let it all hangout there, the good, the bad, the hilarious and the sad, the more connections and support I receive. People have a chance to know the real me and I am not afraid of that anymore. This means exposing my heart to those that know me intimately as well as complete strangers. People need and desire to know that others have had similar experiences, similar pains, even similar joys. It makes us all feel more normal. It gives us validation. It makes us feel that what we have endured has not been for naught.

It also helps to see how others cope. We must keep the mindset that we have all been created by a Creator with our own set of gifts, skill sets, and experiences. But in celebrating these differences, we can find strength in how God has woven Himself into these events to bring a greater good. We can find strength in knowing there is a bigger picture which we can not see. We can find strength in knowing that a finality of dirt and worms just isn't all there is.

A post like Remember the End, selfishly serves as therapy for me. The million-pound burden on my shoulders was lifted when I wrote it. The story was finally out, no longer at the surface in a constant state of bubbling. Stories like these bring people together, to laugh, to cry, to work through their own life's stories. And, maybe they draw strength to face their own giants.

So, yeah, it might have been a little too close for comfort, full with emotion and transparency. Highs, lows and in between...sometimes, it just needs to be personal.

Rembering the End, Draft 3

Here is why you should care about breast cancer. Here is why you should never tire of hearing "just another" story about its victims. Here is why there is fear in my heart with every mammogram and MRI I have. Today holds such appointments. I will think of her, my sister and best friend, the entire time. This is the story of the her death on this earth, draft 3.

The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?

I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.

It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.

I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.

I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.

I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.

Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.

Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.

I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...

The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.

Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.

The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.

Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.

Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.

I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.

Never smooth
The divots and bumps without pattern
Shapes too small for her
Little pinches begin
Irrational snips

Eyes blinded by the bright sun
Her hand raises to the sky
It can't block the rays
They penetrate deeply

Stumbling, the barbed wire tears
Softness removed
A little less of her now
Bit by bit, taken away

Easily moldable
Now able to fit the form that was
never meant for her.

The Art of Hobbies

I have been on a bit of a roll lately in the kitchen. For the last month or two, I have not duplicated a recipe in my dinner preparation. Now, for those that don't don the apron often, this isn't too difficult to achieve. But for our family who eats dinner at least 6 nights out of the week at home, it is something of a milestone.

I have always enjoyed cooking. As I continue to dabble in the kitchen, it becomes easier and easier. I don't use the measuring cups and spoons quite like I used to as I have developed some eyeball accuracy in this department. I am also learning how to experiment and substitute missing ingredients. This is not to brag upon my abilities, because they are not innate, I can assure you. It is only through years of following recipes to the letter that I have gotten to this point.

I owe a lot of this developed hobby to my husband. He hails from the Netherlands where the standard meals are as bland as eating a piece of paper. Have you ever been to a Dutch restaurant outside of that country? Didn't think so. The only exception to this plain palate would be the Indonesian restaurants, a by-product of Dutch-colonial rule. After much exposure to this type of food while growing up, my husband turned his tongue away from Dutch and Western food in general. In fact, he declared that he could cut the world in half at the equator and never eat anything from the Northern Hemisphere again. You can imagine cooking for him has been quite interesting.

After attempting and slightly mastering several Asian dishes, I decided it was time to throw myself into it full-force. I purchased this cookbook yesterday - all 720 pages of it. Jay saw it on the dresser and was giddy with anticipation. I can't really imagine making my own sushi, some 50 pages dedicated to its category in the book. And, we will definitely forgo recipes with seafood and bean curd (ick). Despite those eliminations, there is still plenty from which to choose.

Hobbies are like for me. Periods of complete obsession, consuming my thoughts. I can chalk scrapbooking up as one and of course, the cup du jour, writing. I discovered why I tend to do this in this post. I am a scanner. Like most, I have a list of other hobbies I want to tackle. Each, I am sure, will be the subject of intense focus at some point.

What has your attention these days? If you don't have something you are dabbling in, what is on the list, you know, what have you always wanted to try? Why are you waiting? Let me know.

Funny Friday

Is there anything cuter than a little girl and her sleeping puppy?



Until you see this...




Life is short. Pick your choices carefully.

It's a Heart Matter

The biggest challenge for me, as a parent, is to teach my children that it is simply not enough to respond to my commands in a robotic fashion. You know, "do it, because I said so." Additionally, I don't want them to perform because "God says to do it," either. Rather, I want them to develop a heart, a desire, for choosing to do the right thing.

I grew up in a house where I was to be the "seen, not heard" child. Good behavior was not optional. A response of any sort to a verbal command was dealt with severely. Performance was the only road to success. I can remember extreme frustration with never being able to voice an opinion, come to a compromise, or freely talk about my feelings. This is not a slap in the face of my parents, as the above things have situational merit. Additionally, they did a whole heap of things right that I have passed onto my own. With the exception of a rebellious college and young adult life, their parenting produced a relatively decent outcome.

No child struggles with this matter of the heart more than my dear Sadie. She is the pot stirrer, the envelope pusher, the strong-willed, yet, she is my creative genius, my leader and my most responsible. The dichotomy of her personality never fails to puzzle me.

Therefore, with her spirited personality, it was clear from the beginning that using the iron-fist to force her into obedience just wasn't going to work. Instead, I wanted to teach her how to use her words, calmly, maturely into telling me how she was feeling. I had hoped that given this opportunity to express herself, we might decrease fit throwing, flailing, crying, screaming and other non-desirable behaviors. She needed to know how to express herself. And this week, she did.

She told me that she didn't want to put her clothes away. It was too hard. She didn't want to do chores anymore. It makes her angry. And, the key to it all was this statement: I am tired of trying to have self-control. I applauded her efforts at verbalizing, calmly, what she was feeling. I affirmed them as understandable. She still had to finish her job, but her confession opened the door for some great dialogue.

Don't we all feel that way at times - tired of self-control? I'll admit it, I frequently feel constricted by my own vision of self-control. Self-control of my actions, my feelings, my emotions, my relationships, with food. The list goes on and on. We fight this battle independently, even though it isn't expected that we manage this all on our own. The pressure to be always under control, to perform, can be so intense and futile that at times we decide to throw in the towel. Usually that is where God finds us, at the point of no hope. I have totally rambled here. Back to topic...

There is a fine line between the performance mentality and acting from the heart. I think most of us vacillate frequently between the two. As I work through this with Sadie, I have to evaluate my own heart and motives. How much of what I do is performed, but without heart? Finding that pure balance is tough enough in my own life. Trying to teach it? That is a whole other heart matter.

The Gauntlet Has Been Thrown

Well, there's a new title in town and boy, I just can't wait to start clawing my way for the esteemed honor. Of course, all I have to do is get a little plastic surgery, spend thousands on my wardrobe and have nanny, errand girl, taxi service, cleaning service, hair stylist and most likely anti-depressants and sleeping pills. Tell me, have you heard, we are all supposed to be fighting to be called "momshells." You know, hot mamma bombshells.

Because, let's face it ladies, that is all there is to life. We should be ashamed of ourselves if we are not running on that treadmill, appearing to effortlessly balance our children, husbands, finances, community service, all while looking fab-u-lous. Tightrope artists at the circus are asked to do perform this death-defying feat a mere 20 minutes or less per show, but our society asks us to work it 24/7. The final result of all that hard work is to showcase to the world that we are perfect human beings with no flaws, no problems, no stress and while we are at it...no character, no inward reflection and clearly no reality.

How dare society continue to put this pressure on us to add just one more level of idiocy to the long list of perfections it already has created for us! Don't buy into this or any other ridiculously sinful label society has thrust upon us. And just what does that confirm if someone is labeled as such? Nothing. Not one thing about their parenting, their love, their devotion, their compassion, their patience, their instruction, the volunteerism, their selflessness.

I say...give up that facade, Jessica Denay, author of the "Hot Moms Handbook" and possible lead promoter of this filth. I would love to ask her, "What are you hiding from, Ms. Denay? Do you not want anyone to actually know you? Who are you deep down inside? Do you want anyone to hear your heart or know your, (gasp!) mind? What are you so afraid that people will learn about you if you stepped out of this plastic perfection and let the real you be heard." As a mom, I want to know your fears, your failures, your goals and dreams, not what you have done to become lust-worthy.

A friend and fellow blogger was prompted to write the following to me when I informed her of this garbage: "This new title just kills me-momshell-the key part of the word is the most revealing-"shell". A shell's only purpose is to protect the living, growing creature within. This title implies that we are only interested in the care and upkeep of the surface-the shell. Our society as a whole is guilty of just looking at the surface and making the assumption that if the surface looks good then the inside must be good as well." Amen, sister!

In fact, let this be a challenge to every one of us. When we wake up in the morning, as we choose our clothing for the day, as we speak to our children in public and in the privacy of our home (because how differently we chose our words in these two places), when we are shopping, when we speak to other parents on the soccer field, when we make choices for dinner and when we kiss our children goodnight. Ask yourself, why am I doing this? What is my motivation behind my choice and my words? Defined by the world or defined by love.

Let us fight the world today. Let us not find our identity in it anymore. You may be wondering where then, should you find your strength, your definition of self. Well, my choice today is to find it in Christ alone. Because, ladies, only He gives me the freedom to be.