Category: Life

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The Sculptor (a letter to my children)

Forward: This Mother’s Day tribute likens mothers to sculptors and children to clay. Using our experience, knowledge and imagination we begin with a vision for our creation and by applying and releasing pressure we attempt to create what we envisioned. Mothers, like artists however, soon learn that most art pieces don’t end up exactly the way they were originally intended. Mistakes and unexpected turns change what you were trying to create … and the result is beautiful none-the-less. I wrote this from my own perspective as I am entering the journey of mothering a teenager, but the thoughts apply to all. Wherever you are in your journey of mothering may you appreciate the journey ahead and the journey your own mother took. Might every mother take the opportunity to stand back and marvel at their creation today because with all of its flaws and imperfections it is beautiful and has bettered the world. Might every child take a moment to not just honor the person who with immense dedication tried their best to create goodness but might they also see her in all her honesty and humility and know that she came to you with no instruction.

Happy Mother’s Day to all!

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I see you,

…. in all of your beautiful, growing glory. I relish in the person you are becoming, my own contribution to the world. The clay I’ve so dedicatedly tried to mold, once a soft mound of innocent impression in my hands, now gives way to detailed features as your person takes shape. My heart soars as you stand taller and taller yet, and the world begins to notice your presence and strength. I see you.

See me.

The sculptor, apron on and chisel in hand, smoothing every bump, carving every line. Sleepless nights and endless days, constantly working to give my creation life. For so long, the view seemed to flow in one direction: my vision for you. But here, stepping back a moment to gaze at you, I can see that the day is fast approaching that your eye sight will clear and you will begin to see me. A perspective that goes both ways now. The powerful innocence of childhood emblazoned me in your eyes, and I shone like a star. But that light is breaking and soon you will begin to see me more as the ordinary and flawed human being that I am and less as the illustrious sculptor you’ve idolized. As your adolescence blossoms further into adulthood, my wisdom and abilities will begin to deflate and I will no longer hold the weight and the endless inspiration you once saw. But I am always here. See me.

Be patient with me.

As the figure you’re coming to visualize begins to change … the reflection I see of myself too, will morph. I am coming to see my inner self, once again, raw and unencumbered. Like Cinderella at midnight, whose ball-gown turned to rags as promised … I too will emerge from this fantasy reminded of who I once was. Not the world-renowned artist you thought I was, but a girl. A girl who had a dream and when handed clay, accepted it. And though that girl always sat within me, just below the surface … seeing her again through the reflection in your eyes is painful. I want to be your perfect model but the cycle of light through the windows of life make that impossible. Every day has its beginning and its end, and every life too. Along with light comes shadows. It is I who will fall into the shadows. And you, who are stepping into the light. As you gain your sense of self and power … I will lose some of mine. It will be painful. Be patient with me.

Forgive me.

As your eyes clear, and your ears open, the stories of my human failings will fall upon you and penetrate your evolving membrane of reality. If they sting when they hit you … I hope the sting is short-lived. And I hope that with time, you learn to smile about them instead of grimace. I hope that you come to understand me instead of judge me. I too was once an impressionable lump of clay like you, who learned and lived. My mistakes are not for you to repeat or for you to own. Accept them at face value as a symbol of my humanity and resiliency and forgive me.

Trust me.

In one, intense, life changing moment, when that clay hit my hands, wet and new, the love I had for myself transferred to you. No one has ever mattered more than you. The moment I saw your face I wanted everything good for you. Making a mistake as a mother, was my biggest fear. Every idea, every agenda, every purposeful act had you penned in as the beneficiary. I haven’t changed my plans. I haven’t switched beneficiaries. You are the one moving on … stepping off the platform I created for you and onto your own path …. a wonderful and exciting path it will be. But letting you take that step and stopping myself from building a glass case around you to protect you. That is the hardest thing I will do. Trust me.

Remember.

Remember the birthday parties, the Halloween costumes, the nights we studied past your bedtime so that you could ace that test, the lessons you learned-especially the hard ones. Remember the adventures we had, the times we laughed, the memories we built, the places you’ve seen. Remember them because that was my work … and that work was all for you. Remember to think critically, to be compassionate and to love. Remember to create, to work hard, and to play even harder. And remember that that which is good is what matters most. Life is short. History repeats itself and our futures are always influenced by our past. Every cycle, even this one, comes back around. So, Remember.

Stay beautiful.

Powdery residue still stuck to my hands, my heart is breaking knowing that my masterpiece will one day walk out of my studio and outside onto the street; but it is breaking with pride because you are the most beautiful creation I ever saw. With a dirty rag and a lonely chisel, I’ll stand in the empty studio, my wrinkled hands clasped in anticipation of what wonders you will create. I was hardly the sculptor. You, my beautiful piece of clay … took shape all on your own. My hands merely guided you. And if one day, you should be handed a lump of clay, Take it! The coolest thing happens when time and hard work and love come together.

The world is a garden and it’s up to us to make it beautiful. You are beautiful. Make beautiful. Stay beautiful.

Love always, Your Momma

 

To all the sculptors who, whether they planned it or it not, when handed a lump of clay, accepted it. And because they did, the world is a more beautiful place.

Happy Mother’s Day! 

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Teacher Appreciation

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It was her 2nd grade teacher and the year that she was diagnosed with ADHD. Before that, I had heard some suggestions that my daughter “worked slower than most” but this was the year that it all came to a head. Our weekly meetings always included “not prepared for class” and “finishes last”. There were daily e-mails and continued efforts to “find a way that works” but with an open classroom and a teacher who didn’t “get it”, we didn’t get very far. She was my first child and I was at a loss. I didn’t know where to go or what to do next.

The evaluation process is a long one and while I went through the motions of establishing a diagnosis, the struggle in the classroom increased. When I said that my daughter “cried everyday when she walked out of school”, the teacher said, “I don’t see that.” When I said, “She’s very aware of her deficit and she hates being last to finish”, the teacher said, “She doesn’t show any reaction in my classroom.” When I said, with printed studies in hand, “You must stop keeping her in from recess everyday to finish classwork,” She said, “Ok” and then did it again anyway. It took 5 meetings and a threat to go to the board to get that recess punishment to stop.

I don’t know if that teacher ever knew just how broken my child’s spirit was that year. I don’t know if I even knew just how broken it was…until she started to get better. A spirit that is slowly diminishing is sometimes harder to identify than one that is coming back to life. Second grade ended in mere survival mode with therapy appointments that I made during school hours so that she could get a break from classroom time and eat ice-cream after her session before I returned her to her classroom. If I could have home-schooled her, I would have. We made it…but just barely!

It was 3rd grade when I started opening the school year with an e-mail introducing my daughter and her 504 plan to the teachers. Explaining her learning needs with an absence of behavioral problems and what she and I’s expectations were seemed to help. Third grade improved with teachers and a mother who had more understanding and more skills.

But it was 4th grade and the teacher who took a few days to respond to my e-mail that really changed everything. When your momma-bear instincts and your skill for writing both come colliding together, I’m sure it’s a little intimidating. At first, I was concerned as to why the teacher wasn’t getting back to me immediately. But when her response came, I was reassured as she apologized for the delay and explained that she wanted to give my thoughts and concerns her utmost time and attention. She gently reassured me of her various outlets within the classroom for children to “get-away” when they needed to and of her system of positive reinforcement. She embraced the open lines of communication and ensured me that she’d keep an eye on my girl.

And then something magical happened. Instead of calling me in for a face-to-face meeting, like every other teacher had when they saw my e-mail, she met with my daughter. She took my daughter aside during quiet work and talked to her about her ADHD. She explained that her sister also had the disorder and she remembers how hard school was for her. She gave her options of places to go, within the classroom, when she needed a two-minute break and she gave her a little dollar-store figit toy. And for the rest of the year she praised her and loved her.

When my daughter didn’t finish all of her work, the teacher sent it home with her… she didn’t punish her. When she performed poorly on an exam, the teacher didn’t show her disappointment, she encouraged her to keeping working hard. She was the teacher with an open-door policy for the kids to come and talk to her and she taught most of her lessons on the floor or jumping around the room and engaging the kids. She told her kids they could do anything they set their minds to and she believed in them. It wasn’t just my child that she touched. There were many that for one reason or another needed encouragement. She was really good at encouraging them.

While her grades improved, my daughter didn’t become a straight-A student that year. In fact, she didn’t even make the honor roll. But what she did do was far richer. She began to like herself again. She began to appreciate school and for the first time ever… she was excited to learn and she loved her teacher. That year, my daughter came back to life.
Every year since that second grade year, I am filled with anxious anticipation when the new school year starts. A PTSD of sorts, I am afraid of encountering another teacher who “doesn’t get it”. But then I remember sweet Ms.Atherholt who with her courage, understanding, kindness and enthusiasm dragged my little girl out of the darkness and into the light. She too… left that following year and I wrote her a letter thanking her for saving my little girl. I hope she knows that I meant it.

For all the teachers out there who take the extra minutes during quiet time to talk to a troubled student, who hand them a secret little dollar store prize when they see that they need it, who love what they do and show it…. I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

You carry the ability to build up or break down any child. All of the therapy and paternal support in the world can’t fix a teacher who lacks empathy and support and it can’t replace a teacher who does either! Kids spend 35 hours a week with their teachers. That’s a lot of opportunity to influence. Thank you for making that influence a positive one!

There is no doubt that you guys hold one of, if not the most important jobs for our future and yet, you are grossly under-paid and under-appreciated. I long for the day that all teachers are held to the same high standards of performance and are paid accordingly. I long for education at the primary and secondary levels to be highly respected and sought-after positions and I’ll do everything in my power as a citizen to help make that happen. In the meantime, I hope that you hear, from this mother, that I see your hard work and I know how much patience and at-home time goes into it and I appreciate you!

For Ms.A and all the other teachers out there who use their heart, their skill and their education to not just make a living but to make a difference. Thank you!

Nurses and teachers share a week for a reason…because we both save lives.

Happy Teachers Week!

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The Blessing of Nursing

Having graduated nursing school twelve years ago, the details of my educational experiences have begun to get a little hazy. The drugs, the statistics, the countless conditions and syndromes in unrelated fields, the care plans … so many lessons I sat through as a sleep deprived 21-year-old are gone. I remember a few instructors faces, hardly any names. I remember some of the lessons and more of the patients. I remember how hard I worked to get that degree and how proud I was when I walked the stage. I felt blessed to be a part of an honorable profession as well as to have a means to support my family.

I remember being warned of nurse burn-out, of the long hours and the strenuous labor. I remember one arrogant nursing instructor telling us, a room full of new grads excited to embark on our career, “You don’t know anything yet. Everything that you’ve learned so far…is nothing.” And I remember hating her for saying that but knowing that inside of that harsh statement was a sliver of truth. I remember looking at the experienced nurses and wanting so badly to be like them. The real education, I was told, I’d receive “on the job”. That was true, and I put my all into learning everything I could as a new nurse.

But there is one lesson from nursing school that I remember clear as day. My instructor for my medical surgical rotation at Shock Trauma discussed with us our patient population. At Trauma you had the VIPs, the rich and the famous, the transfers for the state of art technology, and the city population – those who only ended up there because they were badly injured or they just so happened to live in the city and that world-renowned institution was their neighborhood hospital. 
 “I don’t care who is in that bed,” she said. “You are a nurse and your job is to CARE. Check your biases and judgments at the door and you give every patient you see your very best. No one dreams of growing up and sucking cock for $5…. of being a drug addict… a prostitute… a murderer… of losing all their teeth by the time they’re thirty. If they can’t afford health insurance but are sporting a new tattoo and cell phone, if they’re here because they were in a gang fight, it’s not your concern. Everyone has a story. If you have the time to hear their story, do it! And if you don’t, at least give them your best. You may be the last person they ever see.”

I took that lesson to heart. Since that day, I’ve sat on countless beds hearing countless stories. I’ve always taken the time to build a rapport and establish trust and whenever possible I let them share their life with me. I’ve let them talk and I’ve learned how and when to ask questions. The situations that I’ve encountered are endless. I’ve met educated people from normal socio-economic backgrounds that were addicts. I’ve cared for teens who grew up in foster care that were more mature than the average 30-year-old and others who suffered from mental illness and substance abuse as consequences and coping mechanisms from their years of abuse. I’ve heard the intimate details of an arranged marriage. I’ve learned the personal views and seen the beautiful faces of women who in public quietly peek through the opening of a Burqa. I’ve served celebrities and refugees alike. I’ve been face to face with abuse, neglect, poverty, and fame. I’ve seen the scars of cigarette burns, female circumcision, gun shot wounds and IV drug abuse. I’ve returned to work to find a $100 bottle of Champaign waiting for me and been presented a tattered rose and a hand written note with the words “You are my angel” scribbled across it.

I’m not a trauma nurse. I’m a labor and delivery nurse.
And I don’t work in the city. In fact, the county I work in has one of the highest education levels and the most money of just about any county in the United States.

I can tell you first hand that no one is immune to misfortune. No one gets a free pass and no one’s fate is sealed. Money, education, background, race, marital status…. a pregnancy…. doesn’t protect you from the horrors of the world. Some however, are given a much steeper hill to climb than others. Some are dealt a very heavy hand from the beginning. And when you learn just how heavy that hand is, you gain perspective.

I’ve seen the best and worst days in people’s lives. I’ve seen a miracle baby pull through and a 50-year-old finally become a Mom. I’ve held a mother when her child died and I’ve watched a married couple hand over their baby for adoption because they couldn’t afford to care for another child. I’ve supported the legs of a prisoner shackled to the bed, delivering a baby she won’t be allowed to raise. I’ve wiped the tears of millionaires and the faces of the homeless. I’ve helped hundreds of women deliver their babies and I can tell you, they all bleed red. They all sweat. They all cry from pain. And after delivery, all of their breasts fill with milk. For some, the hospital beds and food are the worst they can recall and for others they are the best. For some, our unit holds their most precious memories and others, their darkest nightmares.

With my “on the job” experience, I’ve learned the ins and outs of pregnancy, labor and delivery. I’ve got the drug dosages memorized and obstetrical emergencies have become a learned dance. I’m a good IV stick and a unit resource. For the doctors, midwives, nurses and techs, I am a trusted and experienced clinician. But what I am the most proud of aren’t my clinical skills, anyone can learn those. What nursing has taught me, that I am most proud of, are my human skills.

A patient once told me, “I love you guys (nurses). You guys don’t see color or money or the way I dress. You see a soul. And you care for that soul.”

Whatever biases and judgments I once had … they’re gone now.

That is the blessing of nursing.

Of all the things in my life that have taught me compassion, non-judgmentalism, and an understanding for the human spirit, nursing has taught me the most. When you come to me, you come to me looking for a nurse, and that is exactly what you will get. All judgments, any preconceived notions, are checked at the door and I am here to serve. And the more one serves, the easier it becomes to shed that judgment and bias on the every-day. After twelve years of nursing, I am most certainly a better nurse, but more importantly, I am a better person.
I hope I’ve made a lasting impact on the patients I’ve cared for… and I do believe I have. But more importantly, they’ve made a lasting impact on me. My soul has grown and my heart has softened because a nurse taught me a life-long lesson. She taught me to listen to people’s stories. Nursing has allowed me to nurture that in my soul just as much as I’ve nurtured the souls who find themselves in my rooms.

 

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Happy Nurses Day to my fellow nurturers, you make this world a better place!

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Existence

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The statistical probability of you coming into existence is said to sit at around 1:400 trillion. The mere fact that you were born meets the criteria of “a miracle”.

How are you using your miracle?

I’d like to imagine that when our soul is first created, we are handed two things – a box of gifts and a pocket watch.

How many gifts you have contained in your box varies, but every soul has at least one. Most souls have quite a few. The gifts themselves are varied in appearance. Some gifts are shiny and studded with gems while others are plain and simple upon first glance, but all of the gifts carry the same worth to the universe.

Like the variance in the gifts, the watches too, will vary- not in appearance, but in the amount of turns that each is wound. Some are wound just a few turns and will stop ticking just a short while after they start. Others, wound long and tight, will tick for many years to come. The back of the watch is welded and there is no way to know just how far the watch is wound inside. But eventually, every watch stops ticking.

It is our job, as long as our soul roams the earth, to give away each of our gifts before our watch stops ticking. And when our watch stops ticking, our time on earth is over. Some gifts, often the shiny and extravagant looking ones, will be easy to give away. Others, carrying a more humble appearance will have to wait until the right recipient comes along before it can be removed from the box. But each gift carries equal importance no matter how easy it is to give away or how attractive the gift is. It is crucial that they be dispensed because each gift carries a purpose in the universe.

Taking the time to discover the gifts that lie in our box is a challenge. Our souls are born into darkness. Searching for a light source, using our senses of touch, taste, smell, sound, we must first discover what our gifts are… feeling every corner of the box to be sure we haven’t missed any.
Once we are aware of what our gifts are, we must then find willing recipients. Can they even see our gift when we first take it out of the box? Does this person have a use for our gift or am I imposing it on them? Will they treasure it or will they laugh at it and toss it aside? Does it need to be shined or wiped off…or is our receiver ready to accept it just the way it is? Do we have the courage to show our gifts despite the chance of rejection?

The discovery and the release of our gifts are challenges we bear but the greatest challenge lies not in what our gifts are or who they will be presented to. The challenge lies in the watch. Some people will have only hours on their watch, some days, some years, some decades, some, even a century. The fact that we can read and have organized thought means that we are already amongst the fortunate who have received a watch wound longer than many. But none of us know whether our watch has another 20 years of unwinding or if it is running on its last hours. No one knows where they will be when it stops….but when it does, that invisible box will once again reappear and you hope that the box is empty. You hope that you have given everything that you had….lest your arms be full and your heart be heavy with regret.

Despite the fact that we were all handed the same two items and were all given the same instructions to dispense them, each soul will be dropped in a different place and will encounter different challenges on their journey. Some will find themselves in castles. Others, in huts. Some will carry their box up a snow-capped mountain and others while they search for water in the desert. Regardless of the journey, there is equal opportunity to gift. Tragedy lies not in those who have a steeper or more difficult climb but in those who fail to look into their box – Those who fail to see the gifts that they carry on their journey – Those who are so caught up in the distractions of life, be it extravagance or suffering, that they forget the box entirely.

But even worse than that, the biggest tragedy of all, are the souls who, knowing they carry a box full of gifts, plod along with a complete disregard to the ticker in their pocket.

Time is defined as “the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole.”

“Indefinite” : somewhere a pocket watch will always be always ticking.
“Continued progress” : new watches, new boxes are always landing with new souls to carry them.
“events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole” : the soul’s journey and the gifts to be given are all a part of a bigger picture

But the time on one watch is NOT indefinite. It is very limited. And without the progress of individual souls seeking to share their gifts, the progress of the whole is stalled. Without your gifts, the world is lacking.

1 in 400 trillion…That means if there were 54,794 worlds with the same population as planet earth and every soul from all the worlds put their name in a giant hat….and they drew one name to be the soul who would be dropped off and deliver their gifts, they picked your name.
We get excited about winning a raffle where our odds are 1:100 but not about winning life with odds of 1: 400,000,000,000.

If time were an object that could be carried in your pocket, would you be more aware of its limit?
Would a concrete form of the intangible sense of time allow people to realize just how precious it is?
Why don’t we all wake up in the morning with an immediate sense of making it our best day? Of searching for opportunity to share and discover?
Why do bucket lists take so long to check off?
Why is there a lack of sense of urgency?
How do we become complacent?

If you knew that your watch was on its final rotations, would you be satisfied with how you’ve spent your time?
My dream is that when my watch stops ticking, I’ll be sitting on the beach after sunset ………. laughing.

My head and my heart will be overflowing with memories, discoveries, adventures and accomplishments.

My body scarred and my clothes tattered … I’ll be tired and sore, but the good kind of tired and sore… like the way you feel after you’ve just finished a really big project or ran a really big race and you did it well.

And as the colored sky fades to darkness, I’ll close my eyes and picture where my gifts are sitting.

And in my hands I’ll feel the weightlessness of an empty box.

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Confessions of an ADHD Mom

ADHD sucks. Like I mean, it really sucks. While I’m sure I have a mild case of it myself and I’ve learned how to cope with it…I never fully appreciated the struggle that is ADHD until I had kids with the diagnosis.

Of all the diagnoses there are in the world, ADHD has got to be on the incredibly low end of the spectrum. I mean there’s cancer, there’s severe autism, cerebral palsy, mental illness…there are legit syndromes and conditions that are debilitating and life threatening! Who cares about a little attention and focus disorder?
I guess that’s what I always thought and why I never lent it much respect. Get over yourself and the fact that your kid’s not “perfect” and deal with it. Ohhh….so sorry for you that you have to be involved in their schoolwork….poor you!

Let me tell you…I’m a pretty tough cookie and I have shed more tears over my children’s struggles with ADHD than just about any of my other struggles. Why? Mostly because they’re my babies and anything that causes them angst causes me double. But also because I had no clue just how hard the journey was until I walked it.

Let me paint you the picture:
It’s you’re first baby, going to school for the first time. You can’t wait to see what adventures she takes and the new things she’ll learn. You’re welcoming the break during the day and excited for her to meet new friends. You send her off to school with her new shoes and back-pack aaaaaand ….she ends up hating school. She cries before she goes and she cries when she comes home. When you ask her how her day was her report is either a play-by-play of everyone who walked past the classroom door or a complaint that it was “too hard” or “too long”. Homework is a chore and once she reaches upper elementary it takes her hours. You talk to other parents and they seem puzzled by your experience. “Oh really, my kids love school! They feel sad when they miss it!” “Four hours for homework!?!? Oh my! No, little Suzy never spends more than 30 minutes!” Parent teacher conferences become something you dread because your kid is never keeping up. You are told that they are a “joy to have in class…but”. There’s always a “but”. At report card time Facebook is flooded with honor roll and straight A posts…and you’re still waiting for your turn. While your friends report their kids go up to their rooms and independently do their homework, you sit at the dining room table with yours for hours. Homework is never done before dinner time which means answering questions and redirecting in between stirring the pasta and chopping the veggies. Your evenings are no longer yours and day hours are speckled with sending e-mails to teachers about missed assignments and falling grades. While you once longed for the days you could get a break by sending your kids to school, you now dread that institution as much as the kids do.

ADHD robs you of your time and sanity, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that you have to see your children’s tears hit their notebook paper and watch their frustration, every day. You have to see their faces red with embarrassment when they forgot their homework…again. You have to know that every so many days they go without eating because they forgot their lunch and they just don’t want to call you to bring it, again. You hear them say, “No I’m not” when you tell them that they are smart and look into their disappointed eyes when they missed honor roll…..again. ADHD it seems, is an endless stream of disappointing “agains”. You have to know that despite your best efforts and the practices you’ve put into place to help them succeed, you still have to let them learn the hard way in order to find their most effective coping mechanisms. That constant stream of trials and errors is painful to watch. It’s a disorder for which medication is controversial and you can’t fix it.

I’ve spent an hour trying to convince my child to stop rolling around on the floor and sit up at the table to do their homework. And I’ve broken them by demanding that they “Knock it off, sit up and get it done or else!” I’ve given them the simplest directions of writing just one sentence and returned 20 minutes later to find an empty page. I have broken down a one page reading assignment into sentence fragments (Think about that!) to make it easier to understand. I’ve spent 8 hours trying to help them write one paragraph and days trying to re-organize their rooms. I’ve bought the entire school supply list 5x over because everything kept “getting lost” and I’ve restocked the nurses “snack cabinet” from all of the times my children have borrowed from it when they forgot their lunch. I’ve never had the luxury of missing a parent-teacher conference and I’ve got every teacher’s e-mail memorized.

But I’ve also watched my child earn the honor roll after 13 worthy but failed attempts. That’s a celebration! I’ve seen the relief of finishing a day-long assignment wash over their face. And I’ve heard from parents and teachers alike that I have “really wonderful children”. My children have had the opportunity to learn from a young age that their disability isn’t an excuse not to succeed. They are learning to work hard now.

I know that there are so many, much worse conditions that my children could be plagued with. They are healthy. They are kind. They are great kids! I wouldn’t trade them for every last dollar on the planet and I love them more anything in this world. They are my everything!

I am a stronger person because of it and one day I might be able to use this journey to help others…. But ADHD still sucks. Just because it’s not the worst thing that could happen, doesn’t make it easy. I have to deal with it but I’m allowed not to like it. 5 years ago we got our first diagnosis and many days I’m still overwhelmed. I am a strong person and I still privately cry when I see them struggle. I am proactive and work to get them accommodations and help them learn coping skills but I still ache for school and organization to be easier for them. And when it became clear that my second child needed to be evaluated too…I cried even more. I really really didn’t want to walk down that road again. Because it’s a hard road.

But it’s our road…so I’ll walk it with them…hand in hand…with a sticky note reminder on their binder and an extra pencil in my pocket. And we’ll be ok…. crappy ol’ ADHD and all.

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Rescuing

If I had all the money and resources in the world, one thing that I’d love to do is rescue….more! (I’ve already rescued my share of creatures). People and animals alike…I hate to see them suffer…I want to share my love. While fostering children is something my husband and I have discussed a ton, we are not currently in a position to be able to take that on, but oh how I yearn to. So in the meantime, I’ll have to settle for charity work and saving the occasional stray.

One such stray happened to cross my path this past February.
(Stopping to save random animals is something my family has an affinity for. My Dad’s side of the family taught this to us at an early age. Turtles, cats, dogs, even snakes… didn’t matter… if it looked like it needed help, we stopped. I’m sure animal control is cringing!)

I was driving in the car with the kids, dropping a friend off when a skinny but clean yellow lab mix caught my eye. Walking along the neighborhood streets, a few neighborhoods over from my own, she was scavenging in various yards looking for scraps. When I saw her collar I pulled over with the intention of calling her owners. She came to me but when I checked her collar I discovered that she was missing tags. She hopped into my car willingly. “Yay!”, my daughter exclaimed. “I needed a pay-it-forward activity for the day!” LOL

Glad I could make the kids happy… convincing Daddy of our plan was another story!

The plan was to hold on to her just long enough to find the owners. I took her to get scanned for a micro chip but there was none. We made and put up signs, posted on local community FB pages, contacted the city and county animal control services, SPCA, Craigslist…you name it! Not a single inquiry! We named her Pinkie.

But this story isn’t about how to adopt a dog… it’s about how to rescue one.

You see, when Pinkie came home with us, for the first couple of weeks she constantly followed so close behind me that I couldn’t get out of the gate without resorting to ridiculous physical contortions of my body. She would stick her head so close to the gate latch that to close it and leave her behind was a chore. Leave her in the house you say? Ha! It was just as ridiculous trying to get out of the house door and I feared her separation anxiety would lead to property destruction. Though fortunately, it never did.

So, every time I managed to get myself onto the other side of the gate and she would peer at me through the chained-link in angst, I would tell her calmly and gently,
“I’ll be back. I’m just going to pick up the kids / go to the store etc. It won’t be long. I’ll always come back.” Then I’d pet her through the fence and leave. I wouldn’t be gone for long.
And when I came home, she’d be waiting, jumping up and down in excitement. When I greeted her, I told her again, “You see, I came back…I’ll always come back.”

The first couple weeks passed and Pinkie stopped trying to nose her way out of the gate when I left. She seemed to understand that I would come back. But around the house, she never let up. She was glued to my side and stationed at my feet. I couldn’t take a shower without her hanging her head over the tub. And when she had her surgery, I felt terrible that if I left the computer to refill my coffee she’d jump up to follow. If I left the bed to use the bathroom, she’d jump down and be at my heels.

More weeks passed and every time I’d say, “Pinkie, I’m coming right back. You can stay here”, she’d follow behind me anyway. Until, finally, the day came when I woke-up and went to shower and she didn’t follow. Reluctant to turn around, I kept walking across the house, waiting to here the “thud” of her paws jumping down off the bed. While I showered I kept saying to myself, “She’ll be in here any minute now.” But….

When I returned to my room, she was still there, lying on my bed, waiting for me. Finally she understood. Finally, she believed me.

I’ll always come back.

You see, all it took was patience and gentle reassurance, that I’d be back. That’s it! I never pushed her back, held her down or tied her up. I never yelled at or scolded her. Further more, I never had any expectations that she would change, though I wished she would for her own peaceful sake. My words probably never meant a thing to her-she’s a dog. My tone and my actions though, probably spoke volumes. And then there was time. Time, was probably the most important factor of all. She just needed time.

Why is it that it’s so easy to accomplish this with dogs but our rules change when it comes to people. When it comes to rescuing humans, (we’re all in need of being rescued somehow) whatever hang-ups people come to us with, we want to change them. And we want to change them now! We find their clingy behaviors and habits annoying and we reject them and scold them and expect them to change with expediency.

But what if, instead, we gently reassured them? What if we loved them just the way they were and we told them that it was “okay”? What if we honored our promises and we always returned? What if we never yelled or scolded or ridiculed? What if we always embraced them instead of pushing them away or holding them at an arm’s distance? What if we let go of expectations that they would change and instead allowed them all the time that they needed?

Now, certainly some dangerous behaviors/habits don’t allow for such a Zen approach due to imminent safety concerns-but I’m not referring to those. I’m referring to the every-day annoying habits and insecurities that we, like Pinkie, have as a result of our past. Perhaps it’s not in the form of being pressed to ones side but in the form of nagging, of worry, of forced closeness.

I was once very much in need of being rescued and I thank the lucky stars that I found a man who despite my annoying behaviors was patient and waited. He never scolded or yelled at me but he guided me and most importantly, he kept coming home. And yet here I am…. struggling like everyone else with certain persons in my life and their habitual hang-ups. It’s not easy to always be patient and calm and understanding. In fact, it can be infuriatingly hard!

But I’m going to keep trying- because I’m a better person because someone rescued ME. And because a skinny little stray reminded me that it might just pay off – that gentle reassurance and patience takes less energy and is more effective than any form of confrontation and that love can cure even the loneliest of hearts.

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Toads and Princes


He was tall and oh so handsome. His chiseled face could’ve been on the front of GQ. He was charismatic and knew what to say and when. He was a psych major who switched paths to Physical Therapy and transferred down to my home city from Rutgers, his 4th year now. I was a freshman who knew I wanted to be a nurse and that was about all I knew.

……………. I had been hanging on by a thread. If my high school counselor hadn't seen the light inside of me… my college applications never would have been filled-out, much less sent. My waitressing tips paid for the application fees. I was an honors and AP student who never took the AP exams to get the college credit. That was classic me… doing the work… rarely stopping to get the credit. Searching for happiness, all I really wanted to do was run away. I paid my own way to travel out-of-state to visit schools with a friend over my senior year spring-break . Then I applied to all out-of-state schools, determined to get out of my home state. With only one fall back/“just in case”-in-state university, I was going to prove to everyone that I could do it. I could take care of myself … I had been, for a long time.
Flying by the seat of my pants, the only adult overseer to my college application process was my guidance counselor and we missed the housing application deadline. Without on-campus housing, I had no place to go. Even private housing needed a parent’s co-sign… and that wasn’t going to happen. All I wanted was to have something to show for myself. The girl who rose from dysfunction and blossomed into a happy, successful, professional. A Cinderella story without the prince, just the success. That’s what I wanted. And yet here I was… still in my freaking home state!
Begrudgingly I accepted my mother’s ride to the in-state campus for a visit. All the work and money I’d spent getting accepted to out-of-state universities burned a hole inside me. This isn’t where I wanted to be. But it’s where I was…so I took it. I knew my major. I signed up for as many classes as I could physically attend- eighteen credits and I worked four jobs. If I wanted to live on campus, I’d have to pay for it, so I stayed home and commuted. I was focused and ready to finish, to get out on my own as soon as possible. ………………

So here I was, on campus and this senior god and I starting talking on our smoke break. I was in flip-flops, a tank top and baggy sports pants. Why was he talking to me? Is he flirting? I was used to having older friends, but not too many boyfriends. I was awkward in my adolescence and always the kid with less, in the affluent private high school I attended. Hard work always got me where I was, never status or money. But hard work doesn’t get you noticed in certain communities. I was never the girl who got noticed, or so I thought. So, I couldn’t believe it when he asked me out on a date.
He took me into the city and showed me a wonderful evening, fine dining and a happening club. I wore my own movie-star of a man on my arm and we shared a magical walk around the harbor by star-light. He continued to pursue me. He showed me how to dress, how to talk, how to be refined. While I resisted his efforts… silently, slowly, I listened. With him, I grew from a scrappy girl into a lady.
My prince charming however, turned out to be a toad – a possessive alcoholic who distracted me from my studies. When he got a DWI and totaled his car, I became his driver for the rest of the school year. When he finally got off probation and got a car 10 months later… he left me. And leaving me was the best thing he could’ve done.Becoming single again, allowed me to refocus on my studies and also encouraged me to continue growing up. All of the refining pressure I had resisted from him skyrocketed when he left me. I bought a new wardrobe and walked through the campus with my head held high, so that he could see what he let go. I finished the semester stronger than ever. He flunked out and moved back home to NJ… no closer to graduating. The following year I refused to date anyone and focused hard on my studies and working.

In my 3rd year, another model of a man took notice- twenty-two years old, six foot, blond and blued eyed, a professional body builder who owned his own home and made 80k working for the government. Working towards his eventual PhD… he was a breath of fresh air. A welcome change from my last entitled boyfriend who went nowhere in 5 years. This guy was motivated and successful. He taught me about life and he displayed the stability I was looking for. I was again surprised. I didn’t know my worth. Why was this man noticing me? And not only was he noticing me but he fell for me, hard. When I wanted to date casually, he insisted that he had to have me all to himself. Red flag?! I think so!
Just when I gave him my whole heart, he too turned out to be a toad. A pathological liar who fabricated his life stories and had affairs. During our last conversation he said he wanted to marry me. A week later he moved his ex-girlfriend back in, stopped answering my calls and never had the decency to speak with me again.

Like every girl, I wondered why this kept happening to me. A pawn in these guys games of life. I wanted stability and honesty. Still, I was anxious about getting away. Two more years to finish my degree and then I’d be off travel nursing, exploring the world ALONE.

One month after toad #2 left me empty-handed, an old friend asked me out for drinks. Eighteen years my senior, barely my height, an immigrant who spoke broken english and still lived in the same rental he had for fifteen years…he was everything I wasn’t looking for. On his way to ending his marriage with two little boys caught in the crossfire, a relationship with him was the last thing I imagined. I didn’t want a relationship with anyone! Hours passed by as we sat at the bar spilling our life stories. Two different countries, two different generations…and yet we shared so many common threads.
When we finally left, standing under the street lights of the dark, empty parking lot, he told me that he was in love with me. My head spun. Sputtering for words, I told him that I loved him too but that a relationship between us would never work. The age difference, his marriage, the kids…we were too far apart in life. And if by happenstance, we were able to make it work, my family would never accept it.
He didn’t take “No” for an answer. For weeks and months, he’d call and sit outside my house, asking me for a chance. I loved that man for his genuine heart but my head was looking for the college degree, the high paying job, the model to wear on my arm … a person with less baggage. My head was looking for what society had taught me I needed. But my heart was already rejected by those men and was being pulled closer and closer to this immigrant.

Weeks turned into months and months turned into years. My head wasn’t convinced of our possibility but my heart wanted no one else. More hard work and more drama than I care to divulge here… and that empty-handed, full hearted immigrant gave me the Cinderella ending that I was looking for.
Paying my rent so I could finish school, helping care for our daughter when our unexpected pregnancy complicated my final year of nursing school, encouraging me always, he became my rock. I finally got credit for all my hard work. And my family, who at first, lacked acceptance, as predicted, grew to adore him. He, with our baby daughter stood proud when I walked the stage and received my diploma. A happy, successful, professional I became. It was not easy and it was by no means a fairytale beginning. But I sure as hell found a fairytale ending….and it had a prince in it after all.

When people see what I have, they often ask, “How did you get that?”. And that is always a hard question for me to answer. I believe in critical thinking and using your head. But in my story, my head is what held me back. Or perhaps, it was the head society filled. My decisions for our relationship were calculated and reasonable; but they didn’t follow the empty promises and faulty rules that society has put into place. In many other cases, our story would not have ended well. Statistically, my relationship should not have made it. I believe in statistics and yet, we must be statistical outliers because fifteen years later we are still madly in love. Perhaps there’s more to the heart than we give it credit for. And at my age, I certainly know now, that society doesn’t have it all figured out.
I never made it to an out-of-state college. By the time I graduated with my BSN, I was a Momma and travel nursing was off the table. Still in my home state, my life was not what I had planned it to be 5 years earlier.

It was better.

Don’t get me wrong…when my friends were free and traveling the globe and I was at home with a baby, trying to make ends meet-sitting on a couch we rescued from the dump and food I bought with WIC… I envied the life others had. We hardly drove a pumpkin carriage and our home will never be a castle, but we are happy. Truth is, rice and beans tastes just fine with good company and filet mignon is never seasoned right when an arrogant asshole is sitting across from you. I never stopped loving my little family and we never stopped working hard. At twenty-five,  I was pregnant with our second child, bought our first home, and we ran off and got married.

Today, I still have days when I wonder why it seems like everyone else has a housekeeper and a nanny. We’re still not rich…with money that is. But in life and the pursuit of happiness…we are royalty. Making enough to be comfortable, we don’t travel abroad, we take road trips. We don’t shop at department stores, we thrift. Every night we eat dinner as a family and family game night is a regular thing.

Now I have my own little prince and princess and while I can’t change the pressures that society may place on them, I sure can guide them in their search for happiness. I’ll tell them not to worry about the money, the status, or the looks. If you can find an honest heart, hardworking hands and a tender soul…your life will come together like the wave of a magic wand. Boxes will one day turn to wooden tables and crates will become upholstered chairs. And two broken hearts CAN mend one another.

As I watch my peers now…still struggling to find a mate… still switching careers…still looking for happiness…I’m ok with the fact that I have less passport stamps than they do. I’m proud of my dedicated husband and the life we’ve built out of nothing. He came to me with nothing but a suitcase of clothes and I from a broken home with a broken heart. I accepted the proposal of the most unlikely of pursuers and it turned out to be the best decision of my life.
Every once in a while, those “toads” come up in conversation and my husband always says, “One day I’d like to see those guys…and if I did…I’d say, ‘thank you’, because if not for them, you never would’ve given me a chance.”

As cliché as it may sound, it really did take kissing those toads to lead me to my prince.

Whatever poison comes into my life, my husband is the antidote. Whatever challenges present themselves, he has the answers. He is the first face I kiss in the morning and the one I count down the hours of the day to see. He rescued me. And if you ask him what I’ve done for him, he’ll tell you I “saved his life”.

When we go out and I’m all dressed up, he jokes, “Ha! Everyone in this room is wondering how much I paid for you! You know, they think I have money.” And he sheepishly giggles about our modest means. Then I say, “But you’re still my King.”

I don’t wear glass slippers and I’ve yet to meet any fairy godmothers but I have what I always wanted …. I have happiness. And happiness is all I’ll ever really need.

 

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Learning the meaning of Easter

cross pic

The Easters of my childhood were, I believe, a pretty typical middle class, American experience. The Easter bunny delivered baskets of goodies while we slept. Hidden in the house, we searched for them when we woke. Occasionally we attended an egg hunt and Easter morning always meant your best dress and an early Sunday church service. Easter dinner was almost always at Mimi and Pop Pops house – ham, pot-luck sides, a cross-shaped cake for my religious family’s celebration of the resurrection and continued candy consumption by the kids as the cousins all ran around on sugar highs.

Holidays were always a good time. They were a distraction from the every day stressors and a reason for the family to gather. The food was always good, the company relaxed and enjoyable and the amount of childhood mirth created a pleasant chaos. I come from a huge Catholic family and each generation has done a good job creating as large and fabulous a generation as their own. When the cousins get together… they’re unstoppable! It’s truly impressive.

Mimi and Pop pop, my father’s parents, were the patriarchs of this empire. So it would only be appropriate that many of my childhood holiday memories occurred in that home. And it would only be appropriate that Mimi would breathe her last breath in the same fashion.

We knew it was coming. Her body had been revealing it’s secret a year before the diagnosis was finally made … stage 4 ovarian cancer. Her 100lb weight loss and weakness now had an explanation and we were given weeks to say good-bye. Weeks turned into months. She made it through Christmas, the birth of a great grand baby, and New year’s. Winter turned into spring. Spring brought with it the rebirth, the reawakening. Easter was approaching. As we prepared for the holiday, it became clear that Mimi’s season was rapidly coming to an end.

Now, as a nurse I can tell you, the most painful experience to witness is death … and when it occurs on a holiday…the bite carries extra venom it seems. For many, the holiday is forever stained and the once joyous traditions are smothered by the painful reminder of loss. Tragic and unexpected losses are of course more earth shattering but even the expected ones hurt.

So what do you do when you, as a mother, are obligated to give your children an Easter but as a granddaughter and a family member your presence is needed at the bedside? How can you save your children from the ruined holiday phenomenon and still honor your ailing grandmother? I’ll tell you what you do, because my family did it …. and they nailed it!

You pack up the baskets and the plastic eggs, the ham and the cross cake pan, the dresses and the mounds of candy…. and then you pack a weekend bag. And you spend your holiday weekend at your Mimi’s house along with everyone else.

The baskets were still hidden. The plastic eggs still stuffed and waiting to be found. The ham was still baked and the pot luck sides prepared with the same love as always, in Mimi’s kitchen. The cross-shaped cake was iced and decorated just as beautifully as before and everyone wore their spring dresses and pastel dress shirts. While the kids searched for plastic eggs, Mimi gasped in the back bedroom. While some explored their baskets, others held their mother’s hand. While some cooked, others served. While some ministered, others rested. While a new baby nursed, an old mother closed her eyes.

Easter flowed through the house all weekend, as did the traffic through Mimi’s bedroom. Like the flow of water over a bed of rocks so was the flow of family and friends at her bedside. A slow and almost chaotic pattern of loved ones, ever-changing, always returning-some brief, others for hours. We sat vigil, told stories, prayed, begged, confessed, laughed and cried. We gathered to sing. We gathered to pray…. always at her bedside, she was never alone. She took her last breath as her son, a priest, performed the daily mass in her room on Easter Monday.

It was a merciful end to a year of suffering. Yet the potential for a stained Easter was still there. There could have been regrets, conflict and fear. It could have been my worst Easter ever. Instead, it has become one of my favorites. No one made an excuse not to come to dinner that year. No one missed the opportunity to say good-bye. A life was celebrated and dignified and loved. The older members of the family got closure and sibling support. And the youngest members learned through observation what it was to rally, to minister, and to love. They learned that holidays are always about the people you love and that being there for those in need doesn’t mean a loss of the things you enjoy. And we were ALL reminded what Easter is really about.

Whether you subscribe to the Christian resurrection of Jesus Christ or the pagan rituals of the Spring Reawakening and Fertility. Easter reminds us that every season has it’s beginning and its end and there is beauty that follows death. May you search even the empty tombs til you find your savior. May you find yourself singing in the presence of death. And when life seems to be handing you a royally shitty hand, I hope you don’t forget that there are still colored eggs stuffed with treats hiding in the tall grasses …. it’s up to you to find them.

I said before, that as a nurse, I can tell you that the most painful experiences in life are those that involve death … but they can also be the most powerful, the most fulfilling and the most healing. When families run and hide from death, when they fight it … it is horrendously painful for everyone present and not present. But when they embrace it and they gather and they celebrate and support … it is so beautiful you can only hope and pray that your own end is met with equal love.

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Lessons Learned and a Life Worth Living

It’s not until after I talk to others (like really talk) that I remember, not everyone grew-up like I did. Many people had much more functional upbringings and were more privileged than I was. That used to make me bitter. But over the years, I have shared treasured encounters with the blessed souls who had it worse…and my life perspective has been restored.

You see, no matter how bad you have it…you have the capability to do well. And when you do well, many times the people around you, seem to have it better than you do. They have bigger houses, better cars, lifestyles that seem easier. But that’s just your perspective. You’ve climbed further than many of them have. If you remained stagnant, you’d look around and see a whole bunch of people just like yourself. But that’s not satisfying! You have to change the way you look at things. You’ve survived and conquered and that is something to be proud of, not ashamed.

I was born in a trailer. The oldest girl and third child of four. When I was six we moved into a tiny single family home-a fixer upper, but ours nonetheless. Amongst the six of us, we shared one bathroom and four bedrooms. Across the street from my childhood home was an old Catholic Church and school. Electing to raise us devoutly Catholic, my parents yearned to send us for a Catholic education. We were very low-income but my Mother worked out an agreement with the school to work off part of the tuition by working in the lunchroom. That, combined with hard work and good grades, along with generous relatives, afforded me a private school education. I was a lower class citizen that was given a middle-upper class opportunity and that probably made all the difference in my life success.

While my family was always very involved in our church and Catholic school community – serving as altar servers and lectors during church services, walking to daily mass at 7 am before school, tutoring special needs students in religious education classes, boy scouts, girls scouts, liturgical dance…the whole shaa-bang, behind closed doors our family was saturated in dysfunction. My parents combined income in the late 80s early 90s sat around $15,000 a year-which was a huge contributing factor in the resources available to us as well as the struggles of day-to-day living. I began working at the age of 12 and have never lived a day without a job since. Alcoholism , drug abuse, mental illness and generational cycles of abuse and their associated challenges plagued my family for years.

Our family struggles reached an all-time high when my oldest brother (tormented with mental health issues and drug and alcohol abuse) opted-out-of-life, tearing us into a family of 5. My other brother, closest in age and personality to me, coped with his own intense life struggles and substance abuse and was often times separated from the family. When I was 13, my parents finally divorced after many separations and attempted reconciliations. I was in charge of caring for my little sister and often times an elderly aunt while my mother learned how to make a living for the first time. A strained relationship with her led me to live with my father half-way through high school. Due to the location of his house in relation to my high-school and his work schedule, I often woke up at 3 am in order to be able to catch a ride to school with a friend by 6am.

Through fortunate opportunity and good grades I was able to graduate from a private high school and was accepted to college. I went to school full-time and worked 4 jobs to get by. College was such a breath of fresh air for me. There were so many people to meet, stories to hear, perspectives to be seen. I developed a grand appreciation for science and discovered my love of creative writing. I also abandoned the idea of organized religion and drew closer to the ideal of humanism. Good character, compassion and a love for fellow human beings and the planet became more important and reliable to me than church doctrine. Death, misfortune and tragedy continued to follow me but so did opportunity and blessings and new ideas.

In my 1st year of nursing school, at the age of 21, my oldest child entered the world. This proved to be a challenge but one worth taking. Motherhood was the best thing that ever happened to me. Given my life situation at the time, the challenge was a heavy one but she served as the greatest motivator to my success. I graduated on-time with a BSN in nursing in 2005 at the age of 23 with my 14 month old in arms.

At the age of 25, I bought my first home and delivered my second child within 3 weeks of one another. While I was out on maternity leave with my son, I married my children’s father and planned our wedding ceremony for family and friends (in between unpacking the new house of course). And from then on, the dust has continued to settle and the puzzle pieces of life have slipped into place.

My husband and I’s relationship has been a true testament of love, hard work and a bit of luck. It wasn’t always pretty and it wasn’t always easy but it’s been almost 15 years together and 10 years married and there is no one else I’d rather have by my side. He was the most unlikely of pursuers and has made me the happiest woman alive. I am hardly the woman I was when we met and he is largely responsible for that.

By the grace of God or some rotational shift of the universe, I am now a blissfully married mother of two and a damn-good labor and delivery nurse. And the rest of my family has found happiness too. I have seven beautiful nieces and nephews, step-parents who love me and two siblings who, like me, fought through the battle and came out victorious.

My road has been at times, a very bumpy one and my life, a very colorful one. But I am so thankful for every experience because of what I have learned. I have learned how to set goals and to work hard. I’ve learned not to judge. I’ve learned that people aren’t always what they seem-good or bad and that appearance means nothing except to provide a temporary illusion. I’ve learned that second chances are sometimes the key to life’s treasures. And that life’s treasures sometimes lie in the darkest places. I’ve learned not to count on many people but how to become the person that others can count upon. I’ve learned that love really does conquer all and that a little bit of luck makes life magical. I’ve learned that in the scope of life, very little actually matters….but the things that do matter-are everything. And what I have learned that matters most is that no matter what the world throws at you…life is always worth living…and its worth living to the fullest. It is made up of seasons and every season has its end. Every day is an adventure waiting to happen and a story waiting to be written. And every challenge has a gift packaged up inside, you just have to unwrap it.

Now, when I meet other people who “had it easier” than I did….I remind myself…few people know the depths of my struggles and few people share their own deepest struggles…but those challenges are what makes you who you are today…and you are a damn fine specimen if I do say so myself.