November 12, 2013

Auto-Pilot.

That's what I'm on these days.

My goal is to stay in the moment.

Not project to the darker days

that are surely ahead.

Wild thoughts tempt my emotions,

the pleading of my heart ringing in my ears:

"I'm not ready. Please. I'm not ready."

Quickly, I dismiss those thoughts--

banish them from my present. 

My presence.

I will live for today.

Work is good.

Staying busy is good for the soul.

I've cleaned out closets.

The fridge in the garage that has needed it

for so so so long.

I fight the urge to toss out everything that requires

more energy to hold onto,

to care for,

than I want to expend.

I fight the urge to want to control my world

in ways that are unhealthy.

Does anyone understand this?

A friend came by last night;

she said she "admires the way" I am handling my life.

Using words like "example" and "inspiration".

I told her I am completely clueless and totally winging this--

I can't see how I'd be an example to anyone.

There are scenes playing out in my head all day long--

from running far far away in any direction

as though I outrun the coming dread,

to curling up in a ball,

or wrapping my arms around my son so tight

that death cannot take him away

because of sheer willpower and mother-love.

Example?

of what?

a hot mess.

This place I'm in demands answers.

I feel them come in those fight-or-flight moments.

A calm warmth settles on my shoulders.

A blissful thought whispers and suddenly

I am me again.

I see things clearly

comforting

peacefully.

The world slows down.

I quiet my Self.

The wild fears that crowd my mind

leave without a fuss.

I mentally plan a funeral--

who will sing "I'll Walk With You"

and who will sing "I Know That My Redeemer Lives"...

Dean's favorite songs.

Who will tell Dean's story?

I have to get his Special Olympic medals out...

he has had some remarkable accomplishments in his life.

No college, no marriage or career...but still.

He's lived and been successful with what he came with!

I look over old photo albums and see his face with different eyes.

Does this even make sense?

How pre-mature are these feelings?

How ready do I need to be?

I feel guilty even having these thoughts.

I purposefully slow down.

I will not get out old photos again,

not while he's still here.

Will I regret that?

I will not think about a funeral for the next hour.

If I'm not, will someone else come help me when it's time?

I will think about spending time with Dean.

I will think about Thanksgiving and Christmas and Nana's homecoming.

Do I need to call a grief counsellor for me, for my children?

When do I do that? Is it too soon? I am grieving already, so maybe it's not too soon?

How are we going to get through this?

I pray for clarity.

I pray for peace.

I search my husband's eyes for answers--

he's lost both parents and a dear older brother.

He rarely speaks of how he dealt with those losses.

I need him to tell me how on earth I am going to do this

very hard thing.

But the words don't come.

I don't wanna know. really. I don't want to know. 

I know the "why" this is happening.

I understand that.

But. BUT.

Today, I will be grateful.

I will speak to my boy and listen to his voice and make plans to see him later.

And he will hold my nose and say, "I love you, Mom."

I will touch his nose with my finger, "I love you, Deano. Always."

We'll smile at each other with our knowing smiles and see into each other's eyes

the secret we both know...

that time is running out and the next chapter is a page away.

Fifteen Years

Time is so weird.

It's both scientific and EmOtIoNaL.
I comprehend the passing of time by "events" in my life,
don't you?
Memories thread together the passing of time...

My earliest memory is the sting of red ants crawling up my legs,
and my mother scooping me up and running a waterhose over my legs
to wash off the ants and their terrible stings.
I asked my mom long ago if that really happened
and she said it did when I was three years old.

I don't remember being three,
but I remember those ant stings.

See what I mean?

When I was twenty, I married.
Years that are recalled by memories:
Those were the school years,
the years enveloped in diapers,
and broken-down-cars years,
miles-away-from-family years.

I happened to marry the wrong person.
We were married fifteen hard, long years
before the kids and I cut him and made him the
"free agent" he still is today.

I remarried Mr. Wonderful the next year
and soon we will be celebrating our 15th Anniversary.
Same amount of time,
totally different experience.

These have been the teenage years
which are punctuated by
driving lessons, graduations, dental braces,
proms and dating years;
the career-move years--
moving to Boise, Idaho and back to Colorado years;
The hey-our-bodies-are-falling-apart-years--
doctor appointments, knee replacement surgeries and
other bodily things that noone talks about in polite company.

Mr. W came along when my oldest yahoos were in their early teens--
he could've run down the street like his hair was on fire
to get away from the eye-rolling-death-stares,
the flippant sarcasm and/or apathetic posture that teens work so hard to perfect
when they're being rotten teenagers.
He didn't bow-out when cars were wrecked,
curfews were broken,
and grocery bills were as breathtaking as
the mountains of weekly laundry;
and he didn't let me run-for-the-hills either.

In fifteen years,
we have raised five children to adulthood.
Sent off kids on adventures and missions,
planned weddings and baby blessings.
And we brought two more yahoos to the marriage--
so on top of teens we had pregnancies (and a miscarriage),
AND diapers n' spit-up n' teething fevers n' all that goes with
toddlers and babies and teenagers.

What else?
We've had unemployment and disappointments.
Just a good mix of life-moments.
In other words, it ain't been easy!

But that's not where my memories are tied to this passing of time--
we have had opportunities to rejoice in the midst of trials;
times to laugh our guts out at and with our children;
tender moments of tears and love and gratitude
for the sweet blessings that have come along too.

It's kinda interesting how "time" is reflected in our minds, isn't it?

It's the difference of waiting in the DMV line for forty-five grueling minutes
and waiting at your favorite restaurant for the same amount of time...

Scientifically, forty-five minutes is forty-five minutes.
There's no shortcut around it.
And yet, depending on whom you're spending that time with,
makes all the difference, doesn't it?

When the best part of my day is the moment
Mr. W walks in the door,
I know.
I am one lucky woman.
And fifteen years is just a blink of time
in the speck of eternity.

My Beloved Boy

It's Monday night a million days ago since I last wrote about faith and God's ever-reaching arm.

My faith is being tested.
Not that I can abandon it,
but I'm swimming in deep water here
and these past 72 hours have found me at times gasping for air,
looking
begging
for God's arm to reach down
from His heavenly spheres
into my small life and remove this
desperate pain from my heart.
Once again, I am in my own Gethsemane Garden.

Last Friday,
instead of going to Time Out for Women in Denver
I chose to take Dean to our ward's
Trunk R Treat.
You will never meet a boy who loves
Halloween more than my boy.
He longs to be more than he is,
more than his disabilities allow him to be--
Halloween provides those moments for him.
In years past,
he has been an alligator, a doctor, a Phantom of the Opera,
and on and on...
he loves dressing up.

So I gave my tickets up to someone else
for Dean's sake.

We arrived at the Church just before the event started--
meeting his respite care provider, Tom for the first time.
After I parked the car,
I was searching in my purse for a notepad and pen
so that I could get Tom's number
to call him when it was time to leave.
We'd already said we'd drive Dean to his house afterwards.
I finally found a pen
and as I walked around the back of the Suburban over to Tom's car,
I passed Dean as he made his way to the sidewalk,
I patted Dean on the back and said,
"Hey, Buddy." and kept walking towards Tom.

I heard a thump behind me
and looked to see Dean sprawled out on the pavement,
face first.
I ran to his side,
he was unconscious.
I kneeled down next to his face
and saw a fast stream of blood
pouring out of his nose and mouth
and gutteral sounds from his throat.

I lost it.
I yelled for someone to call 911.
And yelled again for a someone to get a doctor--
we have alot of doctors in our ward
and I wanted one right. now.

We rolled Dean over,
still unconscious, blood covering his face,
his brand-new Clown costume shirt,
and I cradled his head in my lap.
Cars were pulling into the church parking lot,
but were diverted around us,
by I don't know who,
and finally a dentist and a doctor came over to check out Dean.

He started to come around,
only to have a seizure and pass out again.
I was beside myself.
Apologizing over and over to Dean--
I hate seeing him hurt more than I can even say.

The EMT's got there pretty quick--
I was trying to explain to them that Dean has cerebral palsy,
that his cognitive age is between 3 and 8 years old--
that he doesn't register pain like we do.
One EMT asked Dean if his face hurt,
to which Dean uttered "un-unh" (no)...
as they loaded him on a backboard,
he said outloud,
"I love Halloween." and then had another seizure and passed out.

The EMT's loaded him into the ambulance,
and as I got into the Sub with Kent,
I finally asked about Bee--
was she OK? Who was with her?
Someone said they'd taken her into the Church because she was cold
and upset.
Bishop said his family would take care of her for the night and not to worry.

I felt guilty not being able to comfort her after she had most certainly witnessed at least
the beginning of this mess.

Still, we had to get going and follow the ambulance to the hospital.

We got there before it did...I don't know which way they had to take? but we sat in the waiting room
for a few moments before the clerk called us to go to the ER room where Dean was waiting.
I walked in to see Dean still strapped to the backboard and a neck compression brace on...
he was trembling, so I asked the nurse to bring us some warming blankets.
He didn't know why he was there, or what had happened.

Pulling a rolling chair over, I sat next to him and talked to him,
trying so hard to control the tears.
I HATE that this happened to him.
WHY?  Why would this happen to him on the one day he has been looking forward to all year??

It didn't make sense 72 hours ago and it still doesn't make sense today.

His nose is bloodied and bruised.
His front teeth are loose, one is jaggedly broken.
His lips torn up, bloodied and swollen.

Why??  Such a little joy in his life, this holiday, and this.

For the next five hours,
through the stupid waiting games of the ER,
and staff shift changes,
Dean went in and out of consciousness.
Never complaining.
Never demanding a thing.
Completely helpless.
And I cried and prayed for the outreached arms I longed for...
long for.
I texted the older kids right away;
Danielle called Dara in Alaska and told her.
They both called while we were in the ER.
Dara told me she'd sent flowers to me that morning--
she didn't know why, but felt "impressed" to do something nice for me.
(I rec'd them on Saturday afternoon...a tender mercy? yes.)
Danielle put our names on the Houston temple prayer roll.

Our Bishop and his wife and the Relief Society President all came to the hospital
 for a little while out of concern of course and to comfort us.
They don't know my amazing Dean.
I shared how much we love him
and how very brave he is...
while he laid there bloodied and bruised.
I told them what a privilege it is to be his mother.
Trying really hard not to cry.

The ER doc came in and said the test results showed
--he was severely dehydrated (thus the passing out at church),
--he has another cyst/tumor on his brain
--no broken or fractured bones in his face or mouth.

Our visitors left and we were getting ready to go,
as the nurse removed Dean's IV,
he had another seizure so then they had to give him a shot
of addavan,
and watch him again for an hour.
Finally ready to go,
two of the nurses shared personal feelings with me,
of how meeting Dean had blessed them and they sent us away
with hugs and prayers for a quick recovery.

We brought him home with us.
There was no way I was going to let anyone else take care of him
in this condition. No way.
We got home close to midnight,
and tucked him into bed with pain meds.
Just as I got into bed,
we heard a loud thump--
ran to his room
and found he'd fallen out of bed...
he was sweaty from head to toe--
I think he'd had another seizure,
as that is one of the things that happens.

Gave him a drink of water,
tucked him in again--
and watched him go back to sleep.

I didn't sleep that night.
I rested.
I cried.
I prayed and begged for understanding.
But I didn't want to go to sleep.

Dean spent the rest of the weekend with us.
He slept almost all of Saturday.
Waking up just for some food and drink and potty.
Never complaining.

Sunday he came around a little in the morning,
and asked to go to church.
We sent Bee but didn't go ourselves.
Kent had to work (ugh!) and Joseph stayed home to help me.

Dean took several naps off and on again,
waking up for soft foods and lots of water and juice.

He sat next to me on the sofa,
holding my hand
and my nose (his sign of affection since a baby)
and saying to me over and over,
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, Mom."

This morning, he was feeling a little better;
Asking if he could go to his day program (he couldn't),
and he had a dental appt which his HHP was going to meet up with us
and take him to, since I am an emotional trigger.
Dean sensed something was up,
and got anxious, even taking a swing at me in the kitchen.
While it was disturbing, I knew it wasn't about me.
He's scared. Heck, I'd be scared too.
I went upstairs and took a shower while Kent (who stayed home from work to help)
watched over Dean until it was time to go.
We met up with the HHP,
gave hugs and promises of meeting up again this week.

Watching Dean climb into the HHP's truck sucked.
As they pulled away.
my emotions got the best of me and I just sobbed..
for Dean. for me.
I sat in the car and just bawled.
Kent hugged me,
said he doesn't understand what the point of this whole ugly mess
is for any of us.

How is it that the child that needs me most,
cannot live with me??
I want nothing more than to be Dean's caregiver.
Why is it that he cannot live with me and be happy?
I don't understand it.

I just don't.
I want that part of his brain to be healed so that we can
be together.
I am my best self when he is home.
I love this special young man with my whole heart.
I hate missing days with him.

I love cooking for him.
Cleaning him up for the day.
Putting conditioner in his hair.
Trimming his nails.
Teaching him how to cook eggs and toast
n' seeing his big smile lights up my life!

I would gladly do this for him every day for the rest of my life.

His days are not long. I know this. And I am mourning already.

I am in Gethsemane again
and my voice is raised to my Heavenly Father
and His Son--
heal my beloved son and me.

What I Can't Talk About

a lump in my throat.

a shooting pain in my heart.

I feel the immediate squeeze in my jaw.

and the tears are right there,

just behind my eyes.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold on

and then,

I have to change the subject

to you, to yours, to the weather,

to anything other than

my son.

Just sitting here in the quiet of morning,

alone with my thoughts,

I wonder if I can

if I dare

let this out.

I've guarded this with all that I can--

when asked about my son,

I hold back and say,
"I can't talk about it."

Because, if I even start to go "there"I know I will lose it,
and the person on the other end is going to be left standing there
feeling helpless to say whatever they can think of to comfort
a mother's heart that is torn and bereaved to the point
that there are no words that can give comfort.

And that would be a burden I don't want to place on any unsuspecting person.

I hold these feelings as sacred to me.

And while I know there are others who carry similar burdens--
I suspect there are others, anyway--
there isn't anyone in my circle of family or friends
who truly truly know how I feel.

It began last December when Dean had a seizure that took him to the ER.
He was in the hospital for 5 days...
MRI, CATscan, blood tests, spinal tap--
where was found a lesion on his brain.
The neurologist said if we'd noticed aggressive behavior increasing in Dean--
that was a 'yes'--
then he said it's because the lesion on Dean's brain was exactly on the part of the brain
that controlled aggression.

To counteract the seizures,
a drug called "Keppra" was prescribed
and a follow-up appointment was to be made
by the host home provider and agency that oversees Dean's needs.

That was December.
I asked about that appointment over and over and over and over and over and over and over--
given excuse after excuse after excuse after excuse
as to why it hadn't been made.

I was trying to be patient,
but in the meantime,
we couldn't have time with Dean because he'd lost control
while he was around us,
and it was too hard to do that.

He calls me everyday
and asks to come over.
He misses us.
And I was told to keep away from my son
because he is worse after seeing us--
with the promise that once his meds kicked in,
he'd be better.

In May,
while I was at Women's Conference--
the first day I was there in fact,
I got an awful phone call that said Dean had been removed
from his host home because of serious bad behavior--
the police had been called,
Dean had been handcuffed.
handcuffed.
My special needs son, who has the cognitive ability of a 3-8 year old,
handcuffed.

I was sick.
I sucked it up and tucked it inside,
deep inside my heart,
and went through the rest of the trip
half there.

I came home and had an emergency meeting with Dean's team.
He was there too,
but as soon as he saw me,
took a swing at me and had to be removed.
My heart broke for him.

This isn't my son.

I demanded help--
when is the neuro appointment?
You know, the one from December??

Turns out, the agency lost the referral months before
and no appointment had been made.

WHAT??

I went home and made phone calls.
To the State agency--
I needed help for Dean.
It was at the end of the day-- 4:57pm--
with a prayer in my heart that someone
ANYONE would answer the phone,
I was relieved that the actual Director took the call--
when he said later,
that he never answers the phone so close to the end of the day.

I could barely get out my name,
before the flood gates opened
and I sobbed to this stranger on the other end,
telling him what was going on with my son,
and asked for any kind of help.

He gave me names and numbers,
and support that I have been needing for months.
He gave me his personal cell phone and email
and told me to call him anytime at all.

I hung up, relieved, with a plan.
I was going to take control and demand accountability!
I contacted ARC and got an Adult Advocate assigned to Dean
to protect him and his rights.

There were more emails to lots of people--
each seeing that I copied the Director on them
as he told me to do.

Things with Dean got worse before they got better.
He ended up in the ER again,
in the psych unit--
escorted by police--
only to be held there for a few hours and released
with no treatment plan.
I sat in the waiting room--
unable to go to him because someone identified me as a
"trigger".
I cried when I had to leave the hospital
and he had no idea I was even there.

"It's the DRUGS! This is not my son!", I kept saying.

He was moved more than six times between May and July.
Six nights I didn't sleep.
Six nights and more mornings, I went to bed with tears and woke up the same.
Kent gave me a preisthood blessing, wherein I was told
that I have much work to do for Dean and
I will be given the strength to do it.

I fasted for him.
I fasted that he would get in to see the Neurologist.
A new nurse was assigned to Dean at the agency, Shannon.
She came in to get things done.

Finally, though, he got in.
Turns out, the Keppra has known side effects that induce aggression and violence.
Seriously.

Dean had another MRI scheduled.
He would need to be sedated for it.
The morning of, the nurses didn't put it in his chart (or whoever was supposed to, didn't)
so that appointment was cancelled AFTER he got there.

Another appointment was made weeks out from that one.
Shannon was on top of it.

Finally,
the MRI was done and we had to wait two weeks to get the results:
which were
that the lesion on Dean's brain had hemorraged to the point that
there is no brain matter left in that part of the right frontal lobe.
Which means he will continue to deteriorate in his abilities
to remember things, names, people.
Me.
That his language skills, already difficult to understand, will decline.
As well as his ability to understand language.
And his posture is affected.

I can't even talk about this.
I am looking at these words,
and I can't even say them outloud.

I have seen Dean since they took him off Keppra.
In fact, I saw him last Tuesday.
He looks homeless.
I don't know why his respite care provider doesn't make sure
his teeth are brushed,
his beard is trimmed,
he's wearing clothing that fit him...
I've complained.
I said it isn't OK with me that Dean looks unkept.
But his new HHP is committed to changing that,
and I am hopeful that he keeps his word.
Anyway, I got to look into my son's blue eyes.
He was sweet and hugged me and stood close by me
as we talked about him going to a special needs camp
in the mountains last week,
put on by the Lions Club.
His speech is slurred, his posture is weak,
he couldn't remember the kids' names--
Joseph and Bee were with me--
it is evident he is struggling.
But his smile was there.

He went and had a great time.
The Leader of the camp wrote me email and sent pictures
of Dean while he was there and said he did great.

I interviewed a new host home provider, Eric.
I met with the team again,
and requested a new case manager as the other one
clearly didn't care about Dean--he was better at excuses than action.
I was applauded by other team players afterward for that decision.
The new case manager is awesome.
I love her. I need her. Dean needs her and she is on top of everything!
At the meeting where Eric was present,
I told him and the rest of Dean's team that once Dean's meds have been
evaluated and changed and he's doing better,
I want him home.

He belongs to me.
I belong to him.
Just as I belong to my other children,
but even more so.
And if you have a special needs child,
you know what I mean by that.
Having a special needs child,
makes me a special needs mother.
I have needs regarding his care that exceed my abilities
at times.

I believe,
I have been blessed by God in heaven
to see Dean's last moments on this earth
and I am at his side in those moments.

His days are known.

"Thy days are known, and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever."

I can't talk about this.
I say that to my family, to my friends, to anyone who asks.
I can't.
It is too real. Too hard. Too much to put at anyone else's feet.
Too much.
I don't think anyone really wants to hear it all.
And I certainly can't talk about it without my heart leaking through my eyes.


When I close my eyes at night,
my heart opens and reaches toward the heavens,
and my silent prayer is the same,
"Please watch over my Dean. Help me, Lord, to be strong."

The Circle of a Woman's Reach

So I'm thinking about the women in my life.
I have so many to be thankful for that tonight
I decided to say it outloud!
THANK YOU TO:
The women I knew as teachers
when I was younger...
Miss Peck, Mrs. Gaye, Mrs Stafford,
Mrs. Franklin, my fourth grade english teacher, who looked like a princess
always smelled good, and made me want to learn how to spell!

Mrs. Dornan, the neighbor who taught me how to macrame,
and the neighbor I ran to in the middle of the night when
I was just 10 years old and found my own mother
swallowing pills to take her own life.
You were soft and warm & always comforted me.

Mrs. Crosby and Mrs. LaHew, also neighbors
who sewed for me--
Mrs.Crosby made me a light green wrap-around skirt,
and Mrs. LaHew sewed a blue and pink plaid skating dress,
just like the one she made for her daughter,
my best friend, Jackie.

Mrs. Bartlett, who always lent me a pencil and paper in school
when I had none. Which was nearly every day of 5th grade.

My Aunt Joyce who taught me to sew my own clothes in eighth grade
and always had a listening ear...I used to wish she was my mom.
Then we moved away from Florida
and away from family.

Gratefully, there were other women
who, for whatever reason,
chose to bless my life--

Sarah Anderson, thank you for caring for me
when my own family asked me to leave the house
with the clothes on my back that snowy February day.
Thank you for sewing me that special dress for the
Valentine's Dance so I could go.
Shirley Carlson, thank you for opening your closet
and pulling out brand new clothes and shoes for me
when I had none.
Rosalie Kieth, thank you for taking me in,
when you had four other children of your own to care for,
and for teaching me scriptures while we stood in line at the grocery store,
and for sharing your Book of Remembrance with the cute little cut-out windows
of all of your friends in it.
SuzAnne Brothers, thank you for letting me sleep in your grandmother's special
iron bed and use her special hand-made quilt with the tiny pink roses on it.
You made me feel special too.
Thank you for teaching me your recipe for cod fish and marinara sauce
with mozzarella cheese.
And for teaching me to clean the house on Mondays.
And washing the floors on my hands and knees--
I still make that recipe, and I still wash my floors that way.

Laurie Madsen,
Thank you for taking me into your family
when my own asked me to leave again because of my faith.
I still make your recipe for cheesegrits and our family prayers
are sweeter when we kneel like your family knelt.

Shelly Sorenson...thank you for being an awesome Visiting Teacher.
For coming to my house when my first baby was born
and encouraging me along.
I was so sad that you died in childbirth.  But I thought of you every time
I went into labor and was reminded to be grateful for the miracle of life.
I miss you.

Karen Barg, I love you.
Thank you so much for giving me a wonderful hug
and saying,
"Congratulations" when I found out I was
pregnant with number three
alot sooner than I wanted to be.
I needed someone to celebrate it with me.
You were that person.

Candy Rice: Thank you so much for going to aerobics with me
and cheering me on to lose that baby weight!!
Just knowing you were going to be at my door
every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
kept me motivated to move my buns!

Dr. Eileen, at St. Joseph's Hospital in Phoenix,
thank you for meeting me and Dean at 7am
every morning for three years
so he could have physical therapy.
Thanks for all the stickers you gave to my other children,
who were sitting patiently waiting.
We put all those stickers in their journals...
well the ones that didn't get stuck on their clothing,
or inside the car windows.

To our sweet neighbors in South Carolina,
Leslie Rufus and Leanna Butler,
thanks for making our very sparse Christmas
a beautiful memory.

Lisa Parry, thank you for being a loving Visiting Teaching Companion.
I learned so much from your dedication.
Thank you for sharing so much of your self with me,
that when I suffered post-partum depression,
I could talk to you about it and not feel judged.
And thank you for teaching the Primary kids my favorite song,
"I'll Walk With You"...in honor of Dean.
Your love helped me so much.

Sister Mathers,
Thanks for meeting us at the hotel,
and driving me around to find a place to live
when we arrived in South Carolina to go to school there.
I'd never met you before and there you were!
Thanks for showing up in the pouring down rain
with a crockpot full of delicious chili when I had
Number Four...even though you weren't my visiting teacher.

Dorn Fox, thank you for that beautiful sweater you bought
me for the baby shower...
your card said the baby had lots of gifts,
and you wanted to do something just for me--
I loved the sweater and I still have that card, twenty years later.

Mary Gwinn, thanks to you, I was able to use my
calligraphy talents to help support my family
while we were in school!
By your word of mouth and your Aunt's bridal shop,
I was always busy!
I still do wedding invites all these years later,
and I always think of you and your sweet family.

Nan, you are more than my friend,
you have become my sister.
Thank you for laughing at me,
crying with me,
praying for me and just being there.
I so needed you.

My SIL, Stacie--
for letting me and my yahoos drive down to Atlanta
every six weeks (during midterms and finals)
and hanging out with you and Keith and the kids.
We loved the eggrolls and the memories!

Dottie, thank you for letting me work with you as
a Midwife Assistant.
You let me love your clients and do something I've always wanted to do.
You were an answer to my prayers.

Stacey Durrant--thank you for that first plate of cookies
you brought over the day we moved into the house on
Coberd*le, and for welcoming us into the ward so warmly.
For sharing your painting tips! And for organizing a wedding reception
in Salt Lake when we knew noone else there!
You are such a generous sister and I am blessed in knowing you.

Dodee...you are a trip!
Thanks for the late night talks,
the early morning walks,
the laughs and giggles and sharing your testimony of
God's love for all of His children
in a thousand different moments.

Kelly McKamey and Tami Lynard, thank you
for coaching me to be the best doula
I can be!  You both have shared all you know
so graciously, I am confident going into births
because I know I've been trained by exceptional women!

Lorna...thank you for seeing in my heart
the quiet emptiness
of missing my son,
and bringing him to me as a surprise!
Noone has ever equaled that joyous gift!
I love you to infinity!

Robyn Baird and Rhonda Cazier--thank you for helping me
get my homestaging business going in Idaho,

and Kelly W. thanks for being my partner in crime now!
We are sisters in every sense of the word. One day, we will
have to go to Las Vegas to see Donny Osmond!

Vicki, thank you for sharing the secret to your happiness:
the Gospel.
It changed my life
and brought all of these fine women into my realm.

 There are several other women who've taken time
out of their lives and reached over to touch mine.
This list is just a small sampling of the good women
in my life who've served and love me so.
Women are good at that.
We are the nurturing souls on this earth,
the ones who weep with us
and for us
and lift us up when we are low.
How we need one another to get thru this life
in joy and sorrow.
I am who I am
because of a multitude of women.
Because of them,
I am a better Wife and Mother,
a better friend and sister.

What about you?  Who is on your Grace-full Women List??

Today's a good day to be thankful.


*this is a re-post from 8/2010

Holy Rollin' Cousins

My Dad has one sister, Patricia. 
She is considerably older than him, like 8 years, I think. 
And she married a Pentecostal Minister, Uncle Milton. 
Together they had three daughters. 
They lived in Channelview, Texas and had their own church, Truth Tabernacle.
They never cut their hair, 
always wore long dresses, 
and were the picture of Minister's daughter's. 
I secretly envied them...they always looked like they were going to a Party.

So the one and only time they ever ever ever came to visit us was when I was in 6th grade. My Mom cleaned the house like President Nixon was coming to stay. 
It shined like a new penny.
We were all so excited for their arrival. 
We kept looking out the front door and down the street until 
they pulled into the driveway and we all ran out to meet them.

Now, Lila (named after Granma Lila) was older than me by at least 6 years. 
Nina was closer to me, but still older by about 3 years and 
BonnieBeth was younger by about 3 years. 
So Nina and BonnieBeth were ready to hang out with us kids, 
while Lila wanted to keep company with the adults.
My brothers and I had a favorite place to go to not far from where we lived. 
It was a sandy cliff,
that you could actually project yourself OFF the cliff, 
catch some air, and fall into the soft sandy bottom near a running creek.
We somehow managed to talk my cousins into going there with us. 
Oh sure, they were reluctant at first..."we can't mess our hair, our dresses are new-- blah blah blah" . 
We told them that the didn't HAVE to jump, they could watch us and hey, if they changed their minds, they were welcomed to it!
Well, we were gone at least an hour,
jumpin' and catchin' air and sand, 
before Nina had a moment of clarity as  she looked at BonnieBeth. 
Who was a Mess and looked nothing like a Preacher's Daughter. 
Her long blonde braids had twigs and sand in them. 
Her dress pockets were full of sand and pebbles. 
Her socks were tossed in the dirt on the cliff, feet and hands covered in sand. 
Head to toe.
Nina wised up, and started frantically wiping, shaking, brushing her sister down to clean her up.
Then she took stock of her own appearance. 
And started laughing. 
It was not a "hey ain't this funny laugh" (that's what my brothers and I were thinking),
 it was a mildly maniacal, 
"Oh crap, my Mom's gonna kill me!" laugh. 
We didn't know any better, so we just laughed along.

Well we when arrived at the house, Nina told us all to go in as quietly as possible so she and BonnieBeth could get to the bathroom and clean themselves up before Aunt Pat saw them.
I wish I could say that happened. 
It didn't. Hey, I have 4 brothers. Boys are anything but quiet.
I dashed into my parent's bathroom, 
and all I know is that by the time I came out, 
Aunt Pat and her three daughters were in their car pulling out of the driveway. 
And my mom was breathing fire out of her nose.
Still, what a sight it was for me to see my prim and proper cousins just having fun and sharing a day with us. 
I loved them for being normal.

I have over 2 dozen cousins.  
I have seen only one of them in 30 years.  
Altho, thru facebook, I've reconnected with a dozen of them! 
I think I'll look for Nina, Lila, and BonnieBeth today.

My own children have 18 cousins--and haven't seen any of them in a decade, and some

not at all, due to the fact that we live far away from where I grew up, and divorces.

I wish I could fix that. 
I hope my own children stay close enough that their children have tight relationships with their cousins.

What about you?  Best memories of your cousins?


P.S. I found Lila on FB a couple of weeks ago.

Tales of Moving

I have learned so much that I wanted to share from our moving experience,

that I actually wrote "keywords" to remind me of different events and thoughts

down on a white board.

Marvelous things,

Funny things,

Inspirational things.

Then, I placed that whiteboard on the fridge,

and got back to unpacking,

thinking that when I got a chance,

I would go to that whiteboard and start blogging those magnificent ideas.

I should've put a 24 hour security guard on the whiteboard,

because one of the yahoos was inspired by my notes

and then without notice

erased them all.

So I may not be able to relive and relish every moment

that our move inspired,

but the important stuff is still rollin' around my noggin

and that's what I'm gonna try to get on this page

before it too is lost to the X-files of my mind.

~~~~~

Monday, a week before the closing,

our mortgage guy calls and says

it doesn't look like we're going to get the loan

we wanted--

it had a lower interest rate that we not only wanted

but needed to make this deal work.

He called Mr. W at work 

then Mr. W called me at home.

Mr. W was feelin' blue.

He's said since, that he didn't think we'd really be able to get into a home

this year....that he thought we'd have to have alot more money to put down

to get into the kind of home we're accustomed to.

But he didn't tell me that back then.

He kept that little gem to himself.

So when he got the call from Kevin, our mortgage guy,

he said he wasn't surprised,

but felt badly for me.

Well, see the thing about this is,

I didn't know what to do except call the kids to my room,

gather them at the foot of my bed,

and pray for those that were working on this loan for us.

We prayed for the mortgage people on our end,

and the bank people,

and the home owners who were anxious to get this debt off their shoulders

as it's a Short Sale home,

and we prayed that if this wasn't going to be a blessing for our family,

then we'd gratefully pass on the opportunity

and look with hope and clarity on the horizon

for the blessings our Heavenly Father has instore for us.

Yes, we cried.

We'd already set our hopes on this little house.

We're tired of the feelings of being homeless as we've been renting for 5 years

as the Lord had directed us to do.

We wanted our own place.

So we were sad.

At first, Kevin said that if we came up with 8k more,

we could get that loan--

well, we didn't have it,

and we know of noone that we could even ask to borrow it from...

but here's the deal:

Heavenly Father already knew that.

I knew that He knew that.

So if this was going to work,

then He was going to have to make it so.

I turned to the scriptures,

I just said a little prayer that I would read something

that would comfort me 

and then I opened to

Mark 4--

where we read about Jesus and His Disciples

entering a ship and once they're out in the sea

a great tempest storm starts tossing them about--

so much so that waves are crashing on the ship

and the Disciples are so afraid 

that they wake a sleeping Jesus.

"Carest thou not that we perish?"
And he arose, and rebuked the wind,
and said to the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased,
and there was great calm.
And he said unto them,
Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?

I read that sacred story again and again.

I called the children to the dining room 

and read it to them.

I read it to Mr. W that night after dinner.

And I kept my scriptures open to that page

for the rest of the week.

I called my oldest children and my best friend 

and asked them to remember us in their prayers.

We kept packing the house up.

I had an appointment with our mortgage guy on Wednesday,

where he and I spent an hour talking about faith

and trust in God's love and plan for His children.

When I left his office,

he and I both felt uplifted by the experience.

I told him we were praying for him and the underwriters,

and the homeowners and the loan officers.

That brought tears to his eyes.

He may have known alot about Mormons' lifestyles--

but after our meeting, 

I hope he knows alot more about faith.

By Friday,

Kevin called me,

his voice was filled with electricity:

"We got it! We got the loan!"

The next Monday, as Mr. W and I were driving to the 

Title company's office for the closing,

Mr. W shared that he was surprised that we were actually 

doing this on that day in this year.

And that he felt "foolish" for not having more faith.

I said we all had our faith tested and rewarded in this experience

and that's what this life is all about.

After the closing,

Kevin smiled and said to Mr W:

"You've got a diamond right there". (pointing to me)

His compliment filled my heart--

he had done his best for us,

and our experience together blessed us all.

I can't say I've ever had that experience with a 

mortgage broker,

but there you have it.

Look, I know home ownership isn't the be-all-end-all

of life in this world--

but for my heart,

it means more than I can say.

I have always felt like a bit alone--

my parents are not in my life,

Mr. W's parents are deceased,

we do not have extended family that is involved

in our lives beyond occasional

"hey, what's up?" and Christmas cards.

So a home to me,

means security.

The Lord knows this about me.

And He knows that I am completely dependent upon Him

for every thing in my life.

If there's a moral to this story,

it might be well-said from a quote by

Neil A. Maxwell:

"Faith in God includes faith in God's timing."

The night after we started moving in,

our family gathered together in the new diningroom,

surrounded by moving boxes, 

and we knelt in a little circle and dedicated our new home

to our Heavenly Father.

We asked that our home be filled with His Spirit,

that we will make it a sacred place for all of us,

a refuge from the world,

and always a blessing in our lives.

We acknowledged our Heavenly Father's hand in our lives

and expressed our love to Him.

And then we stood, hugged, and started unpacking.

This is our home, 

through the blessed efforts of many,

this is our home.

(pics have been taken, but I can't find the usb cord thingy to transfer the pics off my camera!)

Feather Boa and Tiara: She's workin' it!

Tiara: $9.95

Mulit-colored necklace: $2.99

Dangly Earrings: $2.95

Blingy Bracelets: $5.99

High Heels: $6.95

Feathered Boa: $10.99

White fur-lined purse: $7.95

Gold purse: $5.95

Lookin' like a Princess (after a nap): 

Priceless

~~

Possible Captions:

"What Happens in Vegas..."

"I'll have a root beer on the rocks."

"That was one wild princess party!"

What would you caption this one as?

*The story behind this pic:  This was taken the day after Dara's 4th birthday. All she wanted was princess dress-up stuff--we did, in fact, buy her a Snow White dress from the Disney store to go with this outfit, and she wore it the day before to her party. But on this morning, she came downstairs for breakfast, barely awake, so excited to put on her princess garb, she totally forgot the dress.  And the look on her face is priceless to us! 

~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Winner of the "POPCORN BOPPIN'" Cd is Moody who said,

"There's so many songs I love and so many that make me tear up when sung by those little voices! One of my faves is Book of Mormon Stories."

Moody will you email me with your address so Deseret Book can get that cd out to you? Thanks so much!

A Teacher's Grace

Over this past crazy weekend of moving,
we also had a visit from my special needs son, Dean.

We had planned on having him here months ago,
long before we knew it was going to be a crazy weekend.
We didn't dare cancel,
because, seriously, I sleep better when he's
within arm's reach.
I just do.
All is right in my world,
when Dean is visiting.

And he loves to be needed,
loves to help,
loves to be where the action is--
so this was a perfect weekend to have him visit us
when you know this about Dean.

We worked hard all day long on Saturday.
All. Day.
Packing and moving
packing and moving.
And he never once complained.
I wish I could say the same for the rest of us.
We're so much a bunch o' whiners.
I get so cranky that I consider calling
ARC to come n' get whatever they can fit into their truck
n' call it a day
cuz we own more stuff than is legal in some countries.
And the little yahoos whine so much
that to get them to help is akin
to bowling with broken fingers.

Anywho, we worked hard all day Saturday,
and come Sunday morning,
well, we didn't go to church.
Two reasons really:
Dean didn't bring his Sunday clothes,
and I couldn't find the box with my underwear in it.
I'm not kidding. And that's all I'm gonna say about that.

ANYWAY,
Sunday morning, I was looking at our family picture
where all of us are smiling and looking all radiant
after being sealed as an eternal family
in the Salt Lake temple right at 7 years ago,
I got all choked up n' stuff
like I do.
Dean came over to me and gave me a big hug.
I mean, a really big hug
where he didn't let go immediately,
because normally he's a hard one to get a good hug from
as it just stimulates him too much to bear.
But not this time,
he hugged me good and tight.
When we both let go a little,
I held his hands and said,
"I want you to know that I know you have been sent here
to teach me.  Thank you for being so patient with me.  I love you so much."
And then I wrapped my arms around him again.

Then, I pulled away to wipe the tears from my eyes,
and he started to walk away towards to back door,
when he did something unusual--
he turned back to me,
smiled
and slowly
took a bow.
The whole arms stretched open,
head down,
bending at the waist
like a
"it's-my-honor-to-teach-you"
bow.
It will ever remain the most gracious bow
I have ever seen.

And made my crazy weekend
awhole lot sweeter.

I love him.

A Remarkable Birth Story

What a night.
And a day.

On my way to the hospital,
I looked west to see the last rays of the sun
hitting the backside of Pikes Peak--
it is always so beautiful.
No matter how many times
I look,
it is always different
always remarkable.

That beautifully describes the miracle of birth...
always different
always remarkable.

The young couple that invited me to be their doula
is a couple we've known for quite some time.
Papa M. is a young man that won our hearts
as a dear friend to our family
about eight years ago or more.
He remembers when The Caboose was still
in diapers.
When he was ready to pop the question to his lovely girlfriend-at-the-time, Momma A.
he was kind enough to let us know
and then brought her over to meet all of us,
and that's when we all came to know and love her as well.

My children go out into the world and bring home some remarkable people
whom we are grateful to know and love having in our lives.

So I was thinking about this as I drove to the hospital,
and listening to a lovely instrumental hymns cd--
of course, I got all choked up too.
I do that.
Alot.
But even moreso when I am on my way
to participate in a miracle.

Papa M. and Momma A.'s birth plan was taking a detour
as her medical diagnosis changed and dictated
a planned induction.
Dr. B prescribed cytotec to get labor going--
in increments of 3-4 hours of one-fourth dose
at a time.
This was going to be a long night, I knew that.
After the first dose was administered,
and we saw that Momma A.'s body was handling it very calmly,
I decided to go home for a few hours
so we could all get some rest,
and have Papa M. call me after the next two doses were given.
Also, the hospital waiting room in the L&D area
was packed full of other patient's relatives--
moms, dads, kids, granmas and granpas, aunts and uncles,
friends, grocers, classmates, fb friends of friends--
and there was nowhere for me to rest there.
Can I just say,
I don't understand this practice?
I could write a whole other blog about that topic alone.
Bottom line,
until Mom has delivered baby,
and both are in excellent medical condition,
noone is going to be let in the labor and delivery room--
and if they are,
it's going to be less than a minute.
So wait at home until you get the invitation to
"come and see", okay?
Anyway,
because there was nowhere for me to sit and rest,
I went home.

Four hours later,
I was back and the waiting room was empty.
Momma A. was awake and ready to walk.
So we cruised the halls,
sat on the birth ball,
etc.
Momma A. was making progress,
but here's what's so remarkable about this--
she didn't feel like she was in labor.
She felt no pain whatsoever.
She was the picture of calm.
She wasn't meditating,
or medi-cated,
she wasn't doing breathing or visualization exercises--
nuthin'.
Her pain receptors just didn't react to the contractions of her uterus.

Even the nurses were amazed.
According to the monitoring screen,
Momma A.'s contracting uterus was working very hard,
her tummy was as hard as a basketball,
and yet she only felt a little tightening.
No kidding!

I told her she was the envy of every mother
I've ever known
and noone would ever want to how effortless her labor was!
Truly, up until she was nearly 6-7 cms,
she felt very little discomfort.

At that point,
she did begin to feel her body working,'
and thus began a turn in her remarkable labor--
her labor quickly became the labor we all know.
It had been over a dozen hours since she'd been admitted
and she. was. tired.
And when you're a tired, laboring momma-to-be,
every thing is harder.
Her sweet Papa M. was attentive in every way--
stroking her back,
massaging her shoulders,
whsipering good and kind things in her ears...
he couldn't have been any better.
Whatever she needed or wanted,
he freely gave.
Just as I knew he would.
Yes, he is just that good.

We also had two fabulous attending nurses, Renee and Katie,
whom we all appreciated and valued their knowledge and skills
as they offered very generously.

Each of us were there to support Momma A.
in every second of every minute
as much as we could.
Finally, it was time to push!
Momma A. was very tired--
she wondered outloud if she could finish--
I assured her that she would and did have the energy to go the distance,
she just had to push past the negative thoughts!
After an hour and half of many many good pushes,
a beautiful seven-pound beauty was born!
Tiny delicate fingers,
sweet ruby lips,
dark wisps of hair,
and a cry that makes you smile your biggest smile
and cute baby toes that make you giggle!

It was a beautiful, classic birth moment--
laughter, cheers and many smiley-tears!

As Papa M. took his place at the "broiler pan" with baby G.--
Momma A. looked up at me and said,
"I can't believe I did it."

~~~~
Nearly an hour later,
the placenta had still not presented,
and after a few dramatic attempts to push it out
were made,
Dr. B took Momma A. into the OR,
where she was put under and the placenta was manually removed.
This was noone's fault,
it was simply a human body thing,
and we are so grateful for the quick response of the medical team.

Within an hour,
Momma A. was back in the same room with us
while Papa M. was in the nursery bathing Baby G.
Prayers and hugs were offered and received
and before I knew it,
their families were ooh-ing and awe-ing at the nursery window,
and it was time for me to leave my post.

~~~~
I cast my eyes to the West and over to my snow-spotted Pikes Peak...

life is so so very remarkable.
Women are so much stronger than we think we are...
birth shows us that--
no matter how it goes--
we learn how very remarkable WE are.

Garden of the Gods

 HI, I'm Momza

and I'm addicted

to 

Garden of the Gods.

 I started "using" when I was 36 years old.

My boyfriend at the time

introduced me to it.

 He brought me here under the guise

of a 

"nice drive".

 Obviously,

I had no idea

what lay in store for me.

 The longer I go without it,

the more I need it...

 my thoughts compel me

to plan ways where

I can get my "fix"...

 I daydream about the beautiful ancient red rock formations....

 I try to hide my  addiction 

but my yahoos know.

They just know, alright.

I try to be all casual when the topic comes up of

"Whadd're we gonna do today?"--

I mention going to the mall

or Fox Run Park.

But then I subtly mention

"Garden of the Gods"--

hoping they'll jump in the car

and go with me.

I know,

I'm making them co-dependent

but 

 I just can't help it.

 I try to distract my mind on 

other places to go

other things to do

 but I'm helpless

to overcome

the call of this Garden.

 The pines beguile me

with their fresh scent...

 and the red rocks and dirt call my name

to bring my family and come play.

 That ledge right there...

that's where Mr. Wonderful 

asked me to marry him.

~

It's where our story began.

Where my "addiction" took root.
Mr W has shown no remorse in introducing me 
to nature's version of
ecstasy.

 So, is it wrong that I don't feel remorse for introducing

my babies to this environment?

Say it ain't so.

 The scrub oaks are sprouting their new spring leaves...

these same leaves will deliver the goods

in the fall when they turn the hillsides

crimson red.

How can anyone walk away from this grandeur

unaffected?

If loving this is wrong,

I don't wanna be right.

 Who can resist a nature-carved seat, anyway?

It begged me to sit and stay and soak it all up.

Any efforts to decline were squashed

and I took my place and sat awhile.

 See that boy?

That boy's been coming here since before he was born.

He knows these trails like the back of his hand.

This is his playground,

this Garden of the Gods.

 See that young woman? She's been coming here since she was a toddler of three years old.

She has her own niches that nature has carved out and she find new ones every time we come.

I taught her how to "use" here too...she's almost as addicted as I am.

I'm afraid there's no cure for her.

 And I can only hope,

with all the energy of my soul

that

when my children think of me,

they'll think of my blessed addiction too,

And know in their hearts

that some addictions

are

very 

very

good.