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March 2019

I feel like I’m trying to outrun an avalanche. My heart is pounding. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I can feel the pressure of the catastrophe racing up behind me, trying to tackle me. And there is no escape.

Four years ago this week my husband was diagnosed, again, with cancer. But this time it was his death sentence. I came upon the notes I took from all the doctor visits. It is amazing what the mind can choose to forget. New spot on brain. Metastatic. No driving-at risk for seizures. Possible brain surgery. Loss of understanding the spoken word. Cancer in the brain, spine, left hip/pelvis, lymph in chest, lungs. Meeting with local oncologist who tells us he would not take the case if not for a favor being called in. Side effects will be devastating. Chance that the plan could be so extensive that it would be impossible to implement. BRACA1 mutation. Genetic counseling. He is sick. Vomitting with odd tremors. Feeding tubes and at-home intravenous antibiotics. Chemo and radiation. Again and again. Bronchoscopies and thoracentesis.  Again.

I have a note from the day before he died. “Still at hospital. G-tube supposed to be put in today. First in the morning, then at noon. Still haven’t come to get him. Set up meeting with HR to set up leave of absence at work.” The next note says he died.

My husband started his battle with cancer in September 2010. In March 2015 he was given 18 months to live. He died 30 days later.

This anniversary is, for reasons I have not yet been able to figure out, the most difficult so far. Since his death, my children have found themselves to be challenged in ways they had never been before. Depression and anxiety has nearly crippled them. We have had to move from the home in which they were raised, as was their father. We tell people we are OK but we are not. We are struggling.

I try not to let the kids see my struggles. I don’t know if that is wise or not but I wish to be strong for them. I wish to be strong for me. Mostly I can put a good face on things. Even at anniversary time. So I’m confused as to why this one is proving to be so hard for me.It goes without saying that I miss him. So what makes this one so hard? I have no answer for that, no matter how hard I try to find one.

So I guess I will continue on as I have since this whole journey began nearly 9 years ago. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. Look for my silver linings. And find a way to count my blessings. March 2019

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I took a walk in the cool 34 degree temps this morning, despite this cold that has stolen my voice and is doing its best to beat me down.  This new neighborhood of mine doesn't wake up early on the weekends, which is fine by me since I love my slow-start Saturdays.  This morning I put my headphones on, which is unusual for me as I love to listen to the sounds of the day as I walk.  Early morning bird songs are such a beautiful sound!  But I chose to keep to myself this morning.  Perhaps due to not feeling up to par?  Instead I lost myself in my favorite music, putting it on shuffle, not willing to pick and choose today.  The Allman Brothers. Cat Stevens.  David Bowie.  The Doors.  Gavin DeGraw.  Keith Urban.  CSN.  Pure Prairie League.  Rascal Flatts.  Cream.  Spirit.  Each song taking me to its own place in my memory.  In my heart.  Such a small thing, listening to music.  Such a wonderful gift!  3 Nov 18

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Back in the ‘Burbs

Saturday morning coffee has changed for me. Not for the better but also not for the worse. Off the farm and in the 'burbs the sights and sounds are different and yet the same....Believe it or not, the first thing I notice is that the traffic noise is less here, which is a surprise to me, at least in the early morning. It seems that folks in town are much more slow-starters on the weekends than those in the country.

I am happy to say that there are enough mature trees here that the birds and their singing and chirping and chittering is still a sound I can hear and appreciate and enjoy. There is water in the community, also, a pond or maybe two, so even the ducks, geese, herons, cranes and frogs are here with me. And I'm delighted that I don't have to strain my ears to hear them! And I still have enough sky above me to star-gaze when I feel the need to quiet myself and be awed at night.

Soon this morning I'm sure I will begin to hear sounds that I haven't heard in many years. Children playing! Living on the farm where I was the neighbors were not geographically very close so the sounds of kids playing was not part of my listening pleasure. But here they are abundant, with their trikes and bikes and bats and balls, walking their dogs and playing in the streets. And these are sounds I look forward to getting used to.

My new home is in a community with the word 'estates' tagged on to the end of its name. For me that word conjures up visions of large, grand homes on spralling prime real estate with pristine lawns and beautifully maintained landscaping. I love my new home but an estate it is not! This is a lovely community with well maintained properties, each of which has very little real estate attached to it, though. It is a good mix of single family homes and townhomes, filled with singles, empty nesters and families, both large and small. When walking the sidewalked streets I am greeted by every person I pass, even though as of now I know noone who lives here. So far the people here are friendly yet unobtrusive. I like that.

I am beginning to settle in here, with most of the boxes unpacked and all of the decorating yet to do but I am already feeling like I'm home.

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Its a beautiful, clear, nearly full moon night here on the farm. The sky is shining bright with the glitter-strewn stars on show for all to see. It is one of the coolest nights we've had in many nights now. So I find myself drawn out into the night. We have missed the peak of the Perseid meteors here, but I am, as is what I find myself almost always to be, ever hopeful. Hopeful that I may see one or two errant, brilliant flashes flying across my tiny yet vast bit of sky. Lacking that, perhaps I will catch a glimpse of whatever creature has had my old pup chasing it and tying himself up in the cornfield for the past few nights. Or see the deer leaving the cover of the still growing corn in the field, to inspect the apple trees in the hopes of finding the ripe apples fallen on the grass I just cut a few days ago. Or, as I am always excited to hear, the wonderfully eerie sounds of the coyotes as they call to one another on their travels through the night. But tonight none of these are gifted to me. The only gift I receive tonight is the quiet calm of the night. The soothing sounds of the crickets in the grass, the songs of the cicadas in the trees and the croaking frogs off in the woods. And it is enough for me. It is more than enough. Blessings come in many shapes and sizes....

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Overwhelmed Yes. That's me today. I am overwhelmed. I have to move. Move out of the farmhouse that I've lived in for the past 22 years. The farmhouse where I raised my two younger children. The farmhouse that my kids' now deceased father grew up in. I have to move. Although I knew it was bound to happen, the property would be sold at some point, it has come up on me very quickly.  What started out as "this is just for my information, there is no timeline", when she called saying she was bringing her realtor over to look at the property and measure rooms at the end of March, turned into "we expect the property to be sold by the fall" in  the end of May. So here I am on the 4th of July sitting at my computer crying.  Because, apparently, crying is not only what I do when I'm sad and brokenhearted. Its what I do when I feel overwhelmed. And its about so much more than having to move. I've found a place to live, a place that I think my son and I can make work for us. It felt good when I walked through the door. It felt happy. So that's not a problem.  That's a big stressor gone. But there's more stress.  I just look around here and I get stressed.  This house has a lot of STUFF in it.  A LOT.  I'm sure you can imagine what that's like--22 years of accumulated stuff would overwhelm anyone, I'm sure.  But I will get through all of it.  I will.  One. Day. At. A. Time.  Which is how I manage to get through everything.  I know how to do one day at a time.  I lived through 5 years of a wonderful husband slowly and horribly dying of cancer.  So, yeah, I know one day at a time intimately. But there's so much more than stuff here.  There are memories.  Everywhere.  On the door jamb where we marked every inch of growth of our two youngest. And their friends. My husband is there, along with me and my mother, too.  I've already taken down the gallery of pantings and drawings that my kids did in gradeschool that lined the walls of the staircase.  Memories are in every inch of this house.   And in the barn where we played basketball and threw darts.   And in the shed where we all worked to fulfill my husband's belief that everyone should do something, ANYthing, every day. And in the woods where a thousand walks have taken place.  Where a thousand hours of make-believe took place by so many kids.  And in the yard where we gardened and played badmitton and ran through sprinklers and on the slip and slide and spent a thousand hours just mowing. And I think that is what is overwhelming me today.  I feel like I will be leaving all the memories here.  Maybe that sounds silly but its what's going through my head today.  That and the fact that I've lost my happily ever after.  Which probably doesn't really have anything to do with moving.  My happily ever after died 3 years ago when I watched my husband die. Hell,  maybe I've watched too many sappy movies in the past couple of days while I'm packing boxes, I don't know.  But today the thought of leaving this farmhouse makes me feel that I'm leaving all of that here.  All the memories, all the love we shared in this house.  In this place. The place that I've lived for the past 22 years.  The place where I raised my two younger children.  The place where my now deceased husband grew up.     4 July 2018

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Chilly May

I spent a little time on the front porch on this chilly May afternoon. Mama barn cat is currently housing her 3 kittens out there so I rearranged a few things so they have a place cuddle and hide out. They are slowly getting used to me as I call to them every time I venture out into their territory. One of the two very pale dreamsicle orange ones is quite fearless and crawled up my blue jean-clad leg to sit with me. Until she decided it was more fun to climb down my leg and try to untie my shoelaces. Her nearly identical sister will now allow me to pick her up but only if I speak to her first. I guess she needs to make sure I am who she thinks I am. Such beautiful little faces they have! And the third is gray like her mama and still wants nothing to do with me. Especially when I scoop her up into my lap, very much against her wishes. This one is all claws and adorable kitten hisses. I hope to win her over soon.  12 May 2018

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Early morn Starting my day at the break of day, I took the old pup for a walk around the property. Slow and easy for my old guy with the bad hips. There was no traffic yet on the road so the sounds of my little world here were beautifully loud. The turkeys gobbling from the woods a quarter mile or so away were so clear that I was shocked that I could not see them. Barking dogs that belong to some unknown neighbor on the far side of the woods. For the first time the symphony of bird songs this morning included a pair of ducks that made a stop high in the oak tree on their way to a local watering hole. Since my feeders are full, a beautiful collection of my every day birds were here--cardinals, blue jays, red-winged black birds, black-capped chickadees and nuthatches. The ever-present sparrows with gold finches, house finches, red-bellied and downy woodpeckers, one of which insisted on drilling on the side of my plastic feeder. And the clean up crew, mourning doves. I generally think that my life here on the farm is pretty quiet, but I guess that depends on what I'm listening for.           22 Apr 2018

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3rd anniversary Why? Why does life have to be so hard?? This week marked the third anniversary of my husband’s death. Keep in mind that our wedding anniversary is  5 days before the day he died. That makes it especially hard for me. But don’t mistake me, its hard for all of us. And this was the first time that we--my kids and I--were not together, each in separate parts of the country. That thing that they tell you, that it gets easier with time? I call bullshit.  Time does nothing for you.  Seriously, I keep hoping that time will blur the ragged edges of the real-time movie that runs through my head. That the memory of calling out to the staff in that God-damn room that something was horribly wrong and someone needed to CHECK MY HUSBAND will finally disappear. He was hooked up to all kindsof tubes and machines, but the thing that stands out in my memory is the silence that accompanied his death. I was talking to him. Telling him, again, how much I loved him.  Telling him that I couldn’t take him home if he wanted extreme measures to be taken to keep him alive until our girls could make it to the hospital, even though I knew that home is where he wanted to be. Begging him to hold on until our girls could make it to the hospital, both of them too many hours away. And then I saw the light go out of his eyes. I saw his heart stop. I saw him die. But there was no sound. None of the buzzers and alarms you see on TV. There was just me, looking into his eyes and seeing him disappear....and then me screaming. Why did no one see this but me?? In this room that was nothing if not high-tech. How did they not see his death? How could they not know? Why were none of the alarms going off?? Its three years later and I still can’t answer that question. The real trick is figuring out how we now keep moving forward.  My then 15 year old son was in the room with me when my husband died. He watched those five people jump on his dad’s chest, and try to pound the life back into his oh-so-tired heart for the 20 minutes before I finally stopped them. And now this wonderful, caring, way to smart boy, the one whose academic prowess got him nearly a free ride in college, is floundering in his college life, barely able to keep his head above water.   My then newly 21 year old daughter was frantically driving the 5 hour trip from college to say her goodbyes. I will be forever grateful that she had been home for her birthday a month earlier and was able to celebrate with her dad. And he was healthy enough to celebrate with her. Because she didn’t make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye. And that’s on me. In the midst of the hospital staff trying to pound and shock his heart back to life, it was made known to me that this so special daughter was 5 minutes away. So close and yet so far. As I watched these people sitting on my husband’s chest trying to literally beat the life back into him, all I could think was that I couldn’t let her last memory of her dad be one that had five people sitting on top of him, trying desperately to beat the life back into him. So I called them off.  I made them stop. Let. Him. Go. It’s a decision I still question to this day. And this girl, the one so not like me, the child that was so incredibly shy that she could not make eye contact with strangers when she was young but had come so fantastically far, has now become fearful and anxious. Moving in reverse it seems. And my oldest daughter, who is a generation older than her younger siblings, and lives three times as far away as her younger sister, did not make it here until the next day. But she begged me not to follow her dad’s wishes. Please don’t keep him alive for me, she begged. Please, just let him go. You see, I didn’t know he was going to die that day. I had taken him to the hospital for IV fluids. And the following day he had already been scheduled to have a feeding tube inserted. He was 5 years into his battle with cancer.  Throat cancer was cured, they said. But not really. The doctors just like to tell you that. Next it was lung cancer. And then it had metastisized to his brain, his liver, his spine, his pelvis. The doctors gave him 18 months to live.  He died one month to the day after that diagnosis.  I am one tough bitch. You can ask anyone who knows me. Hell, even my friends say they are afraid of me. You can’t live a life like mine and not be hardened by it. I got married when I was 18. By the time I was 20 I had given birth to 2 premature babies, nearly died  during the birth of the first child and watched the second child die after the respirator the doctors hooked her up to punctured her lungs. I gave birth to another premature daughter who survived a lung disease after living in the NICU. 15 months later I delivered a still born daughter at 6 months gestation. A month after that I had emergency surgery for a bowel obstruction. 6 weeks after that my oldest daughter was abducted in a car jacking, viciously assaulted and left for dead. 3 years after my emergency surgery, after which the doctors told me I could never have any more children, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. My first and only child born at full term and taken home from the hospital with me at the time of my discharge.  At 42.  42 years old, for God’s sake. I’ve lived this life by simply putting one foot in front of the other. Every day. I don’t feel its getting any easier after all these years. And that’s OK. For me. Because as I said before, I’m one tough bitch. I just pray that it gets much easier for my wonderful children who have seen and experienced so much more than any person should have to in their young lives. 20 Apr 2018

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Days like these

So it was one of those days that made it hard to be in this house. Our house. The house he grew up in. They don't happen as often as they used to but they are still hard. So I was grateful for the sunshine and the 40 degree temps. I made myself busy with odds and ends outside. When you live on a farm it seems you can always find things to do out of doors. The barn cat's food and water bowls got a thorough cleaning. All the bird feeders got filled. The air in all the tires on the lawn tractor and the snowblower got checked. The old pup and I spent an hour out in the woods. I DIYed a new burning barrel. And I used it to rid myself of any and all junk and legitimate mail with my name on it. I did a walk-through in the barn, the one place that I purposely do not go in. Not since I had to auction off all of his treasures that he had accumulated in our 20 years together here. And finally I simply sat in the sun on the park bench in the front yard. These are not my best days. I am never happy to see them come but I am always thrilled when when the sun sets on them.    4 Mar 2018  

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Spring?

Spring is in the air here on the farm, even though our just-above-freezing temp of 34 and brisk wind don't make it feel that way. The sunshine is a strong magnet today, pulling me outside, almost as strong as the old pup straining at his leash. But the cold temp hasn't fooled the birds. Cardinals are the first to greet me as I head out the back door. The distant call of crows. Robins close by. As I head down the lane toward the woods the ever-present geese can be heard honking their way through the morning sky. A few pairs of sandhill cranes with their rattling calls speak to one another across the fields. It seems I have startled the early killdeer as I walk the edge of the field. At first I can only hear their calls as they fly low, circling the bare field that so closely matches their color. They are invisible to me, no matter how many times I stop and try to catch their flight. It is not until I make the turn in the lane and the sun is behind me that I can see them soaring above the field, the sun catching on their white underbellies. But its a different story once I'm in the woods. Silent. The ground here not yet muddy today, the only sounds are the sounds of mine and the pup's steps rustling the deep carpet of leaves on the ground. I stop often to listen, to hear the sounds of the quiet--the rustle of the few leaves left on almost-bare branches high on the tree tops. The creak of these tall trees in the brisk wind. The snap of a branch or stick breaking underfoot.....of what I strain to see but cannot. I know I'm not alone out here and I crave seeing my companions. But I will not find them today. So as my old pup is tiring it is time to turn and head back to the house. It is a slow walk back for him and yet even his sore hip does not make him want to end this morning's adventure. It may have only been an hour but he will spend most of the rest of the day curled up on his bed here in the living room, gently snoring and sprinting through our woods in his dreams. Mornings like these are what weekends give me and I am grateful for them.   3 Mar 2018

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The many faces of a winter day--cold and snowing first thing. Tiny flakes that surprise you with the way they stack up, one on top of the other, building a wall up against the back door, high enough that the old pup balks at walking through it. No sun showing after sunrise. Only the drab, gray sky filled with sparkling snowflakes. Slowly the flakes start to grow. Start to bulk up and turn into the beautiful snowfall that we all love to watch. Big fluffy flakes dancing slowly to the ground, layer upon layer of cotton-white covering every surface. Hours of falling snow, leaving the winter birds to flock to my newly filled feeders. Cardinals, striking against the snow. Junkos. Downy woodpeckers. The ever-present sparrows. Noon-time comes and, as promised, the snow finally stops. Still no sun but the sky slowly begins to lighten. Finally the clouds start to thin. Streaks of blue form a beautiful patchwork in the afternoon sky amidst the ever present clouds. The clearing sky in the west seems to hold the promise of a spectacular sunset. Its been a good day.   11 Feb 2018

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Autumn

The wind is whistling outside. There is a different song at every window in the house, each screen and old window frame filtering the wind to its own tune. The leaves on the oak trees in my front yard have practically thrown themselves on the ground in defeat today. No idle falling going on here. The few glimpses of sun were welcome but few and far between, keeping the temperature in the forties for the most part. It is autumn. The end of the growing season. The beginning of the season of rest. The beginning of the quiet. It is my favorite. And I look forward to it every year. Things may not be the same for me this autumn but I am still happy to spend my time in my favorite season.     30 Oct 2017

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What’s next

My dining room is a mess. It’s August and the fall semester is getting ready to begin.  With that in mind, I have a daughter getting ready to head west for grad school.  Hence, the chaos in my dining room.

There is chaos elsewhere, too. The girl is in a state of craziness, both mentally and emotionally. She is starting graduate school! And she’s moving across the country to do it!! She is moving into an apartment with a roommate she has not met in person yet. That’s a little anxety-ridden. And SHE’S GOING TO GRADUATE SCHOOL!!!!!

She is leaving me, her fairly recently widowed mother, behind and she is carrying some unnecessary guilt about that. I mean, let’s face it, she would be leaving now anyway, whether or not her dad had died, right? Adding to that guilt, in her mind I’m sure, is the fact that her brother, my youngest child, will be heading off to his first year in college, in the opposite direction, I might add, not a week after she leaves. And I will be alone. Hence the guilt. 

She is worried about me being alone. About me living alone, completely, for the first time in my life. About me not having her dad here for me to share this new chapter in my life with. About me having to take care of life on the farm alone. Something else that will be new for me. Not that there is a lot more for me to do here than if I lived in some subdivision somewhere. Not really.  I have no livestock to deal with and the farm land is rented out. I just have more property to deal with--mowing, weeding, snow removal--than most. I think its the alone part that has her most worried.

And I’ve had my own anxiety about that.  I have never lived alone. I am 60 years old and I have never lived alone. I moved out of my parents house into my and my husband’s house when I was 18.  When that union failed--epically, I might add--and the divorce finally happened, I lived with my daughter. Some years later we added my soon-to-be husband to the mix. Fast forward--and I mean FAST--25 years and here I am.  Soon to be alone.

I said to my brother that I hope I like myself since I will be spending a lot of time with me.  He just laughed but I think that is really something to think about. Maybe my life has been different than a lot of people’s lives, but I’m sure there are others like me out there. For the last 21 years I have lived in the very small town that my husband grew up in, 300 miles from my family.  We originally moved back here to help take care of his elderly mother, whom I loved dearly. We all did. And for the first 19 of those years we spent every Saturday with his very large family. Everybody taking turns either bringing the main course or cooking it at the house, bringing all the sides and desserts, cleaning up our messes. Then spending the evening playing cards or board games or shaking dice.

 Our numbers were big in those first years, my husband being the youngest of 13 and all but one sister living within a two hour ride of Mom. So there were not only the brothers and sisters there but any and all of their/our kids that wanted to tag along.  And the nights were long, sometimes the last to leave staying well past midnight. I’ve never known a family as tightly bound together as this one. The love there is overflowing, to this day, even though their numbers have declined rapidly in the last few years.

Then two years ago my husband lost his very courageous 5 year battle with cancer.  So many cancers.  And then two months later his older bother, the one closest to him in age, died. The one that he spent some part of nearly every day of those 19 years with. And then another brother died not 6 months later. And then another. To say these last two years have been hard is putting it mildly.

The biggest change for me since my husband died is that those Saturday nights have stopped also. Not for them. Just for me. They changed the location of the gathering to make it easier for those remaining to get together. To make the distance less of a hindrance for those who are having a harder time of getting around. For me that change just meant that I drive 40 minutes instead of 5. Not a problem for me. But the invitations stopped coming.

Their phone calls stopped almost immediately after my husband’s death. No one knew what to say to me. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And I agreed with them on that. He was the baby, after all. But that didn’t change the fact that it happened. He died. And now that big family that I spent those 19 years with is no longer mine. They were not only my family but pracitcally the only friends I had here, outside of a few very dear, caring friends that I work with.

And so this is why my darling daughter is worried about leaving me behind. Not so much because I will have to care for things around here by myself but because she is afraid that being by myself will be something that I will have a hard time being. And she may be right, I don’t know. Time will answer that for me, I suppose. I’m hopeful that I will quickly fall into a new routine and find new things that will interest me and not just keep me busy. Find my new normal. Alone. And hopefully I really will like me.   10 Aug 2017

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The Two Year Mark

I’m heading into rough waters.

After his final diagnosis, he only asked for one thing--two more years. Just two. The diagnosis only gave him a year and a half, but he prayed that he would get two years. Just two years. Two years would mean he would make it to the 60 year mark, something his father wasn’t able to do. He would be able to see his only son graduate from high school and we would be able to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. Just. Two. Years. 

One month to the day that the doctors told him he had 18 months to live, he died. He fought his many cancers for five years. Five long, heart-wrenching years. But this man was a champion. He was our champion. He fought desperately and valiantly, always the one to tell others how blessed he was. But 5 days after our 23rd anniversary, he died. His wasted body that had to be fed through a tube and his tired, over-worked heart simply could not go on any longer. 

And now we are coming up to that two year mark that he so fiercely prayed that he would make. Our 25th wedding anniversary is seven weeks away, and five days before the second anniversary of his death. Our son will graduate from high school, unbelievably on what would have been his father’s 60th birthday. How does one prepare for something like this? 

I am normally a strong person and one who finds the up-side to every situation. The silver lining. It is sometimes a very difficult thing to do but for me it is always the right thing. But I am already feeling fear and depression overcoming me. And it is taking me to places I do not normally allow myself to go. And I’m having a hard time closing that door and keeping it shut. So far I have been able to pull myself out of it after only spending a day there. But I am very fearful that I will not be able to keep myself protected from this pain. That it will successfully overwhelm me. Just like it did almost two years ago.

Perhpaps I should revisit that dark place I was in back then. When the world I lived in was destroyed in a single instant. Or rather the me I was then. I made it out of that hell. And I brought my children out with me. Maybe what I need to know is back there. In that version of me. I pray I find the way out and the strength--again--to make it.   

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Another Day

Another day nearly gone. Another day spent alone. I used to look forward to these days. The days when everyone else had something to take them out of the house for a while. The days that I was alone and I could turn my music up LOUD and seem to get so much accomplished as I sang along with my favorite tunes, as if that was impossible with my family here. But now so much has changed. And being alone is the new normal for me. One I am forced to try to get used to. One that I am having a hard time embracing.  

Christmas is nearly here and I find myself holding my breath. Christmas was my husband’s favorite holiday--the one I agreed to give up spending with my family during our “marriage negotiations” because it was so important to him to spend it with his large, wonderful family. And I was happy to do it. This will be our second Christmas without him. After having to leave the family celebration early last year because I just couldn’t celebrate without him, I felt sure that this year would be easier. But I already know that’s not going to be true. I don’t know when the “easier” comes but this isn’t it. It’s amazing to me that I can go through days without a thought to anything other than what I’m doing in the moment and what I have to get finished before I can leave work and what I have to do next and making sure the laundry gets done and the house cleaned and the groceries bought and every other mundane thing we all do every day. And other days I feel like I can barely breathe much less function in the real world.

But I know I must. I have a family that still needs me to be present in every sense of the word. And I do my very best to give them the reassurances that they need in our newly unbalanced world. I only hope that they never see through my flimsy attempts at being the sane adult in the family.  3 Dec 2016

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It's Friday! I love my Fridays. It is 6pm and the traffic on my not-so-country-any-more road is starting to slow down. The sun will set in less than an hour. The temperature has finally started to moderate and though we have a temp of 76 degrees right now the breeze makes it feel much cooler. The sky shows a threat of rain all around us.  Beautiful clouds lit up in pinks and grays as the sun starts to slip below my horizon--that which presently is a field of six and a half foot corn across the road. Thunderheads are building in every direction, highlighted in darks and lights as they proceed with their slow march to the east. I'm sitting quietly on the porch so my barn cat and kittens have not noticed me as they chase their tails and each other not 6 feet from me. There is such a soothing peace here. Today. I must admit that some days the quiet here is too much for me. Some days I feel the need for noise.....those days tend not to be my better days. But I accept them, just as I accept every other day that is given to me, and am grateful that I find my way through them. As I sit here I am suddenly gifted with a sight I have often seen on my drives south, through the car window, but never here out in the open where I feel I can truly appreciate it. Without sound, the sky has become filled with a curtain of birds. Starlings, I think. And their march seems to stretch for miles.  They fly together but separately, each fighting its own fight with the winds that help carry them to their destination, wherever that may be. I find myself wondering, what is the significance of their silence? It is an amazing sight to see. Thousands of individuals acting as one. A beautiful, fluid piece of art for all to see. It is in these quiet moments that I feel the most reflective, as I'm sure most of us do. Sometimes the reflections are brilliant, as the reflection of the sun in my rearview mirror. Other times they are as clouded as the puddle in the driveway after a hard rain. Today they are somewhere in between. Not so good, but not so bad.....But no matter in which extreme I find myself, I find myself being grateful. Grateful for so many things, as I'm sure we all are, even though we may not always recognize it. I, personally, find that I am blessed in a multitude of ways. Sadly, some days I find myself only acknowledging the dark and hard times that I've lived through. But acknowledging that helps to bring me out of that dark place. I've said it before and I will continue to say it, we may have to visit those places but we cannot stay there. And, thankfully, I have been able to live by those words and pull myself back into the light. Believe me, though, some of those journeys back have been long and hard. And I am thankful for every sunrise.      16 Sept 2016

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Today is my son's birthday.  My peanut boy.  My monkey man. The boy who was small enough for me to carry down my narrow, farm-house stairs until he was well into grade school. My youngest and the only one of the five children I birthed to come home with me from the hospital. The one who's most ardent wish is to be just 1/4 inch taller than his sister, the one who he grew up with, not his eldest sister, (who is not quite as tall as me and therefore  much shorter than this sister and is more than two decades older than him), so he can lord it over her the way she has lorded it over him. All. His. Life. He turned 17 today. It is almost unbelievable to me that he has reached this age. This boy, who is so much his own person, who has proven himself to be far stronger than a boy his age should have any reason to be. His father had only three wishes when we found out just over a year ago that his time on this earth was going to be cut so terribly short, and one of those wishes was that he still be here to see this young man, his youngest child and only boy, graduate from high school. And now that is just around the corner. It will be a very proud moment for me. But also an incredibly hard milestone, so terribly bittersweet.  His father and I had great, high hopes for this child, the youngest, the one we knew his father would not be here to see grow up. And though I don't know just where he will go and just what he will do, I feel sure that he will fulfill all our hopes and dreams for him. And his father and I will continue to be so very proud of him.           6 Sept 2016

Random I've found a beautiful quiet on my front porch this morning. A cool overcast breeze is gently rattling the leaves on the big oaks that mark the border of the yard. And the surprising lack of traffic is music to my ears. Even the hummingbirds dancing around my feeders seem to appreciate this hazy jewel of a morning.                   28 Jun 2016

The sound of the gentle rain tumbling through the leaves of the great oak trees in the yard, accompanied by the staccato cicada songs with the frogs singing in the background brings great comfort to this tired soul.        18 Sept 2015

Death changes everything, And to suggest otherwise, to our loved ones and friends who have experienced a loss, is a mistake. Death changes everything about you. It changes the way you think. It changes the way you sleep. It changes the way you eat. Some days it even changes the way you breathe. It changes the way you respond and react. It changes the role you play in your family. It changes your relationship with your children. And your siblings. And your friends. It changes how you see yourself and everything around you. It leaves you broken and empty, with a hole the expanse of which is unfathomable. Death changes everything, And the grieving process, though a universal response, is exactly the same for no one. Sadly, maddeningly, we must all make that journey alone, with loving support, but essentially we take those steps alone. One day at a time. And every day is different. Death changes everything. But change is the way we survive. Every one of us. The changes we go through help make us the people we are. Both the small changes that perhaps no one notices, and the big changes that everyone sees. So don’t tell me that my husband’s death is nothing. You are mistaken in that. But do know that, with time and space, and all the love we receive from the wonderful family and friends that we are blessed with, my children and I will not only survive these changes that have been forced upon us, but we will embrace them and become better people for them.      15 Jun2015

There are some benefits to walking your dog at midnight. The road traffic has finally slowed down. The silence is overwhelming. And beautiful. And another full, bright moon tonight lit our every step. And though we had no visible companions tonight, the old pup’s ears were upright and alert at every step.    24 Jan 2016 While walking the dog through the field in the bright, bright moonlight last night I heard a sound…..almost just a whisper, just loud enough to make me stop walking over the crunching snow and listen. And look……shadows. Shadows were running across the same field as I, close enough that I could hear their paws as they hit the ground. Coyotes. Silent and swift. 23 Jan 2016

The bright moonlight shines through the slats of the open blinds on my window, a glowing patchwork appearing on the carpet. Yet out that same window I see great flashes of lightning illuminating the clouds in the distance. But, surprisingly, with the glorious light show there is no sound. No great rumblings to accompany this beauty. It is somewhat like watching a silent movie. I suppose I will have to imagine my own soundtrack…..but I doubt it will be as spectacular as the one nature normally provides.       17 July 2016