The Eighth Post: "1-2-3 Intensity!"

I used to be an athlete. And even well after I considered myself a true athlete, I was in still in great shape. I ran at least three (most of the time five) miles per day. I was strong, not only because I lifted weights, but also because in my mind I knew no one could ever stop me. My athletic intensity was unwavering. You can’t learn that type of intensity. It is innate, genetic -- it's the sort of thing that never leaves your bones. 

When I was an athlete no one could beat me. I would take on any challenge because I would honestly believe I could win anything I competed at… I would play basketball against men in the University of Iowa Field House and win one-on-one games with ease. I would never allow anyone to run next to me on a track because I was in my own mental race with them, I'd push past them without a fleeting thought… In the gym, I would turn my treadmill up faster -- and on a higher incline -- than the guy, or girl, next to me because I wanted to show them that I was stronger, faster, and more capable.

And then.... When I was 23 I got sick.

In years past, I had broken my arm twice, broken every finger, torn ligaments in my ankles, and had concussions; this was definitely different.  It was the absolute worst pain I had ever felt. It was sharp and dull and throbbing and stabbing pain that was connected to every movement in my body: move a finger, feel a rush of pain; move a toe, shed a tear. That was fifteen years ago.

Nearly two months ago I was in the hospital. Just yesterday, I almost had to go back once more… I have lost count of number of times I’ve had the pleasure of being stuck with IV needles and hooked up to pain pumps filled with morphine. For over 15 years, I’ve had, what doctors refer to as, “chronic pain”.

Chronic…habitual…constant…recurring…continual…persistent…

Seems it’s a very common term these days, “chronic pain.” So common, in fact, when I tell new people what is wrong with me, they brush it off as no big deal. And I understand. I mean, how is anyone to empathize with what they can’t even begin to imagine? Being in pain every day, every second, of their life? It would be so much easier wrap one's mind around the concept of a starving child, or an abused pet, because everyone has felt a pang of hunger at one time in their lives, or felt seen the innocent eyes of the dogs in the shelters? Yet chronic pain? All. The. Time. Pain.??? Even if you've had a terrible injury, it's gone away and emotionally it doesn't break you down every day. Think about childbirth, supposedly one of the worst pains we can all go through, right?  It's that old saying, your mind let's you forget the pain- otherwise, why would the world keep on having babies? So, can anyone really “get” chronic pain if you don't have it yourself? I don't honestly know, but I have some great friends and family that try their best to empathize, there is no doubt about that.

In some ways, the public has become numb to the term “chronic pain,” just as they have become numb to words such as, “murder,” “war,” or “breaking news.” I mean, if you watch TV at all, then you’re familiar with the drug commercials for “chronic pain sufferers.” They sell awesome pain and anti-inflammatory meds with side-effects that may (or may not) include dizziness, blurred vision, heavy sweating, weight gain, hair-loss, hair-growth in unwanted places, memory loss, and, wait for it, oily discharge (WTF?). Well, rest-assured that I’ve taken them all. I’ve been on ten drugs at once, and then fifteen drugs, and then no drugs, and then more drugs again. I’ve been high; I’ve been low; I’ve been dizzy; I’ve heavy sweated; I’ve gained weight (lots); I’ve been balding; I’ve had a chin hair or two; Well, duh, I have chronic pain. (But hey, at least I’ve avoided that oily discharge thingy, because, oh shit, literally).

I have A LOT of pain people. I have TEN herniations in my GD spine that “doctors” say is a genetic problem, exacerbated by my life as an athlete (how fucking ironic, right?). One of my discs, the bottom one, is completely missing, so I have bone rubbing upon bone with every step I take. Wiggling my toes, if I can even feel them on a given day, can make me collapse in pain.

If I walk fifty feet from my car to the grocery store door, I have to take a deep breath to push through the pain. Then I will lean on a grocery cart to shop because otherwise I can’t navigate the aisles. I’d pass out from the pain of it all otherwise. I have learned to use breathing techniques to make it through almost every trip longer than ten feet, and I’ve used my sense of humor to make light of the sweating that results from the pain or the meds or both. There is a positive though, I can almost always keep a smile and a decent attitude. Almost always.

And just so we can get past the “have you tried this” or “have you tried that” thing (because that is always what comes next after I tell people what is wrong with me), here is what has gone on in my life…I’ve had several surgeries (ten to be exact); multiple injections of steroids; injections of numbing agents; cauterizing of nerves; acupuncture (3 sometimes 4x per week); massage; chiropractic adjustments (three a week at times); holistic solutions; drugs for pain; drugs for stopping synapses from firing in the brain; more drugs for swelling; drugs for relaxing muscles; And I’ve even had a machine permanently implanted in my back- it’s called a neuro-stimulator and it sends electrical shocks to my spinal cord in order to try to trick the nerves into feeling electrical shocks in rather than pain running down the lower third of my body. So yes, I’ve tried it all. I’ve been to more doctors and hospitals than most people see in a lifetime, and the bottom line is always, “you have to learn to live with this, it’s the way you will spend the remainder of your life.”

Having pain is an abstract problem. I get that. After all of these years, I finally appreciate that lots of people can never understand or grasp the concept of being in pain 100% of the time, and I'd never wish it upon any of them. And I most definitely now comprehend how others can't put their arms around the often times dark mental space I have to pull myself out of, just to wake up each morning and function as a normal person. Finally, after all of these years living this way, I have come to realize that there are some great people out there who all try their best to help and understand. Geez, if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d mostly roll my eyes too- "just get better for God's sake, stop complaining,  the old 'back' excuse is getting OLD, really, really OLD".

On my Varsity high school basketball team, before taking the floor for a game, we’d say, “1-2-3 INTENSITY," and I'd feel such a rush of adrenaline. These days, it’s what I say when I wake up each day (sorry, that is so Jerry McGuire, but it's true).  I need that extra push to put my feet on the bedroom floor and begin pushing through normal, everyday activities. Pouring cereal, opening the fridge, and then pouring the milk…most days that can make me double-over in pain. Scrubbing a sink? Forget it, I have to mentally prepare for days to break the Soft Scrub out. Washing my tub? I have to meditate and take two pain pills before I even attempt it. Forget carrying the laundry down a flight of stairs, or bending to pick up toys. It is a different way of life, but over the years, WE’VE adjusted.

It helps that my husband is possibly the greatest human being to exist on the planet. No, he has not won a Nobel Peace Prize or solved Global Warming.  Poor guy never even won a scratch off lottery ticket before he got stuck with my back and me. And God love him, he married me knowing my back was this way. I’m sure he always thought it would get better, and the journey we’ve been on would never be the way it has turned out, but he went through with it knowing it could be really, really bad, and it has been.  Probably worse then he could have ever imagined.

Hubby seen here contemplating his decision. Photo Cred: Barb Fyfe

This man comes home from twelve-hour workdays to do the laundry and clean the house. He takes off precious time from a high-pressured job to take me to every doctor’s appointment. He researches new possible cures in Europe and finds specialists in big hospitals doing new things in other cities here in the U.S. He’s always picking up slack, and there is so much slack to pick up. This man, who has lost his mother to cancer and his father to multiple organ failure, all in the last 7 years, picks up MY slack. He nurses me, he loves our children, he puts them to bed, he puts me to bed, and then does more work for his actual job or things around the house. It is simply amazing…and he never complains to me.

Greatest. Human. Being. Ever.

Sometimes I worry that he will leave us all in disgust, but just when I feel that way he sits on the couch and holds my hand and tells me how sorry he is that I can’t do the things I want to do.  You could not wish for a better person to grace your life. And the crazy thing about my husband, if this happened to a friend, he’d be at their house doing the same things for them, I doubt he ever thought twice about marrying me. Often times, the pressure he is under worries me, but he seems to brush it all off because I have chronic pain, oh, and because he must really love me.

His determination to get me better, or feel better just for a day, makes me want to be better, and not wallow in self-pity (not saying I don’t go there, because I frequently do, but he can bring me out just within minutes of going to that dark place many people with chronic pain go to live the remainder of their days). He keeps me laughing and I like to think I keep him laughing (because, if I had to face facts, my quick wit is just about the last thing left that’s quick about me). Without cracking up, we'd probably both lose it.

My husband. He works so hard for this family. Not just the way normal people work hard for their families. My husband has saved my life.

Fifteen years ago, when I would workout, I would do it because it made me feel like I was strong, determined, intense… Honestly, I would love to go back to that space, the place where I was indestructible and undeniably, an athlete.  But since I now am able to admit to myself it is quite impossible to be that person ever again, I am happy to be strong, determined, and intense in a different way all-together. I fight through each day, and I do it for myself and for my children. And I do it for the man who fights for me, the strongest, most intense, most determined, and most committed person I have ever known.

Greatest. Human. Being. Ever. Thank you, Jason.

Here he is, the best! In a rare relaxing time floating down the Zambezi River in Africa

The Seventh Post: Life Often Times Throws You A Curve Ball

I feel like anything in life can be related to the All-American sport of baseball. We use the phrases so often, we don't even know we are doing it. 

"He's going the distance"

"She's performing light's out"

"Stick a fork in him, he's done"

"He's been relegated to the bull-pen"

"She was caught napping". 

"A Swing and a miss" 

"You can't steal first base"

"Life's throwing you a curve ball"

Tomorrow is that day for me, my curve ball. You know, THAT day. I wrote about much of my experience with 9/11, just a year ago, in this post, The Fourth Post: My 9/11 Story. Whew, 365 days and it’s here again.

Most people diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, PTSD, eventually know what their triggers are and they do their best to avoid them or learn to cope. But how do you avoid an entire day? How do you avoid an entire day when everyone else talks about it, posts videos of it, has their own stories about it, and refers to it as the actual date it is? It’s not Labor Day or Thanksgiving or Christmas. It’s actually “NINE. FUCKING. ELEVEN”. When my kid asks me the date, I have to say, “it’s 9/11”. Damn. No avoiding this, ever.

Does each year get easier? Yes…and No. In each and every year since the worst day of my life, the worst week, the worst few months- something both amazing, and terribly tragic, has happened to me. Perhaps I'm more sensitive to the highs and lows of life now? I don't know, but it just seems to keep working out this way. 2004 began with my marriage and ended in two horribly painful back surgeries that have left me with chronic back pain; 2006 took off with the birth of my oldest son and finished with the premature death of his paternal grandmother; 2007 brought the death of a friend only in her 20's, who tragically took her own life, while in that same year, many other friends, and myself, gave birth to new life; In 2010, my closest friend, only in her mid-thirties, survived a stroke- both a horror and an absolute gift of life all at once. What does this prove really? As far as I’m concerned, it is actual hard evidence that life does certainly go on, cycles cycle, and life begets life. Tragedy may strike, and yet, so does joy, most times when you least expect it.

But, come on,  does Nine Eleven, that stupid day, named for it’s own date, really ever get any better for me?

My cousin, Karleton, “KDBF”, who lost his life on Flight 11, was such a cool guy. God, I miss him. He was the type of guy everyone felt was his or her closest friend.  Seriously, there are 6 other cousins on that side of my family (not counting his own siblings), and every single one of us thought they were his best friend, or at least one of them. Even the shoeshine guy in the lobby of the building where he worked in Boston for John Hancock, thought he was KDBF’s best friend. 

Myself, my cousins Lisen, Erin, & Kate, my brother Doug, and cousin KDBF, eating a picnic lunch in 1981...obviously someone farted.

Karleton called himself ubiquitous, and the reason I make mention of him using this as his self-description all of the time is because the first time he said it, my best recollection of this being  while he was in college and I was in Jr. High, I had to secretly get the dictionary out and look the word up. It’s stuck with me. And sure as shit, ever since that early tween moment, when I knew the meaning of the word, I have always thought he was as close as a person could actually come to being truly ubiquitous. He was also obviously freakin’ sarcastic, smartass-tic (double-majored in philosopy and economics, who does that?), and hilarious. It’s a fact, everyone thought so.   

This year, on Friday, September 13, my cousin’s widow, Haven, the strongest, most resilient, woman I know [read part of Haven’s story here: The Boston Globe, April 13, 2013, "From Loss To Healing"], will throw out the first pitch at the Boston Red Sox game. They are playing the Yankees. WOW! I told Haven a few days ago, “KDBF would crap his lightly starched khaki’s that you are doing this!” It’s true, he would have been so excited. Holy Shit- Fenway?! Red Sox vs. Yankees?!

Picture above & below were added on 9/11/14 but are from 9/13/13 at Fenway Park, Boston

Then again, he probably would also add that it was a, “real shitty short straw she drew” having to go through all of that loss, pain, hurt, and healing, just to step on the field. And he’d be so right. The shortest of straws.

So yes, for all of us, of course it gets better every year. Oh, clichés that are song lyrics, how I love thee…”Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on”.

Yes, as it happens with each 9/11, when this one appears, I will see it all, right in real time as it happened that day. I will see the planes, I will see the fire, I will see the hanging people and then see then jumping, I will see the collapse of each building, I will see the smoke, I will hear the fighter jets passing by every 5 minutes, I will hear the high-pitched alarms piercing in waves for hours upon hours, I will smell the dust, and I will taste the soot. Oh,  and because of how calendars work and such, I plan to go through it all over again, and again, and again. Once, every 365 days.

And certainly, it could all be irrational (as many people have so kindly expressed to me), but more likely, it’s just the human brain reminding me each year that while the most amazing things can happen in this world, so can the worst. While life goes on, so does life end.

Nine. Fucking. Eleven. We all hate you, but we keep on going.

Guess what I know for sure? Friday is going to be a beautiful day for baseball! No curve balls for this family...throw a strike Haven, right over the plate, and while you’re doing it, know that, because he really was ubiquitous, KDBF’s going to be with you, as he has been these past twelve years, cheering you on, woman!! xoxo

"Karleton Fyfe really lived everyting, applying the same boyishness determination whether he was mastering Steve Martin routines or the curveball as a kid, or tackling projects as a senior analyst at John Hancock." - Thank you Melanie Lopez Paetow, who took this picture at the traveling Healing Garden in Arizona on 9/11/13, only days after I had written this blog about life's curve balls.  A little freaky, but also typical because that's how it was with Karleton, he was always showing you things without actually "showing you" things. An absolutely free lesson on how to live a big life, by a guy who lived life well, smart, and humongous. KDBF, you were a classic.

The Sixth Post: Dive Into Heaven

Ten long days ago, my father-in-law passed away peacefully in the care of some lovely hospice nurses and surrounded by his pastor, his wife, and my husband’s aunt. His last breath was not labored, it was more of a sigh, a tired sigh of relief and exhaustion from a life that always busy, always full of drama, and always, always, controlled by him. His passing was as prohibitive as his life- he offered what message he wanted to offer, and we took that message and believed what we felt was possible. Some parts were left out to protect those that needed it, and other parts were left in to hurt those that absolutely didn’t deserve it. It was his life, the way he wanted to live it.

Jackson made every single decision based on what he alone wanted, and I believe he made a choice to draw his last breath at that moment when he knew his son was not in the room, he knew his grandchildren were no longer in the building. Jack was a professional at controlling the moment.

Just one month earlier, Jackson had flown into Chicago from Phoenix, picked up a car to borrow for a few weeks, checked into an Extended Stay America, driven himself to a restaurant, and had a fun lunch with my husband and I, and our three children. It is important to note that my husband and I thought he wasn’t looking so “good” at that lunch. Maybe slightly weaker? Maybe a little more unsteady on his legs than when we had seen him a couple of months prior to this visit? But we brushed off our thoughts as silly, and we all ate our usual delicious breakfasts at Jackson’s favorite Greek diner.

There wasn’t really a logical reason for Jackson to be flying into Chicago to visit this July. When we asked him why he’d suddenly made plans for a trip, he could only say, rather sheepishly, that he wanted to visit the kids. This, was of course, odd to us on several levels. 1. We were scheduled to bring our family to Arizona for a visit in a few short weeks, so why couldn’t he just save some money and wait to see us? 2. He had just seen the children less than two months prior, over their spring break and so it’s not as if it had been months since their last visit. 3. Jackson’s interest in the children was actually an anomaly. In almost eight decades of life, he had never been overly interested in children. Even with his own children, he felt like kids were only worth speaking with when they were old enough to hold intelligent conversations over topics such as the “history of the gold rush, “ or, “how the Grand Canyon was formed.”

The day following our lunch with Jackson, he called us from the hospital ER. He had driven himself to the hospital because he was experiencing chest pains. As my husband recounted his conversation to me, I found myself rolling my eyes because his stubborn father had once previously driven himself to the hospital with chest pains. That time it turned out he was in the midst of a massive heart attack and eventually ended up with a quintuple bypass. This time, however, it was quickly discovered it wasn’t his heart. It ended up being a gall bladder issue. And a few tests, and a few days later, the gall bladder was removed.

Yet again, something still was not going right. Removing a gall bladder is usually an outpatient procedure, however, Jackson remained in the ICU for several days. Later the doctors said he could go home, which actually meant he could go relax at the Extended Stay America while he recovered, because home was in Arizona and since he could not navigate stairs, he was stuck in the ground floor hotel room.

But, something seemed wrong again, and an ambulance came to the hotel and took him back to the hospital. A few days after that, he was moved to a rehab center. This man, who had days prior, walked off an airplane and driven himself to a restaurant to meet us, could no longer walk or stand or even get from the bed to a chair on his own. It was as if his body had completely shut down- and he looked as though he’d aged twenty years.

On my first visit to the new rehab, my mom had sent me with a card for Jackson signed by her Bible study group and I read it to him. He looked right at me and said, “well, I have not thrown in the towel just yet. I don’t need all those prayers, I just need some more rehab.” I had to explain that prayers were for his healing, not for his journey to heaven. But he knew what they were, and he cracked a half smile at me, which told me that he was still fighting to get out of there and he was still in possession of his sarcastic demeanor.

Days later, he was moved to a more intense and more permanent rehab center. One where he could have a private room, personalized occupational therapists, physical therapy as much as his body could handle, and one where his wife could spend the nights with him if he desired.  After he moved in to this place, he only attended two, maybe three therapy sessions before it became clear something was not going right for him.

Labs, which in recent years had always been on the poor side, were coming back even worse, and now showing obvious signs liver and kidney failure. Yet, doctors said if Jackson wanted to push through, he could certainly do so. And as he stopped opening his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time or even speaking, doctors told my husband that this is what they refer to as, ”failure to thrive”.

At that point, just a little over a week ago, we were faced with a decision about moving him to a more permanent round-the-clock care situation. We thought we had a few days to make the choice, when he seemed to make the choice for us. Jack’s doctors from the rehab center thought it was necessary he be transferred back to the hospital because his belly was filling with fluid and needed to be drained to help with his pain comfort levels.

His only form of communication with us during this time were words like, “I just want this [life] to be over,” and, “I don’t want to live this way”. We had no choice, we had to make him comfortable and we also had to try to carry out his wishes.

In times like these, all you want to do is give a person every chance to live and thrive like they once did…like he once did only three weeks prior, and yet the patient is asking you to let them go, each decision becomes physically and emotionally draining.  We knew if he had the will to live, he could fight back, but since he had given up, we had a plan in place. Like most people these days, we had the advance directives, the DNR ready and signed years earlier. It was only my husband and I who were not quite ready. And so, Jason made the heart wrenching decision to have his father transferred from the rehab center to the hospital to have the fluid drained from his belly.

With all 8 liters drained, it was a relief to see improvement to his pain level. He was more peaceful.  The draining wasn’t a life-saving measure, but rather a comfort measure, and the choice we had made was a good one. While recovering from the draining, Jackson continued to ask anyone who would listen to let him go. He refused food and had been refusing it for a little over a week at this point. His breathing was labored, lips were dry, and he could not move but a little part of his hand and slight turns to his head.

The dreaded time for a decision about hospice had come. The doctors wanted to know our decision, the nurses, the hospital administration. Everyone concurred it was time to move Jackson into a place where he’d be comfortable enough to let go.

Jason and I visited a brand new in-patient hospice facility that was comfortable, soothing, clean, and spacious. The room was large enough for the family to visit with him and not be cramped. There was a kid’s room filled with games and couches and a giant TV for the kids to watch their shows on without disturbing anyone. The minute we set foot in this place, it seemed like this was where we were headed, even if Jason and I were not mentally ready, Jackson was certainly physically ready.

I told Jackson all about the place. I told him he would love how he could see right out the windows and we could open them to get fresh air; how his wife could remain with him 24 hours a day; how the kids could come visit him.

All he said back to me was, “how long?”

I had no answer for him. This man, who three weeks prior, was surfing the internet for vacation deals, driving all over Phoenix in a white Lincoln Continental (and Chicago in an Audi A4), navigating his new Iphone5 with the ease of a 21 year old, teaching my oldest about how to build a tower--where the base must be wider and stable before each higher floor could be added on using creamers from his favorite diner, was asking me “how long” he had until he would die.

Twelve hours after he was moved from the hospital to the hospice, we went to visit Jackson in and he had completely stopped talking. There was now no communication whatsoever. His eyes were half open, or half closed, depending on how you look at the situation. And this time, unlike at the hospital, my kids were allowed to go and visit. Kids were a welcome sight to all in this place where people came to end their lives peacefully and pass into wherever they believed they were going next.

It was at the very moment we walked into the hospice building, where Jackson was  a patient, that I realized each of my kids had their very own relationships with each of their grandparents. My children were not privy to whatever preconceived notions I had about the man that lay dying in that bed.

All those kids knew about their Grandpa Jack was that he loved to grow vegetables; he would eat at Greek diners for any meal; he was proud of his fruit trees, especially the apples and peaches; he loved the Grand Canyon and anything that the Earth formed naturally over thousands of years; he knew interesting facts about seashells and fossils; he had grown up in North Dakota and someday he wanted the kids to see where he grew up; he thought history was important and he tried to give the kids a little bit of a history lesson whenever he saw them; he had diabetes and sometimes that meant he had to give himself a shot; he loved cars; he loved ice cream; and he adored these three kids unconditionally.

I sat with my kids, 3, 5, and 7 years old in the lobby. I explained that Grandpa Jack was very sick and he couldn’t talk to them, but he could definitely hear them if they wished to speak. I asked my kids if they would like to see him. I asked them if they would like to talk to him and if they’d like me to go with them into the room.

The oldest went first. He jumped into Grandpa Jack’s bed, and he held his hand. And he asked me if it was ok if he did just as he was doing, and I said, “yes, of course.” He then leaned in close to his grandfather’s ear and told him how much fun he had going to Phoenix to visit him during his last two spring breaks…how much he learned at the old gold mine that his Grandpa had taken him to…how cool the Spring Training Cubs game was to see, especially since he had front row seats…how much he liked getting chicken fingers at every restaurant he went to with his Grandpa…and then, without prompting, he said, “I love you very much,” and looked at me with large tears welling up in his eyes. His grandpa, who hadn’t shown signs of life the last few hours, squeezed my son’s hand, then his second finger twitched as he let go.

Our little 7 year-old jumped into my arms and squeezed me tighter than he had in years. And, without skipping a beat, he let go and asked if he could go back into the kids’ room with the games. He needed to escape back to being a kid again.

My middle son, the thinker, came into the room next. He asked me to sit with him and help him talk. He held his grandpa’s hand and told him about how much he liked picking apples from his tree…oh, and he loved seeing oranges on the trees in Arizona…and he liked the Cubs game in Arizona even though his grandpa couldn’t go this year with him because it was too much walking…and he liked the pancakes at the restaurant he ate at with Grandpa a few weeks prior…and couldn’t he just get better? He kissed his grandpa on the cheek, and Grandpa Jack’s hand squeezed that 5 year old’s hand gently, as a grandpa would. And then, he let his grandson’s hand go.  That child leaped into my arms and was attached himself like a koala to me. He buried his head into the crook of my neck and quietly cried. “I don’t want Grandpa Jack to go to heaven yet. What if he doesn’t go to the right heaven? What if he can’t find Daddy’s mommy there?” And back to the game room he went.

How cruel it was that both of their grandparents were going pass before they even had the chance to really know them. Their grandmother passed 6 years prior, and now their grandfather.  Sometimes, often times, life just isn’t fair at all.

Our youngest, she’s three. She certainly does not understand what dying is…in fact, she thinks it is the same word as “diving”. So, ultimately, she really thought her grandpa was going swimming and could not understand what the big fuss was about. She still can’t. Even all these days later, as everyone has shed tears and lost hours of sleep, that kid thinks that her grandpa went to heaven to go off a diving board, and I’m not ready to fix her belief just yet, not sure I want to.

When the time came for my little girl to visit with her Grandpa one last time, she crawled up into his bed and snuggled right in-between his arm and belly and then held his hand in hers. She said, “he’s not opening his eyes, I think he’s seeping,” and then she saw his eyes flutter, letting us know he knew she was there. I told her that she could tell him anything she wanted, and she said, “I love you Grandpa Jack, when are you gonna wake up?” Silence. “Do you think you would like a kiss?”

I told her to give him one, and she kissed his cheek, then kissed it again and lay across his chest offering him a big hug. I picked her up off his chest, and she seemed to be held back by something as I pulled her up- it was his hand. He had not let his grip go from his, and I let out one painful sob, because I knew he knew he was saying good-bye and he was having a hard time letting go of this little innocent girl.

We went home that evening and I was affected by what I had been witness to in that hospice room. I knew he’d probably make it through the night, so I’d see him tomorrow, but that was the last time my kids would see him. And hours later, as we put them to bed, it was not our usual wild bedtime corral, it was serene. Every child was calmer and quieter…introspective.

And just as we thought we had them all in bed, the 5 year-old (middle guy) got up. He came walking down the hallway and as he saw me, he just burst into tears. Finally that ugly cry I’d been expecting, complete with gasps for air and sniffles. He soaked my shirt with tears and snot, and he said he could not understand why Grandpa Jack had to go to heaven and leave us. He said, “I’m just so sad.”

The 7 year-old was fine that night, but certainly the next day, his usual happy and cooperative demeanor was quite the opposite. He was angry about everything, yelling at the little things. Finally, on our living room couch, he broke down into tears. He was mad at his toys, made at his video games, his Ipad, and he was mad at his Grandpa Jack for getting sick. The sadness manifested itself in anger, which finally turned to pure sorrow.

Our three kids, they knew their Grandpa Jack as an old man. They knew him when he turned 71 and was gray and bald and sad from the death of his wife of over 35 years. He was a softer man, one his older children, former spouses, most grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would never know.

My children had their own personal relationship with their grandfather. I never thought of it before, but in his old age, Jackson projected a grandfatherly innocence on them, that they, in turn, reflected a child’s innocence back to him. He loved that about them. Whatever he showed them or taught them was never tainted by past mistakes or missteps that he’d made. My kids didn’t know his past and he would never know their future, but for now, they were in each other’s lives and it was a good unfiltered loving relationship. One I can say I did not share, but that I now envied.

Ten days ago the kids were innocent. Their grandfather, in their eyes, was also innocent. All of them resilient and strong in ways they will never fully understand. As my kids grow older, they will certainly lose that innocence and add a more complicated spin to their Grandpa Jack’s last story. But I will try my hardest not to let them get to that place too early in life. I will try to keep his memory as pure as they see it today. I will try to help the kids picture their Grandpa Jack diving into heaven headfirst with a smile upon his face, growing fruit trees everywhere he goes, and enjoying long hikes in beautiful spots, because that’s what he liked them to see. That’s who he was to them.

The Fifth Post

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Grayson is my middle kid. He’s the stereotype of every middle child there is…needy, looking for attention, and astonishingly creative. (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Middle%20Child%20Syndrome)

However, beyond his stereotype, this amazing child is also hilarious, handsome, inquisitive, intense, inventive, inspired and downright insane. He does everything with passion…even walking from the backdoor of the house to the garage door for school in the morning is a loud and vivacious (unless you’re my neighbor and then I’d say you probably say it’s annoying), call of the wild. Sometimes he goes to the car belting out his latest homemade song or his idea of the lyrics from a top 40 hit; Sometimes he goes in boisterous screams of protest because he does not want to go to school; And sometimes he just does, what we refer to as, “monstering”, which is a combination of  extremely loud grunts and hisses, and, well, monster sounds.

Grayson is so smart. Sometimes he blows us away with his knowledge and other times he has us in tears because his humor is beyond his years. Gray has always done things earlier than we thought he would…he showed up on the pregnancy test a few months before my husband and I expected, he came into this world a few weeks prior to they day he was supposed to, and he began to speak at exactly 9 months old.

And let me say, since he let out that first word, he has never really stopped talking during any of his waking hours. At first, we attributed his talking to having an older brother so close in age (18 months older). But now that I have had a chance to ruminate in his personality, I actually think he first spoke because he needed to start getting some important things answered.

His inquisitiveness often dumbfounds me. Many times I try to describe this child friends or distant family that have not had a chance to spend quality time with him, and my words often fail to convey his true being.  So, two days ago, I decided to write down all of the questions Graygray asked me in the span of one hour in an attempt to show everyone what a cool, crazy kid I have.  

From 4:45pm to 545pm on Sunday, June, 9, the listing below is what I ended up with. You may get bored reading these questions, or possibly tired thinking of the potential answers (but seriously, attempt to think of the answers, it starts to hurt the brain). Join the club. He exhausts me.

Finally, try to keep in mind, it’s only one single hour of this boy’s life…anytime he is awake, he constantly exists in this parallel world where curiosity and knowledge fill his old soul. He must be exhausted too.

All of these questions are always preceded by a high-pitched, persistent kid voice buzzing, “Mommy…mommy, mommy…mommy…ummmmmmmmm”:

…do you know any yoga?

...want me to show you “frog pose”? It takes me awhile to set it up, so tell me now.

...did you know [does hand gesture] means "happy birthday" in sign language in every language in the world? How can sign language be the same in every language, but everyone hears different languages? 

…Will you tell me if this looks like “rainbow pose”, because I think this is really yoga that I’m doing?

…can I go to space when I get older?

…do I have to be smart to go to space? Cullen* loves space, he tells me everything about space, can I go with him? *Cullen is an adorable boy in Grayson’s class

…when will I learn to read everything?

…what is a bodyguard?

…if I get night vision glasses, can I see through jammies?

…If I get to the moon, can I eat it? I love cheese, I would probably eat the whole thing.

...if ninjas are all secret guys, how do they become ninjas if no one knows how to find where their ninja school is? 

…what is 1 million times 10 million?

…when does Batman get tired?

…how do you make spicy things?

…where does sweet come from?

…did you know they show every show in HD these days?

…why do girls like soft flower things and boys like to beat each other up?

…do superheroes have to go to the doctor? Do they get shots?

…do you remember when I was a baby and I tried food for the first time? I don’t remember that. Was it good?

…if there is a bomb, or hot lava, or a tornado…is it ok to scream and wake up Harper[sister]?

…how long is exactly 30 minutes?

…when Daddy Skypes or calls u from work, can you tell me so I can ask him something?

…if you fly, is it true there are pockets of air you fly through and they are shaped like rectangles?

…how long does it take for one piece of ice to melt?

…do you know what “Namaste”  means?

...does Uncle David live closer to the equator than we do? 

…If we find an animal that talks, can we keep him? If we keep him, can we name him “Talkie”?

…how does one phone talk to another phone?

…if phones use satellites, what if those satellites crash into Earth, how will we talk to each other from a car?

…how do you make a castle? Do you have to make a bridge first, or do you make a bridge last so you can go over the moat?

…what if someone had a body inside their body and then another body inside that body and another person inside that body? Would that be a lot of people if that happened?

…has it been 30 minutes since I asked you the question about how long 30 minutes is? [time passed was 23minutes]

…what is wetter than the ocean?

…can you imagine if you had fur? You’d be so hot in the summer.

…do you think you’d shave if you had fur?

...what are fruit snacks made out of? Do they have protein?

Exhausting? Yes. 

It’s also wonderful and simply lovely that this child of five years old finds questions in every piece of his life. I hope when he grows up he follows his inquisitive thoughts to the ends of the Earth and he finds what he’s searching for…Until that time though, I’m happy to help him with as many possible answers to his unrelenting kid interrogations/investigations/inquiries as I can.

And , boy, I hope I do him justice.