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.  

The Fourth Post

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Four years ago, around mid-August, I was casually putting some platters back into my dining room buffet after a brunch we had hosted, when I was suddenly forced to my knees by the roar of a fighter jet flying low and directly over my house. The sound was so loud, and the plane so close, that it shook the pictures on my walls, made my wine glasses clink together, and it was so terrifying that I fell onto my knees, covered my head with my hands, and immediately started sobbing. In one quick moment, I lost control of my emotions.

Minutes later, I was still on my knees. Shaking. Sweating. Muscles tense. Heart pounding so loud I was sure my children, who stood inches away from me, could hear it. There I was, gasping for air, and desperately reaching out for my husband to help me. Total loss of control.

Fifteen minutes after that jet flew overhead, with my shirt soaked in sweat and my eyes bloodshot from crying, I was calm enough to completely comprehend that the fighter jet was actually just a part of the Chicago Air & Water Show. Of course this jet was not going to crash into my house, or patrol my airspace for days on end, or even crash into a building.  At that point, I was composed enough to realize where my reaction came from. It was not the first time a jet had gone over my head.

****

I moved to Manhattan in 2000. It was the greatest and bravest decision I had ever made. I had no family in New York, and only a handful of friends, but I was determined to go to NYU, get my graduate degree, and start a life built completely on my own. I had a successful career and amazing bosses that allowed me to pick up my life and move 900 miles away but remain with the company and work from my own apartment. I had parents who had faith enough in me to let me go alone to that big city without ever blinking an eye. I had some great friends who promised to visit the minute I was settled into my new apartment. Absolutely nothing was holding me back from my experience of a lifetime.

My move to Manhattan started off with just the right proverbial bang… my father crashed the rental moving truck into a parked car as we were pulling out of Chicago. And once we arrived in New York, and began to load my belongings into my tiny $1700/month studio apartment, my father slipped on an ice patch while standing on the back of the truck and fell backwards towards the street. Luckily, I was standing there, and with catlike reflexes caught him, so he didn’t hit his head. Unluckily, I caught him while I was holding a small knife in my hand (used for opening boxes) and I cut him one inch above an artery in his hand. So less than an hour into my residency I was calling 911- I did not even know what address to give the 911 operator.

The ambulance and the police came.  They actually asked my dad if he wanted to press charges against me, and believe me, I think he may have hesitated with his answer. An ambulance ride across town, fifty some odd stitches and a large sling later, and my dad was back in my apartment in a chair writhing in pain and wondering how I had gotten him into such an outrageous situation. He only survived that move by one tiny little inch.

****

Months later, fully in the swing of my new life, it would be the summer of weddings. I flew back to the Midwest for 8 weekends in a row for weddings and wedding showers and dress fittings. One of those weddings was of my cousin, Erin, and her husband Carl.

Even though they lived in Boston, they had decided on a Chicago wedding. They had once lived in Chicago and they considered it the perfect spot to tie the knot. He is Chinese, so they had a traditional Chinese tea ceremony and Erin even wore a beautiful red traditional Chinese dress during the reception. I remember everything so vividly – the colors, the music, the conversations. I am, in fact, blessed and cursed in this way. I can remember the details of events and even conversations that have occurred in amazing detail from as early of an age as three. In this particular case, I am so grateful that I can remember her wedding weekend.

Before the ceremony took place that Saturday, my cousin Kate and I stole away from the family to have lunch at a local bagel shop. While there, we spotted our older cousin Karleton pushing his adorable 16-month old son in a stroller on their way to the zoo.  It was hard not to spot him- his 6’4 frame, wire-rimmed glasses, UNC hat, and goofy smile. He stopped to chat with us about nonsense and to crack a few smartass remarks about how handsome he was and how handsome in turn  (yes handsome) we were since we were related to him.  After a few minutes of sarcastic banter, he continued on his way towards the zoo, and as he walked away, I remember remarking to Kate how crazy it was that he had a son. Holy shit, were growing up, and man, he was such a natural father. Both Kate and I just stared in awe at him as he effortlessly pushed that kid down the street, and we cracked up talking about how random that was to see him just walk by in such a big city and how utterly hysterical his demeanor always was. She and I both remember that lunch so well.

At the wedding, we danced the night away to disco and hip-hop and Motown and everyone watched in amazement as my Great Uncle, who was 79 at the time, danced longer and with better rhythm, than any of us in our twenties. If one measures the success of a wedding by tired feet, then I would say this was a good one. I’m not sure there was a single person who did not test out that dance floor.

****

Tuesday, September 11, 2001. It was about 8:55am and my cell phone was ringing. While I was usually up and working by 8am, this particular morning I was still in my bed. The night before I had flown in very late from Hilton Head, SC, and I was exhausted. I saw the call was coming from someone in my office, so I picked it up, trying to sound awake and slightly embarrassed I had overslept. On the other end was a panicked voice. “Amanda, are you in your apartment?”…Well, yes I was. “A little plane just crashed into the World Trade Center”…So I rolled out of bed, and turned my TV to The Today Show.

Then my call waiting beeped in and the caller ID said it was my brother. “Amanda where are you?”…Well, in my apartment. “OK, I guess a plane hit the Trade Center”…I knew already. I was watching on TV. But actually no one really knew what it was. At first it was a small plane, maybe a twin engine? The reporters did not know anything. Speculating. Then, at 9:02, as I was watching the news and talking to my brother, I saw another plane fly into the South Tower.

This time, no one was speculating. It was no small plane. It was a large passenger jet. Plain as day, it was a United plane. And then I said to my brother, “oh my God, I gotta go.” And I hung up.

I ran down two flights of stairs and out the front doors of my building. I do not know why I ran outside. Panic. Often times you’ll hear people talk about the weather that day because it was such juxtaposition of perfect and disastrous. It was 80 degrees, not a single cloud in the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Zero humidity. Yes, under any other circumstances, this was perfect day in New York. But today was “9/11”.

When I ran into my street, everything actually appeared normal. After a few moments of deep breaths, I went back into my apartment and turned on my computer. The TV was still on, and by now, it was not hard to figure out that we had just experienced a terrorist attack. I sat in my office desk chair, and watched as my email inbox was just a continuous stream of emails. Subject lines, “are you ok?”, “what’s going on?”, “trying to call”. They kept popping up and I would open, and reply back, “yes, I’m fine” or “thank you for asking, I’m fine.” Finally, I sent a mass email out to everyone saying I was safe. 

By 945am, it was clear the entire country was under attack, not just New York. We could not use our phones. “All circuits are busy.” Hmmm? You think? My voicemail box kept flashing new messages…1, 2, 3…19, 20, 21, 22 …Just around this time was when I figured out I had no one. No family to go to, no way to get out of the city, only a handful of friends. My experience of a lifetime was suddenly a lonely and terrifying mistake. Thoughts raced through my mind. What was I supposed to do? How do I get off this “island”? What if they keep attacking, where will I run?

I was glued to that office chair, but now under the reality check of my isolation, I was praying for emails, any contact to the outside world was comforting. Could someone please instant message me? Where once I was living my dream, it was so clichéd to think that in an instant, I was living a nightmare.

Then at 10:13am another email, subject line: Very bad news. I opened it.

The email came from my aunt in North Carolina. I began reading. It said my cousin, Karleton, was probably on one of those planes that hit the World Trade Center.

I lost my breath. I pushed my office chair out from under me and I fell to my knees. I began hitting the seat of the chair and screaming, “no, no, how can this be? No, how can this happen?” The sobs came as gasps for air. That moment is frozen in time. I don’t know how long I sat on my knees there in front of my chair, it was as if time stopped. I was watching those large towers fall to the ground and I was still sitting on my floor. I could not feel my body and I began to see everything happening as if I was watching it on TV in some action packed unimaginable thriller. It would be days before I would be willing to live in my body again.

The first thing I did after regaining some composure was try to use my cell phone to call my home in Chicago. I knew my mom was at work and if she received this news about her nephew, she would need my father to give it to her, not an email. She was the type of person who needed family to brace her.  I dialed the home number over and over. All circuits are busy. Then a miracle- my father answered. “Did you see the email from Barb?” He hadn’t. “It’s bad Dad, Karleton was on that plane.” My normally stoic and close-to-the-vest with his emotions father emitted a sound that I’ve only heard twice in his life, one of utter shock and sadness all rolled into one. I had delivered the worst kind of news. “Dad, you have to go get mom. You have to go to her work and tell her.”

I sat in my office chair again, hoping for a sign of what to do. My instant messaging on my computer was in full swing. A good friend, who worked in the Newscorp building on 6^th Ave. said, “it had to be Bin Laden.” And as I was responding he said, “they are evacuating us. Call me if you need anything.” I didn’t even have a chance to tell him about my cousin.

Karleton was the kind of guy that everyone wanted to know. He picked up friends everywhere he went, and everyone who was his friend consistently said the same things about him. He was kind, he was generous, he loved his wife Haven “unequivocally”, he couldn’t get enough of his new son Jackson, he was too smart for his own good, he was tall, he was hilarious, he was always awesome, he was handsome, and ok, he was fancy…he once jokingly described himself as ubiquitous, and hot damn, I think he was.  Karleton, or KDBF as our family referred to him, was the kind of person that everyone thought was their very best friend. He made everyone feel special. Months after he died, we’d get emails from people about how they considered him their best friend and they’d tell a story about how they were lucky enough to spend time with him and Haven having dinner, or how KDBF would take them out for a cup of joe just to spend some time and catch up.

I had just emailed back and forth with KDBF the day before 9/11 about his son, 18-month old Jackson. He had sent out pictures from his trip to the Cape where he was holding Jackson’s hand on the beach. The pictures of this extremely tall man and his baby walking down the beach towards the water warmed your heart, and I told him so in my reply email. He replied to me, “thanks Cuz. You’re too kind. Love, KDBF” One day later, those same pictures broke my heart and I printed the email and hugged it close.

By mid-day, I began to see the people walking by my windows. I decided to brave the outside and I went out to my front stairs. People were walking in one direction- North. Most of these people had their briefcases and work bags. Women were wearing high heels, some were barefoot, but these people were all trying to make their way home. There was no bus service, no subway service, and no commuter trains. They closed the bridges & tunnels to all civilian cars. In a city that counted on public transportation, there was none. Anyone who wanted to go home had to walk across the bridges to get there. What I saw, was the beginning of the mid-town crowd. It would be hours before I would see the soot covered people making their way from downtown.

I directed myself to the nearest ATM thinking it might be practical to have extra cash on hand. Apparently I was not the only one thinking in this way. The line was at least two blocks long to use the typically unused machines in the vestibule of the bank on the corner. My wait in the line was long. I was standing there when I first heard the fighter jet boom overhead. It shook my body to the core and I stood there alone, tears running down my face. The woman behind me rubbed my back as she tightly held her young daughter’s hand. No one said a word, the silence was eerie, horrible, suffocating. My city that was always buzzing, was now at a loss for words.

Another jet. Another gasp for breath. This would go one for hours, until my brain was able to block out the noise.

For at least 45 minutes I stood in that line for money, and miraculously, I was able to get $200 of emergency cash when it was my turn. Relieved that I had money, I walked over to the Duane Reade on the next block to buy bottled water. In the chaos of the day, some of the news outlets were telling people to buy water. No one knew if the attacks were over and we had to be somewhat prepared for anything because at this point, not a single person could have seen this beautiful day turning out so ugly, and no one wanted to speculate on what was to come next.

The aisles of the Duane Reade were trashed. Everything was strewn on the floors. Only a few water bottles remained and they were rolling around on the floor. The coolers were practically empty and the store clerk, a small Filipino woman, looked disheveled, exhausted, and scared.  I gave her one of the twenty dollar bills I had just taken out of the ATM , got my change, and walked out of the store with my 3 gallon bottles of water I had picked up off of the floor without ever saying a word.

Once back home, I continued my routine of refreshing my email every few seconds. As news spread to more family and friends that KDBF was on Flight 11, emails and voicemails poured into my little apartment. My instant messaging was crazy- talking to my best friend who was stranded in Las Vegas, talking to officemates offering to help me get out of the city when it was possible, talking to a friend who was waiting to hear from his brother that worked downtown.

My family kept every email. We have thousands of emails from all over the world- we kept them for the future. So we didn’t forget the kindness of the world. We kept them for KDBF’s kids.

The friend who was waiting for his brother, his apartment was at 28^th St, and I’d been there a few times to hang out with other friends from time to time. He said I could come over if I needed to be somewhere with people since I was all alone and grieving and he was gathered with friends waiting for his brother to hopefully arrive. I had to go physically see people I knew.

I stepped out of my apartment again. A man covered in black dust was walking barefoot down the street. He was tightly clutching a briefcase, had a dark colored suit on, but it was ripped on the side of the thigh and turned a lighter shade from the soot, his feet were bare and bloodied, and he had dried blood streaks on his face. He stared straight ahead and just walked, zombie-like, with a very quick pace. I could not take my eyes off of him. There was a ball in my throat and the chill in my spine was like nothing I’d felt before. It hit me again, we were under attack, iconic buildings were gone, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, were dead. KDBF was gone. Hurry, hurry, find a cab.

It was no surprise that there was not a cab to be found in the city of a million cabs – but, as if God was actually looking out for just me, out of nowhere, there was an empty cab, and I jumped in. A kind old man was driving, he looked like George Carlin’s grandfather. His eyes were so honest, and he appeared disillusioned and drained. I told him my destination and as he handed me a long steamed red rose, he said, “there will be no charge today. I am trying to get everyone to their loved ones.” God bless. I told him about KDBF. I had to tell someone. He cried. He got me to my friend’s apartment. I tried to give him two twenty dollar bills, but he refused. I told him it was to cover gas, he still refused.

Later that night, after spending time with my friend and his friends (and with great relief, his brother had arrived and was leaving for Long Island when I walked into the apartment), I walked home. 10PM and the city was dead.

Then the jets became noticeable again. I’ve never been so shaken, defeated, lost.

At home, I was back in my office chair. Back to reading emails, instant messaging, and reading articles. A strange game became watching the scroll of the names of the victims at the bottom of the TV screen. Each time they came to the listing of KDBF’s flight, I just held my breath hoping his name was not there. It always was.

****

On the eve of 9/11, eleven years later, I can’t believe where I am. No longer alone, I have three perfect children, an extraordinary husband, beautiful friends, and my extended family is so awe-inspiring.

The long, long, way my family has come from that day is simply overwhelming. KDBF’s gorgeous and talented sons (turns out his wife was newly pregnant when he took that flight. She had delivered the news to him on September 9^th) are growing up happy and loved. They have a little brother and a father who has adopted them. His sisters are raising kids he’d be so proud of- he would have been a hilarious uncle. My aunt and uncle have grown emotionally and worked though a parent’s worst nightmare beautifully. And my cousins, all of them, we all have our own stories of that day. There are times when some of us will share our stories with each other and get emotional, however, most of the time, we will simply send a quick text or an email as a reminder of how freakin' handsome and ubiquitous Karleton was. Doing this reminds us all, we’re never alone, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. Handsome and ubiquitous. Damn, that he was, that he was. 

 

The Third Post

Far too often now I get a terrible sick feeling in my stomach when I watch or read the news. This morning was one of these times when I woke up to that awful, “THIS IS BREAKING NEWS” audio clip on CNN.

As details seem to shake themselves out, and the victims of the theater shooting in Aurora, Colorado today become real people and not just numbers on a news scroll, an intense wave of sadness for these people and what their families will go through in the months and years to come weighs heavily on my mind. With social media being what it is today, I’ve already read a blog detailing the scene written by the brother of one of the young woman who was killed. Jordan Ghawi's Blog Post

Immediately, all I can think is, “oh, please, please, don’t get bogged down in the details.” Details are your sworn enemy. What lies ahead for these families is not really in the second-to-second moments. Dwelling on those horrible, horrible facts could make any person approach insanity, but if that was your loved one in that theater, then you have to try to get out of that place of needing all of the facts as quickly as possible.

Figuring out how to walk forward after such a horrific loss is absolutely the biggest obstacle the living face after losing someone to a tragedy such as the one today in Colorado. This holds especially true when loss due to senseless violence is accompanied by intense media coverage. For a few days, maybe weeks…hell, even months, family, friends, friends of friends, and a multitude of strangers will rally around the survivors, it’s only human kindness that draws people in that direction. They will offer their condolences and tell you they feel your pain; But as those people slowly trickle back into the monotony of their everyday lives, survivors are left to go back to their lives too, only it’s not monotonous anymore. There is nothing ever normal about it again.

It’s most easy to grieve when the crowds are around holding you up- when the news covers your family and you have a brave face, or the talk shows remind you that your pain is justified. It is when you’re finally left alone that will shake your soul. Shit, it’s intense to be alone in the grief. Believe me, the pain, the darkness, it hits most when the silence swallows you up and no one wants to hear about your sadness or fears anymore. You may even get tired of hearing yourself talk about the pain, but keep on talking. Work it out the only way you know how. Write it, sing it, cry it from every Colorado mountaintop. 

We don’t live in a war torn country, but we live among war criminals, of this I have no doubt. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Northern Illinois University, Tuscon…September 11^th. We, as Americans, are so blessed to live where we do. We are blessed that most often perspective and human nature allow us to fall back into our Costco paced, drive-thru window lives. Certainly we do not expect bombs to fall on our heads everyday and we are damn lucky for that fact. But sometimes bombs hit very close to home, and when they do, it’s important not to forget those that live, suffering long past the funerals, news profiles, tree plantings and street dedications.   

The pit in my stomach, that aching, well it’s real. I lived through one of these events, and I saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched the details firsthand. It was worse than anyone could imagine it being. I lost a family member too. Even years later, I am so grateful for those people that kept me from falling during the worst time in my life and I try to tell them so all of the time. A support system is key, but also you have to be prepared for the emotional trip of highs and lows, and even lowers of being alone in your grief. And when people throw clichés your way in these times of pain, “life goes on”, “they’re in a better place”, “God has a plan”, respond with dignity and courage because these clichés come from a place of not knowing…and well, not knowing, it’s the only thing you can possibly wish for these people. No one should have to have that pit in their stomach. No one.  

The Second Post

I’ve always held a very strict rule about not posting a status on Facebook about politics or religion.  I just don’t want to offer open forums for status wars between people that I may know (but who know nothing about one other) other than that they have me as a common denominator. 

Unfortunately, I broke that rule yesterday. Not on purpose, mind you, but rather because I thought it was more of a hapless observation, not an official stance. Regardless of what I thought would happen, it ended up starting just what I always wanted to avoid.  Here is what I posted:

Not totally understanding how Kim Kardashian gets 'floured' and the perp gets arrested, but Trayvon Martin is shot to death, unarmed, and that guy walks free. Laws definitely need to be reviewed and updated.

I posted it without really thinking through the implications. And that is much of the problem with Facebook and Twitter…once it’s posted, you can’t take it back. You can delete, but you can’t cancel the fact that you once voiced an opinion, or started a war of words, or confirmed yourself a reality TV watcher. It lives in cyberspace for eternity. And let’s face it, the fact that I know who Trayvon Martin is, is a travesty all its own.  But so is the fact that I know Kim Kardashian’s name. So I digress.

There are so many things that are odd about this Trayvon Martin case.  Some people are choosing to make it about race (judging from grand jury leaks, it looks like it could actually be more racial than initially suspected); And some are making it about guns (also, in the end, there could be something said about the fact that the shooter admittedly shot and killed another human being and was handed his gun back the same night), but both those supporting the NRA and those for stricter gun laws are raging just the same; And finally some are making it about changing the controversial Stand-Your-Ground laws, which, in my humble opinion, need to be thoroughly reviewed and revised  by individual states ASAP. 

There is no denying that this case is one very tragic event. One that seems to be shaking itself out behind the closed doors of a grand jury. One that involves a man, who may, or may not have had a history of harassing Trayvon on multiple occasions. One that I’m sure, in its conclusion, is much more in-depth and possibly more heartbreaking than the initial presumption of this just being a story about a black teenager randomly walking down the street with his hoodie up, and being killed by a local member of a neighborhood watch group, who happened to be Hispanic.

In the end though, I hope it does bring awareness about the fact that kids are dying every single day. Before I moved to my current home three months ago, I happened to live in an area of the city where I would often hear people guns fired at all hours of the day and night. The bullets could end up through random windows, hit kids reading bedtime stories with their parents or take down people minding their own business walking down the street. This is NOT about the people that follow the gun laws; it is about those that do not.  Two weeks ago, over one weekend in Chicago, 49 people were wounded, 10 were killed. This is my city and this is sad. ( Chicago Tribune Article)

And although my instincts tell me the Trayvon Martin case will end up being very much about racism, I think our big problem shouldn’t be about race, but more about the economics of race. When you talk about economic status and race, it gets pretty touchy. But can we be real? We can’t end a cycle of violence without a reality check of epic proportions. Additionally, let’s not be naïve and say this doesn’t have to do with providing a good education both inside and outside the home as well. Everything goes hand-in-hand.We need better schools, better mentors, better after school programs...we all need to do better.

How is it we can sit back and watch these kids shoot each other? How is it I sat in my home for six years letting my children watch Dora The Explorer on a nice comfy couch, while just outside my doors there were other kids that were the same age learning to hold guns? How was I OK with this? I’ve had the pleasure of working with teens for nine years now, and I’ll tell you, teenagers are amazing. They have such energy, hope, drive, and most importantly they are resilient as hell. The question is, how can we channel that for good? For every kid with a good home, good education, and a good mentor, there must be ten without those necessities. It’s something we should all be ashamed of and we should all be thinking about how we can fix it.

Every story has a back-story, and the Trayvon Martin incident is no exception. Rest assured, there is much more to come, and I’m as interested as the next person in understanding why that child had to be murdered.  Maybe Trayvon’s death will change laws or opinions about guns? Maybe his death will make people aware, once again, that racism continues to be alive and thriving in all corners of this country? But come on Facebook Friends, let’s not let Trayvon Martin’s death go in vain please. Can we at least ‘like’ that?

The First Post

Yesterday was warmer than usual. It got up to 80 degrees and I was sweating. I sweat like a 600 lb man in a sauna even when it's below freezing, so 80 kind of melts me. I decided to try and cool off by sitting on a bench while waiting to pick up my sons at school.  My one-year old, Harper, sat facing me on my lap, when she casually reached her pudgy little hand into my v-neck t-shirt, pulled the stretchy 100% cotton out far enough so she could look straight down, and then said joyfully, "Mama, butt!"

The old man on the bench next to me appeared slightly amused, yet extremely uncomfortable (most likely because he got a full Mardi Gras style shot of my chest without even having to offer beads). Without a doubt, my little girl was referencing my cleavage.

Harper didn't stop there either. I tried to push my shirt back with some words of encouragement, "no, no Harper, don't pull Mama's shirt," but to no avail.

She repeated her sentiments but with more details, while pulling harder on the shirt, "Mama butt!" Then finally letting go of my shirt, she pointed to her own bottom, and said, "Harper butt."  Continuing her butt fact-finding mission , she peered around to look at my backside, and she tapped my hip as she emphatically exclaimed, "more, more, Mama butt!" She was truly joyful that she had figured out her mom has two butts.

I gave a fake smile to the now excruciatingly uncomfortable man sitting next to me and I offered him an olive branch, which came in the form of a distraction to my toddler, "Harper, do you want to go on the swings?" And off we went.

I felt bad for the man sitting there, but I wasn't embarrassed. I can say I was more impressed and proud with her toddler power of association and deduction. Yes!! Cleavage does sometimes look like a butt, especially with a push-up bra. And OK, it's a fact, she does have a butt.  And I have a butt. Seriously, how smart is she? 

I've stressed over starting a blog. For awhile, my excuse was, "but, I don't have a name." Once I decided on a name, my stall tactic was, "but how do I start? It's too hard to write the first post." What better way to start my blog by ending my "buts" with some writing about butts?! Yay for putting this first post behind me.