Father's Day

Wow, Sunday is Father's Day. I've been reading post after post of the wonderful fathers my friends have. I've wept when I've read the heartfelt tributes to those fathers who have passed on and are so dearly missed by their families. I've read some incredibly touching stories and I've felt the love expressed between little kids, adult children and their fathers - the way it all should be.



Then I think of mine and somehow, despite my best attempts, I cannot come up with any warm and fuzzy feelings. I have had two dads in my life - my biological dad, Richard and my step-dad, Robert. I'll start with Robert because his time in my life was short lived. He blew into it in January of 1967 when I was only 10 years old. By February, he and my mother were married. By that time I had been without a father for over 5 years. At first it was fun having a dad around the house. I had always wanted a normal "family" and this was my new chance at just that. The week after they were married, my older brother, Dick, left for the Army. I had the distinct impression that the two of them didn't get along too well, but nothing was ever really said. Robert was a lazy man. He couldn't hold a job and he would do nothing around the house, except act as a drill sergeant to make my younger brother, Ken, and I clean up the house, including washing the floors with toothbrushes. He ruled the roost with an iron fist, mostly because he was the one there - mom was too busy working to try and make ends meet.



He didn't like having children in the house without his name, so it was decided that he would adopt us (at my mother's expense, of course). Since my biological father had not paid child support in years, it was an easy negotiation. The back child support payments would be waived if he'd sign the dotted line. For him it was an easy trade off and a month later, Ken and I went back to school with a different last name. It took some adjustment but for the most part, our friends were cool with it. Once we became "his" in name, he became a slave master and treated us awful. He'd send us to bed at 5 pm so that he could watch tv and drink scotch and water. We couldn't watch tv, read or do anything. Ken and I both had transistor radios that we'd gotten from our aunt and uncle the year before. We found that we could hide them under our pillows and listen to the Cubs games and not get caught. For the most part, we had a media blackout for a few years. It's funny now when people will post something from that 1967 to 1971 period and I honestly have no idea what they are talking about. We had no contact with any media outside those Cubs games and a few radio talk shows. And we had no contact with people. We were not allowed to go to friend's homes and they were not allowed to come over. We were isolated.



By January of 1971, my mother had finally had enough of him just freeloading off of her. She was working her tail off and he wouldn't even go look for a job. He had one when they first got married but quit it 2 days after the honeymoon. Apparently one day while we were in school, they got into quite a tiff on the phone when my mom called home at lunchtime and woke him up. He hadn't even gotten up to get us off to school - Ken and I managed on our own and walked. When I got home from school, she called and asked if he was home. I checked all the rooms and saw no signs of him. She asked if his clothes were in the closet - they were. She said ok and that she'd be home soon. We'd had a significant amount of snow that week and it was quite built up on the driveway. It was too heavy for me to handle and my mom had wanted Robert to do it - um yeah, that went over well. Needless to say it wasn't done. There were ruts in the snow from the street to the garage and from the garage to the street. Both cars were similar in size, so the difference in tracks was negligible. You really couldn't tell who came and went and when. Just before mom was due to come home, Ken went out to open the garage door so mom could pull in. Next thing I know, he was running back towards the house and fell twice in the snow. Silly boy. As he came flying in, he brushed right past me and went to his room. That was odd behavior even for a little brother. I looked out the window again to see my mom running towards the house herself. Now both times, I had seen Robert's car in the garage and just figured he'd gotten home from whatever bar he had been gracing that day. All the scotch bottles in the house were empty - including the special stash ones. I had checked those earlier - after my mom's call.



My mom brushed past me and went directly to the phone and dialed the police. This was before 911 and in those days, the police were our friends and neighbors. It didn't take long for them to get there and pronounce Robert dead by his own hands - carbon monoxide poisoning. He had started the car and sat in the closed garage with the car windows open. He had enough scotch in him to pass out and not know what happened. There was an inquest but that was the final ruling as well. He had committed suicide, knowing that the odds were one of the children - myself or my brother - would find him. He left a note for my mom and truth be told, I never knew what all it said. It was a shocking time. It wasn't our first brush with death - we'd had grandparents die and close family friends, but this was the first time suicide had crossed our paths. We spent a long time feeling guilty and thinkng we should have done something. I wasn't really sad he was gone. I had come to really dislike him immensely over the years he was in our lives. I did feel bad that he was tortured enough in his own mind to believe that suicide was the answer, but even at the young age of 14, I knew his demons were far deeper than any of us knew. We were not the cause, but that still didn't make sleeping at night any easier.



Now let's talk about dear old dad. He left my mother, older brother, Dick, myself and younger brother, Ken, when I was 5 years old. He had fallen for a lady across town who owned a house where he had done work putting in her driveway. He was a hard worker, I will give him that. He owned and operated a very successful (for Des Plaines standards) Blacktop and Paving Company - Buchanan Blacktop and Paving. I remember the younger years when he would let me crawl up on his lap and help "drive" one of the dump trucks or a tractor or a steam roller. I felt like the Queen of the world. I remember playing hide and seek and hiding in the big tire wells or behind the mud flaps. We had fun. Then one day the fun just stopped. I was sitting on my usual perch - the milkbox on the front porch - waiting for my dad to come home so that I could take up my place as princess, but he didn't come home. This went on for days until it got dark out and finally my mother or Dick would tell me it was bedtime. Occasionally I would come in for dinner but most days I waited for my dad - I'd eat with the king. Finally one day I was sitting there and I could hear my mom crying on the phone. I guess she was telling my dad that I had been sitting there waiting for him. Dick came out of the house and proceeded to yell at me for making mom cry. I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn't know he had "left" - I just thought he was working hard. I knew nobody who had divorced parents - not in Des Plaines in 1961.




It was a long time before I saw his face again. By then the divorce was final. As a matter of fact, I was in the hospital having my tonsils out and I was 6. I remember being upset because I was missing my first grade field trip to Hawthorn Melody Farms. I was really bummed. My mom was there trying to ease the pain from the surgery and ease the pain of missing the trip when in walked my dad with a brand new bike. It was a Schwinn with little streamers coming out of the handle bars. I was ecstatic... my mom, not so much. Next thing I knew they were out in the hall talking - loudly - and after only a few moments of being excited about a brand new bike, I was back to having to make do with the green hand me down from my older brother. My dad had not paid any child support and my mother told him to take it back and give her the money so that she could actually feed us.



As I look back at the times we did get to spend with him, it wasn't really because he wanted the time with Ken and I (Dick refused to go and since he was a teen, he could do that), but it was because he wanted to hurt my mom. He'd come and take us on holidays, leaving her many times alone because Dick had to work to help with expenses. He always took us for Mother's Day and Father's Day. Christmas Day - his house. Thanksgiving - it depended. Easter - his house. It was easy to go there... there were built in playmates. We had two step brothers - Jim and John (the twins) who were two years older than I and then along came Janie - the new princess in my dad's story. At first I was thrilled - I had always wanted a sister. I loved my brothers but they didn't like painting nails and playing with Barbies. I liked the Tonka trucks alright but I wanted a companion who would play dress up with me and talk about boys with me. The excitement didn't last. My dad and his wife, Jane, wouldn't let me play with Janie. If I tried to sneak in some time, I was met with a slap to the back of the head (much like Gibbs does to DiNozzo on NCIS). I could play with the boys though. Problem with that was they were hellions on wheels. If there was any kind of trouble they could get into within a three mile radius, they'd find it. My mother had taught me better and my conscience was not one to live with if I'd have gone along. So most times I just sat and spent the holidays reading and trying to stay out of everyone's way until it was time to go home. Many times we were due home at 6 and it would be 10 pm before my dad decided to roll into our driveway with us.



Once he even tried to run my mother down with his truck. He had me on his lap "letting me" drive when he saw her at the mailbox. Instead of slowing down, he hit the gas and aimed right towards her. I tried to turn the wheel, thinking I had lost control of it, but he overpowered me. My mom threw herself into the ditch and the truck barreled over her. She was shaken up but not seriously injured. Needless to say, I didn't go on anymore trips with my dad for quite awhile. In hindsight, through the eyes of an adult, I can see how he just used Ken and I as pawns in his game against my mother and how mean he truly was. They had a bitter divorce. As a child you like to think that they still love you but that isn't always the case. For years I put my dad on a pedestal - especially when Robert came into the picture. "MY DAD" wouldn't do this and "MY DAD" wouldn't do that - you know the scenarios. I honestly don't know of one time after I was five that I felt secure and loved by my father. My mother did the best that she could and she and I were very close. There is just something about a father's love that a little girl needs. My brothers didn't seem to care one way or another. It's like there was some kind of genetic coding that had been passed down to them not to care. Family never meant anything to them - still doesn't for all I know.



When Robert committed suicide, my biological father, Richard, decided it would be "fun" to come to the wake and funeral and rile things up. He would sit there and introduce himself to the people who were coming to pay respects to us for the death of my "legal" father (Robert had adopted us and Richard had signed us away). I spent most of those days trying to explain to people our family dynamics instead of being able to mourn the death. I was 14, scared, insecure, trying to be strong for my mom, trying to keep Dick from choking Richard (he'd come home on leave from the Army), and trying to be the big sis to Ken. It was stressful and here was my real father trying to just add to the stress under the auspices of having some fun. Yeah, funny guy. But still for some reason I thought it was "JUST" against my mother - didn't really realize that he was alienating me as well.



It wasn't until my mom started getting real sick that I sought him out. I don't know what I was thinking but I thought that maybe he'd have some ideas of what I could do to get some help. His wife was in nursing school part time and he was gainfully employed as a mechanic. After school one day, I took the bus into town instead of the bus that went to our neighborhood. I went into the dealership where he worked. I inquired about my dad and when he came out - he denied knowing me. He stood there looking straight into my face, saying he'd never seen me before and I must have been a nut case. Oh I was a nut case alright - for ever believing that he cared. I turned and left in a ball of tears and walked the 10 miles or so home. By the time I got home, mom was sitting on the couch crying - one because she knew I'd be hurting and two because she was so angry at the bastard. In all the years up until then, she never bad-mouthed him. She always played up his good points and never the negative. She felt bad that I had to learn the hard way. Anyway it turns out he had called her and yelled at her for me embarassing him at work. We were in his past and he didn't want anything to do with that. So that's how we left it. In January of 1974, my graduation day, my mother, my best friend, my only parent, passed away. I was 17 years old and had spent the last 2-3 years caring for her every medical, emotional, spiritual, financial and physical need. Somewhere in those years our roles had changed. I became the adult and she becamse the needy child. She died on the couch in our living room as I was at graduation practice. I called the fire department and they sent and ambulance to transport her to the hospital morgue. I had to follow to fill out some paperwork. After I came home from the hospital, I called the phone company and asked them to call my dad and have him call me - it was an emergency. He had an unlisted number and I had no other way to get a hold of him. They did just that and shortly later the phone rang. I told him that she had died and he immediately proceeded to yell at me on the phone for bothering him yet again. By now I was 17 and had built up quite the teenage backbone and mouth to go with it. I firmly told him that "you were married to her for 18 years, she had three of your children, I felt it was the right thing to let you know - I didn't think you wanted to read about it in the Chicago Tribune" and I hung up on him.



I had a graduation to get to and had to drop Ken off at a good friend's house so that I could go. There was nothing more to do that night anyway. After coming home from graduation and getting Ken settled down enough to fall asleep in the chair with me, the phone rang. It was our dad. He wanted to talk to Ken and proceeded to say God knows what... all I know is that it took me another 2 hours to calm Ken down again. Finally at 4 am I was able to sleep for 2 hours. By 7 am I was back at the school I had just graduated from and in a counselor's office asking for help. I had to drive Ken there anyway for school - there was nothing for us to do at home - and I didn't know where to turn. My mother had wanted to be cremated, etc. and we had discussed what she wanted at length. My dad, in his phone call the night before, had said HE wanted to bury her on a hill, under a tree, etc. etc. etc. I didn't know what legal rights I had and wanted to find out before meeting with the funeral director at 10 am.



My counselor knew a lawyer in town and called him. He came right over to the school and accompanied me to the funeral home. My dad, his wife, Jane, along with my aunt and uncle, were all there when I came walking in with a lawyer. They didn't expect that. For once not one of them said a word. They let me do all the planning that I had been so well rehearsed in by my mother. They never even stood by my side as I went to pick out a casket. They left me to do it all alone - which was hard but better than fighting. Afterwards we all went to lunch and he tried to be nice. He invited Ken and I to come stay at his house out on the lake. I welcomed the chance to get away from the phone calls and quite frankly from my hysterical aunt. I loved her, but she was a handful. So the next day we moved out by him. It was awkward but it seemed like we were falling into a routine. I had just gotten a promotion at work so I was working long, crazy hours. After a week or so of being out there, Jane decided she could get back at my mom by causing trouble with her kids. I would call her and say not to hold dinner because I had to work late and she would tell my dad I never called and would hold dinner until it was cold for everyone. Then I'd come in and get reamed. If I tried to defend myself, well then I was calling his wife a liar. It was a no-win situation. Finally on Easter Sunday, just a few weeks after turning 18 and two months of being there, my dad kicked me out because I looked and acted like my mom and it bothered his wife. Fine. I packed the clothes I had there in my car and was getting ready to leave when one of my step brothers, John, came home. He had seen what was going on and he proceeded to put my dad in his place. He even yelled at him for charging his own daughter dealer rates to do a tune-up on my car in his driveway. Needless to say, John was packing his car right behind me. We met at a restaurant down the street to decide what to do. I had the keys to the old house in Des Plaines that I had grown up in, so we went there.



I trusted John and quite frankly he was the only person in my life that seemed to be acting like an adult. He was great - at first. After awhile, we decided we just couldn't stay in that house. Too many ghosts for me. My mother had just died in that house, my step father had committed suicide in the garage and my grandmother had died in my bedroom just a few years before. So we moved into an apartment up closer to where John worked. We settled in nicely and I signed up for classes at the local college and was going to make something of my life. I worked all day and attended classes a couple nights a week. Then the phone calls started. My dad would get drunk and call to start in on me. He'd call me a whore and said I should put a red light out my door, etc. etc. etc. He was downright mean. One time he irritated me so much that I actually pulled the panel phone out of the wall, kicked the bathroom door so hard the hinges broke and it ended up in the bathtub and stormed out of the house. My friday night pizza friends went looking for me, but I had climbed a tree, too scared to drive because I had never been so angry. At that time, I had only been on one date in my life and was still a virgin - which was my plan until I was married.



I had been around alcoholics all my life. My mom was one, my older brother was one, my stepdad was one, my aunt and uncle were and obviously my father. It wasn't anything new but this was the first time I had been the object of such drunken meaness and anger. It wasn't long before John started drinking too and turned into a carbon copy of my dad. He was mean and beligerant and scared me to death. I did all I could do to avoid him when he was drinking but it was hard when you share an apartment - in a town where I had few friends. One night we had been at a party at a friend's house in town and I had left early when the party was getting out of hand. I was not a drinker - didn't want any part of it - so I walked the few blocks home. I was sound asleep when I was awakened by John on top of me tearing at my nightclothes. When I protested and tried to stop him, he pulled a pair of scissors and held them at my throat. I'm sure I don't need to go into the details of what happened next. After he passed out, I dressed and left. He had hidden my car keys so I had to leave on foot. I started to go back to the house where the party had been but it was dark and everybody was gone. I knew of another, older couple, that lived across town so I figured I'd head towards there. Every time I saw headlights coming up behind me, I'd duck behind a house or into some bushes so as not to be seen. I was scared, I was hurt, I was bleeding, I was in shock. About halfway to Tom and Betty's I heard the emergency sirens go off. The town we lived in had a volunteer fire department so that is how they were alerted that they were needed. It was a Saturday night, so hearing those sirens go off was not that unusual. There were many bars in town and many accidents each weekend. Plus it was a slightly rainy night. The kind of rain that just made the roads slippery.



I finally made it to Betty and Tom's and they let me crash on their couch, no questions asked... at least not at 3 am. Tom went to the gas station where he worked with John at 6 am. By 6:30 am he was waking me up and telling me that John had been in a terrible accident and wrapped his car around a tree. Because of the scratches I had on me, etc. they at first thought that I had been in the car but didn't know how I could have made it out alive. I said that I hadn't been in the car but offered no more info. He was hospitalized in critical condition and everyone wanted to drive me over there. That was the last place I wanted to go. The police got a hold of my dad and told him so he and Jane went running up to the hospital. My dad called Tom and demanded he bring me up there. Nobody ever argued or stood up to my dad so I was brought up there. John had regained consciousness enough to tell them that we had had a fight and that I left. He said he went out lookng for me and lost control of his car and wrapped it around that huge tree because the streets were wet. He either left out the part where he raped me first or didn't remember it and the part where he was drunker than a skunk. He was a great liar and actor so to this day I really am not sure if he remembers or not. Anyway, my dad stood there in the hospital yelling at me for almost killing John. Not once did he ask "why" I left. Leaving in the middle of the night, in the rain, to literally run across town to get away from an extremely dangerous situation didn't raise any flags in that man's head. Tom saw I was just about ready to have a nervous breakdown and took me back to his house.



It was two more days before I finally told Tom and Betty the real reason I had left. My dad didn't want to hear it, I was the bad seed of the family in his eyes anyway. Tom and Betty helped me get a new place until I could decide what to do. One of the girls at the bank I worked with was looking to move so we got an apartment together and I had nothing to do with John or my dad after that. I ran into him once at a restaurant in Libertyville and said "hi". He just grunted and went back to reading the paper, like he didn't know me at all. Everyone in that restaurant knew he was my dad. I poured a glass of water on his head and walked out. My friends laughed, my dad did nothing. He wouldn't even come to my wedding - despite being invited (Oliver's idea, not mine). I was grateful he declined. It wasn't until the week of the wedding that he finally decided it would be ok if Ken came. So my little brother walked me down the aisle in his 1970's leisure suit. Looked great with all the tuxedoed guys in the pics... lol. Oh well. After Danny, my son, was born, I was very sick. I was in the hospital for over a month and almost didn't make it. Turns out that Jane worked in the hospital and my name kept coming up in their meetings because I was in such bad shape. Apparently she had a change of heart somewhere along the line and she'd come visit me during the night shift on her break. Most of the time I was comatose, but occasionally I would wake up to the smell her perfume. Finally I managed to stay awake one night and caught her. After that we had long talks and rebuilt bridges that had been blown to smithereens.



She adored Danny and worked on trying to patch things up. She brought Janie one night to see me and the little girl with pig tails had grown into a beautiful, but shy, teen. She was sweet and she loved Danny. The biggest hurdle was getting my dad and I in the same room. She was working on my dad and Oliver was working on me. Oliver came from a loud, passionate family that fought all the time and then got over it. He coudn't understand me being so "stubborn" about it. Finally I gave in to the pressure and I figured that Danny had a right to know his grandfather. The same grandfather who sued me for custody of my brother and wouldn't let me see him again for four years. Yep, that grandfather. Anyway, we set up the meeting at their house. Oliver, Danny and I got there and Jane greeted us at the door. As I walked in, I saw an old man sitting in the chair by the window and it took me a few minutes to realize that it was my dad. He had aged tremendously and no longer was the big, threatening man that I had known. And he was as sweet as pie - as if nothing had ever happened - like it was all in my head. I was cordial but I just couldn't let my guard down. We found out that night that Jane had been diagnosed with breast cancer and would be starting chemo treatments the next week. I felt bad for her. In our midnight talks, we had become friends. That night went without any incidents but I just didn't trust that my dad's niceness would last. Every flag in my head was flapping to beat the band. I had to "hear it" from Oliver all the way home of how nice he was and that maybe everything I had told him was all in my head. Um, yeah.



Jane lived for two years and I helped as best as I could until Oliver's job took us to Memphis. Danny was a great distraction for her and she loved him dearly - that was real. During our times together as she was battling the cancer, she made me promise that I would be there for my dad. I really tried to not agree to do that. I had every reason in the world NOT to be there for him but she played on my compassion one too many times and I reluctantly agreed. So while she was dying, I was there for him. She was in hospice and held on for weeks. We were living in Memphis at the time and had to go back up to Chicago to be there for them. Oliver, Danny and I stayed with my in-laws until Oliver had to get back to work in Memphis. My dad agreed to buy my plane ticket home and I wisely made him do that before Oliver left so that I had it in hand... still I couldn't trust him. He was leaning on me very hard and I was not healthy myself. I had just gotten out of the hospital - against my doctor's advice - after having some testing done on my lungs. I had now had a third blood clot in my lungs and was on heavy medications and blood thinners with my doctors in Memphis and me in Waukegan, IL. The hospice nurses kept as close of an eye on me as they did on Jane. They made sure I took my meds and ate, etc. They were wonderful and a Godsend. Jane died peacefully in the night and we got the call in the morning. I went and picked up my dad and we went to the hospital. In those days, hospice was still done in a wing of the hospital, not at home. I held his hand as he made all the arrangements. He dragged me into that same room to pick out a casket and I had to relive that horror all over again - with him telling me how hard it was to do - the same man that let his 17 year old daughter pick out her mother's casket. But I did it. Danny stayed with my in-laws and I split my time between their apartment and my dad's house. I spent the days with my dad, through dinner, and then went to their place to play with Danny a bit and get him to bed. The stress was wearing me down.



Finally after a phone call with Oliver, he decided I needed a break so he called his oldest sister, Pat, to come and meet me at the Denny's across from my in-laws for coffee so that I could have someone to talk to. We sat there for a couple of hours and she let me vent. She had seen my dad lose it one time and she truly understood and believed that I was not making this all up. I loved her for being there for me. She went back home and I walked back across the street to my in-laws. As I walked in, I noticed my mother-in-law was in tears. It was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry. She was not a crying person. When I asked her what was wrong, she said that my dad had called looking for me and had proceeded to call me every name in the book, etc. She said he and Oliver had talked on the phone while I was gone and they had gotten into a real bad fight. I called Oliver first and got his side then called my dad - you mess with me, fine, I'm used to it, but you do NOT mess with my mother-in-law. Turns out that my dad got it in his drunken head that I was out messing around with some guy and leaving my son with Oliver's mother, etc. He went on and on. Oliver told him he knew exactly where I was and with whom. Dad called Oliver a liar and an idiot for believing that story. Except Oliver was the one who set it all up. Anyway, Oliver had enough and when my dad threw out the "I buried my wife today" card - Oliver said that he was sorry that he had to go through that but it did NOT give him the right to bury his wife right along with her. More threats passed between them before the phones were slammed down. My flight to go home was the following evening and I couldn't wait.



In the morning I got up and took the car back to my dad's. He had been letting me use Jane's car to get back and forth. When I got there, I picked the Sunday newspaper up off the porch and went in the house. I handed him the paper, the keys and the sweater I had borrowed from Ken (who was now going to be living with him). Oh and as a side note, the day of the funeral, I was not allowed to ride in the family car - Ken decided I wasn't family and dad went along with it. Even though I had been the one that had been there throughout the whole ordeal. I wasn't blood related to Jane. Um, neither was Ken, but that was different. Anyway, when I gave my dad the stuff, he started in with "that's some husband you have. When I told him I buried my wife, he said he didn't give a shit." Ok, gloves off.... that is not what he said. What he said was that I didn't deserve that shit from my own father, etc. Years and years of built up anger, frustration, hurt, you name it, came spewing out. No more. I was done playing his games. As far as I was concerned, he was just as dead to me as my mother and his wife were. I walked out the door and started to walk the 30 plus miles home. Ken followed me out and on a nice peaceful Sunday morning a battle royal erupted in the street. I was just as mad at Ken and didn't even know him anymore. I told him he was turning out just like that old man and as far as I was concerned, they could both rot in hell. I turned on my heels and just kept walking.



In my anger and yelling and talking to myself the whole way back to my in-laws, I had ripped open all the areas in my throat and bronchial tubes that had been so carefully stitched up just a few weeks earlier. My shirt was covered in blood and I lost Lord knows how much blood. When I walked into my in-laws, my mother-in-law shrieked (another act not part of her nature) and had my father-in-law take Danny into a back room so that he didn't see it. She thought I had been shot. After cleaning me up and getting me changed and making sure there were no holes in my body, she finally believed that I, in fact, had not been shot. Later that day, Danny and I flew home. Oliver immediately called my doctor and he had me on bed rest until he could get me admitted to the hospital the next morning. As I was laying there waiting for the phone call to come into the hospital, the phone rang. We didn't have caller id back then, so I just picked it up. It was my father. In a completely innocent voice, he asked "were you upset when you left yesterday?" I looked at the phone, trying to figure out if I was awake or dreaming, then looked at the receiver, looked at the phone again, and just hung up. Finally, after all those years, I just hung up. It felt good. The next call was Oliver telling me he was coming to bring me into the hospital where they proceeded to restitch all the damage. My doctor was not happy but he was glad I was back and that it was over. The next day my brother called. The switchboard had been instructed not to put through calls from my dad, but nothing had been said about my brother. Anyway, turns out his girlfriend, who he had just proposed to the night I had gone home, was in a terrible car accident and was killed. I loved Kim and took it very hard. I was so upset that once again, I broke open all the stitches.



A nurse had heard me wail and came running in. My doctor was paged, Oliver was called, and Ken was left dangling on the other end of the phone. Wisely he hung up before Oliver got there. All I could get out was that Ken had called but couldn't say what had happened. Oliver was ready to buy a gun and head to Chicago and take care of my family once and for all. Finally my doctor gave me a shot and got everyone else quieted down and I was able to explain. Oliver was still mad at Ken for telling me and my doctor was trying to tell Oliver that it was good timing because if this had happened while I was at home, my blood loss had been so significant that I may not have made it through.



Kim's funeral was in Texas, her home state, and Ken was the only one to go. The night of the accident, she had been riding home from a concert with Ken's best friend, Pete. Ken was supposed to take her but he had missed so much time at work with Jane's funeral and all that he couldn't get off. Pete had volunteered to take her because she really wanted to go. Somehow he lost control of the car and hit a tree. Kim was killed instantly and Pete was paralyzed. Ken was devastated. He'd lost a step mom, his fiancee and his best friend was paralyzed all in one week. When he came home from the funeral, he walked in the door of my dad's house and as he put his suitcase down, dad started in. "What were they doing that he lost control of the car? What kind of a girl was she anyway, screwing around with your best friend? Some best friend Pete turned out to be... etc." Ken picked up his suitcase without saying a word and walked out that door. He never talked to the man again.



Sometimes I admire him for doing that. I wish I had. Nope, not me. I had to go back for more - all the time. After awhile when my dad's emphysema started getting real bad he reached out for help. This time is was Janie, me and her husband who were there for him. He was not an easy patient. Parts of me wanted to throttle him but part of me wanted to nurture him. It was a constant struggle. Somewhere in those hours, we managed to talk and resolve most of the bad stuff... not all of it, but in his way, he apologized and blamed it on the alcohol. Two days before he died, we had a long talk. It was my birthday. By this time he had decided he wanted to be in a nursing home and I was there visiting. He told me that he was amazed that I was there for him after all he had done to me and how mean he had been. I told him that it was God's grace that had me there and had it not been for that, I wouldn't have been. The Bible tells us to honor our mothers and fathers and since I knew the day would come when I would have to answer to that higher authority, I knew I had to do the best that I could. He cried and for the first time I saw him as a wounded child that had been lashing out. I forgave him for all he had done and he thanked me. Two days later Janie and I were there holding his hands as he took his last breath. I felt nothing. I was glad his struggling was over and I was glad that he could no longer hurt me, but I certainly couldn't cry. Those tears didn't come until years later. Until many counseling sessions to help me understand. I loved him, I hated him. Nobody has drawn more negative emotions out of me before or since.



So as Father's Day rolls around, it's hard. I read all those testaments to great fathers and the stories of those who have gone on to heaven. I can't relate to either because I just don't know where he is. I don't know what decisions he made regarding Jesus in his life. Same with my step father. Don't know about him either. What I do know is that Father's Day does not draw up in me any warm fuzzy feelings. I've seen great examples of fathers in my life and I've had wonderful mentors. Oliver was an awesome father to Danny. For them I will smile on that day. I will smile because I have a heavenly Father that loves me without a doubt, unconditionally. I will smile because I will have just a small tinge of jealousy for those girls who are princesses in their father's eyes and who have a father that has and will do anything for them. I'm happy for them - truly - but I just wish I knew what that felt like.



So for all of you who have had wonderful fathers and Sunday will be day of celebration - whether he still walks this earth or not - I tip my hat and I smile. And for those of you who have fathers who more resemble mine - I smile for you too, knowingly, as a sisterhood that none of us wanted to be in. ((Hugs)) Have a great weekend and to all you fathers out there - Happy Fathers Day. Be good to your children. Believe it or not, the things you say or do will either leave love prints in their hearts or bruises on their psyche. Make the right choice.

An Unconventional Mother's Day Gift

It's hard to believe that it was 31 years ago that I celebrated my first Mother's Day from the "Mom" side of the fence. I remember looking down into those bright blue four and a half month old eyes and wondering just what was going on in that little brain of his. I remember dreaming of all the good times we would have and pondering just what he would be like. What would he be when he grew up? I dreamt of the man he would grow up to be and the family he would have. I'd daydream about future holidays and how he'd come up behind me, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek as his brood filed in from the car followed by a wife who would smile as she said "hi mom." They ooh and aah over the spread I'd have prepared. Ah the dreams of a new mother.

As we'd share those bonding moments, he'd sit and coo at me like he knew what I was thinking, somehow laughing at the dreams I had. He had a smile that would light up a room and his giggle could bring down giants of men. And the boy had lungs. Boy did he have lungs. He could curl the toes of a hundred year old oak tree with that wail of his. Mercifully it wasn't called into action too often - mostly during the teething phase. It was in those moments of frustration that my grandmother's words of wisdom would come to the front of my cerebral cortex - "brandy and egg nog." Not sure whether that advice was for the baby or me. It was in those early Mother's Days that I missed my mom the most. I missed that she missed out on being a grandmother. Now as I sit here and think of Eli, I realize even more how much she would have loved being a grandmother, but she never got the chance.

I think of my Aunt, too, and how she was never even blessed with the joy of motherhood, although she lived it vicariously through my brothers and I. As tough as she tried to be on the outside, I always knew there was a creme puff hiding in there that would have made a wonderful mother. I'm not sure exactly why she wasn't able to be one, it was never talked about, but I do remember the first time I gave her one of those alternative Mother's Day cards and how she cried and cried. She was nobody's mother and I was no longer my mom's daughter ~ death had stripped me of that ~ yet we filled a void in each other's lives. I miss her too.

I look back on the special women in my life ~ they bring tears and they bring smiles. It's bittersweet really. I think of my own son and grandson and wonder if I'll even get a call. Hard to tell. Never in a million years, when I think back to the Mother's Days when I got hand drawn cards and plaster of paris hands, that I would have to wonder if he'd even think of me on Mother's Day. Yet here I am. Not sure when the transition began or even why, but somewhere along the line he's lost respect and care. It hurts. I wonder how the little boy who used to stretch his arms out from end to end stating emphatically that he loved me "berry, berry much" could one day have his heart hardened as stone against me. He knows he hurts me by not calling. He holds my grandson hostage and I don't have the fight left in me to play these games. I'll go to church tomorrow and see all the kids ~ young and old alike ~ fawning over there moms and I'll fight back tears. If he does decide to grace me with a call, it will come at the end of the day, close to 10 pm, as if he were marking an item off his to-do list out of obligation. I'm never sure if I'm feeling better when he does that or when he doesn't call at all - like at Easter.

In all fairness, I know he's having a hard time believing that his mom is dying. Yet, he started acting this way before any of us knew the seriousness of my disease. It's hard for me not to feel resentful of all that I sacrificed through the years for him. I literally almost died when I had him... I was in the hospital for over a month. Through the years, I've put my hopes and dreams on the backburner so that he could have the best chances at a good and productive life. I was not a perfect mother, never claimed to be, but I have to give myself credit for being a pretty good and involved one - whether he noticed or not. All through his schooling and beyond, I was involved in his day to day life. I was PTA president and Band Parent president after that. I was even a Little League coach and umpire so that I could share that common bond with him. How many moms do you know that do that? I'm still in touch with many of his friends from his younger days... many of them will read this and wonder themselves what happened.

Whatever his reasons are for pulling back, they're his alone. I've tried to ask him, in a very calm, non-accusatory way, and was met with this - "I don't have an answer for that." Not exactly music to a mother's ears. So this Mother's Day I'm going to do things a little bit unconventionally, a little bit different. This year I'm going to give him a gift for Mother's Day and that's the gift of forgiveness. I forgive him for breaking my heart into a million little pieces and scattering them into the wind and my wish from him? That he'll do the same for me, whatever the infraction he has perceived that I have done. There would be no better Mother's Day gift in the world to me. After all, if there is one lesson I have known seemingly my whole life ~ it's that life is short.

Happy Mother's Day y'all and may your time spent with family be blessed beyond measure. ((hugs))

Three Days

Three days... they can fly by, drag agonizing slow or seem totally insignificant altogether. Truth be told, I had never given it much thought. I was sitting praying the other day when God laid on my heart to give up Facebook for three days. Three days? I thought, sure, why not? At least He wasn't asking me to fast for a week, like I had done before. I can't fast with food since I'm diabetic, so when it comes time to fast, I find I have to give up something else. One time it was soap operas. That was over a year and a half ago and I haven't watched one since. Talk about a week of fasting becoming a habit. Gave up daytime tv altogether, except for the occasional HGTV marathon on the weekend.

I really thought God was just going to show me how much time I was wasting on Facebook and how much I could get done if I wasn't sitting in front of the computer, etc. Yep, I thought I knew God pretty well and what lesson He was going to teach me. Imagine my surprise when the "lesson" I learned was more about Him and had far less to do with me.

In all honesty, y'all know that I've been lamenting on our circumstances and being stuck in the winepress for far too long. It's been one thing after another and quite frankly, I will admit that there are times that I really wondered if God forgot about us altogether. I'd pray, I'd listen for His still, small voice and hear... nothing. I couldn't see God, I couldn't hear God and I couldn't feel God. I felt abandoned at times and yet somehow I still managed to believe. I still had hope and I still had my faith. I really guessed that I didn't "need" anything more. Isn't that we Christians have been taught all our lives to believe anyway? We shouldn't "need" any confirmation or anything more from God than what already was paid for at the cross?

So as I was sitting there praying, I was thinking about the upcoming Easter season and really grateful in my heart for all that Jesus did for us by going to that cross. I felt the grief in my heart of Him having to make that trek to the cross and the pure torture He endured until His moment of death. I rejoiced in my tears as I contemplated His resurrection on Easter Sunday. I've done this many, many times over the years, but this time what I was led to think about was the three days in between. I'd learned the lessons in Sunday school and thought I knew all about it but He was going to teach me a lesson this year that I hadn't seen coming. Three days. He was saying "none of you know what I did for those three days, nor will you, but let me show you what three days can be."

I wasn't making my usual posts on facebook to let you know what I was doing and quite frankly, I don't know what y'all were doing either. It was hard not to "just sneak a peek" to catch up, trying to justify it to God (um, yeah, I know) that I was just going to see if anyone had any prayer requests. But a deal was a deal and you really can't cheat with God. At first it was no big deal, but I found that when you have time to just spend with Jesus, He uses it. He showed me how well He did know how it felt to not see, speak to, hear from or feel the Father. He also showed me that while y'all didn't know what I was doing and I had no way of knowing what y'all were doing - things were still happening in the physical realm and spiritual realm. Same as it did over 2000 years ago. For three days He was incommunicado. We know that those who loved Him were mourning His death. They wanted to believe that what He had told them would come true, that He was going to reign as King and deliver them from all their adversaries, but let's face it - they had their doubts at that point. They thought their hope and promises died with Him. They thought it was all over and all they had to do was wait on their own day to leave this world. I've been able to relate to their feelings. What I never really thought about was what He was doing during that time. Wish I could tell you that He filled me in on all the details but He didn't. What He did show me is that He was up to something. There has been conjecture throughout history of what He did and we have been told of a few moments of that time, but we really don't know ALL that He did.

I do know that perspective can have a lot to do with how you are looking at a situation. I'm sure it was a very long three days for the followers in their grief. I know that to someone who is facing death, three days can fly by. I know that watching a loved one die can be both agonizingly slow because of their suffering and yet so quick because you can't stop it from coming. I know that to those who are just toodling through life, three days doesn't matter. Imagine having an eternity of "business" to take care of in three days. That's what Jesus did ~ for us. He had an assignment straight from God that He had to fulfill. We don't know the details ~ they were marked top secret for His eyes only. I can't even imagine how quick those three days flew by for Him, especially when compared to the timeline of eternity. At moments during my three days of fasting from Facebook, I felt all of the above and I came out of those three days a little more cognizant of what not only was accomplished on the cross itself, but in the work that must have been done in the three days after.

I'm grateful that I don't feel led to give up Facebook altogether. I'd really have a hard time with that since it's so much a part of my life now and I really love keeping up on all y'all. I am going to try and not spend quite so much time on here, so if you need me to see something, either tag me on it or send me a message. I won't always be able to keep up (as I'm finding out just trying to see what I missed... talk about Mission Impossible). I'm also grateful that God knew what I "needed" and chose to give me one of His Holy nudges to let me know that He's really still there, just like He's always been, and just like I don't know what was being done during those three days on my behalf, I can rest knowing without a doubt that He had it all planned out then and He has it all planned out now. As for what Jesus did for those three days after the crucifiction until the resurrection, well, it's one more question to add to my list to ask Him when I get to heaven... right after I'm through standing in line to slap Eve for ever having eaten that apple to begin with.

I Wish Him Well

Today, or since the hour is late, more appropriately, yesterday, my ex brother-in-law got remarried. From what I've heard, to a wonderful girl named Lauren. I am truly happy for him and wish him nothing but the absolute best. My nephews still live at home with him and from what I've gathered, they seem to really like her and that is good. They all live in a big house with his parents as well, although I don't know for how much longer. I do know he and his new bride were looking for a house in another town close by and selling their respective houses. Not sure where his parents will go since they are getting up in years.  

After all is said and done, I really miss them. For many years they've been family to me. Funny how that happens in divorces. Sometimes the ones caught in the crosshairs have little to do with what happened and even less knowledge about it and yet they're cut out too. It wasn't done maliciously, mostly because we lived in different parts of the country and talking seemed awkward at best and downright disloyal at times, although it shouldn't have been thought that way. I don't know the detail of the breakup between my sisiter and her husband. She never volunteered the info and I never asked. A few times he called me trying to get info that I honestly didn't have, so I of course got dragged into it kicking and screaming. Sad thing is that I loved them both - and all their warts and flaws. I could see both sides. I hoped they could work it out and yet knew somehow that wasn't going to happen.

I'm glad he moved on. I'm glad he found someone that he feels he can spend the rest of his life with. I hate being on the outside. I love his parents - they became like parents to me too since mine had long since passed away. I'd love to call them and one of these days I will. I just wanted the wedding to be behind - somehow I think it will make it easier. Plus it will give us something to talk about. I hope his new bride treats him well, I hope he finishes projects he agrees to do for her. I hope they do things together, as a family, and find time to laugh. The boys are older now with lives of their own but I hope that they forge memories that will last a lifetime. I love them all. I didn't divorce them, although sometimes it feels like I was forced to sign papers to stay away. I hope that's not the case. We'll see.

So Cheers, my friend, as you embark on the next chapter of your life. May the road be smooth enough to sail into the sunset but bumpy enough to add interest along the way. ((hugs)) and love to my "old" family. Miss you and can't wait to see the pictures. God Bless.. <3 <3 <3 Congratulations to the groom; best wishes to the bride.... always.

Pulmonary Fibrosis and Why We Need Prayer

A Snapshot of the Disease

• The disease affects 200,000 Americans; alarmingly prevalence has increased as much as 150% percent since 2001
• The median survival rate is only 2 to 3 years, and more than 2/3 of patients will die within 5 years
• There is no FDA-approved treatment or cure for IPF
• An estimated 40,000 people die each year from IPF – one every 13 minutes (the same number that die annually from breast cancer)
• An estimated 48,000 new cases are diagnosed each year
• IPF can affect anyone, but the disease tends to affect men more than women; the mean age at the time of diagnosis is 60-70 but can occur at any age
• IPF is 5 to 6 times more common than cystic fibrosis, yet it remains virtually unknown to the public, many policymakers, and even some physicians

Those are the facts. It carries a 100% chance of fatality with the exception of those few who are able to get a lung transplant - which is the only known cure. Even after a lung transplant, the average life expectancy is only 5 years. Not a whole lot of hope.

That's the factual side. There is a whole other personal side as well. I live with this, day in and day out. I cannot turn it off or walk away from it. Each day I see it progressively robbing more and more of my life - more and more of me. It started a few years back when I noticed that I seemed to be getting winded much quicker than I ever had before. At first I just chalked it up to being overweight and getting a little older. I mentioned it to my doctor but he didn't seem too concerned, so neither was I. It kept getting worse and somewhere along the way, I picked up a little cough. It wasn't producing anything and it wasn't all the time, but it was there. My doctor showed a little more concern at that time and ordered a chest x-ray. Not particularly liking what he saw, he referred me to a pulmonologist who did a complete work up. My PFT's (pulmonary function tests) were down but nothing too alarming. He instructed me to lose weight and exercise more. So that's what I tried to do. I did lose a significant amount of weight (50 lbs) in a year but still my breathing was rough, so my primary sent me back to the pulmonologist. He again did the tests and they were down a bit more. My logic was that if it was due to weight, shouldn't they have improved or at the very least stayed the same? He did a CT scan but still attributed it to my weight - and not very nicely. Pretty much telling me my breathing problems were all in my head. Needless to say, I left there in tears vowing never to go back.

In the fall of 2008, I was scheduled to have carpal tunnel surgery and was going through the normal pre-op work up when something caught the attention of my doc on the EKG. He sent me for a complete cardio-pulmonary work up before he would sign off on okaying the surgery. Cardio came through fine but we ran into problems with the pulmonary. Ironically enough I had to go back to the office, that I vowed never to go in again, due to time constraints. I didn't have enough time before surgery to find a new pulmonologist. Mercifully I didn't have to see the same doc, but his partner. This time when they did the PFT's they were significantly reduced and everything else was stopped so that they could pursue that. The next few months led me through more CT scans, a bronchoscopy, alveolar lavage, and an open lung biopsy a week before Christmas. It was from that biopsy being sent to Mayo Clinic that I got my diagnosis and was delivered the news of a death sentence.

A month after the biopsy, I was able to finally join my husband in Tennessee and my records were transferred to Vanderbilt. While there is normally an eight to twelve month wait to get in to see them, I was able to see them within two months. For the last two years, they have tried different drugs to see if they could come up with some combination that would stall or slow the progression of the disease down. I have had bad reactions to each and every one and none of them helped with slowing it down. Since they weren't helping and were making me so sick, I've been taken off all but a maintenance dose of prednisone, partly in hopes of getting me ready for a lung transplant.

For the last 6 months, I've been going through testings and appointments to see about qualifying for a lung transplant. Things were moving along pretty well until last month when I lost my insurance because my COBRA ran out. I have automatically been disqualified from pursuing a lung transplant. I'm ok with that though, because I really wasn't sure that was the route I wanted to go anyway. Lung transplantation opens up a whole other can of worms and hardships - that will be another blog itself.

I'm struggling day by day. It's getting harder to breathe and I am having to use oxygen pretty much most of the time. I sleep with it all night, I cannot leave the house without it and whenever I do anything around the house, I have to have it on. If I'm just sitting here quietly on the computer, I try not to put it on, but even then there are times I must. It's hard on Oliver to watch his once very vibrant, active wife, just sit there sometimes gasping for breath. It's hard for me not to panic during those times, knowing that the day will come when I won't be able to recover. It's not so much the dying that scares me, but the suffocating and choking to death that does.

The lack of oxygen flowing through my blood is affecting other parts of my body as well. I have become quite forgetful and that is worrisome to me. I literally can watch something on tv and an hour later not remember watching it. I forget when I've talked to people or when I go into another room, what I went in there for. I feel like that email that's been circulating for years about going to do one thing, getting distracted, etc. until you're right back where you started. That's not so funny to me anymore. My heart is stressed and it's beats are numbered. Sometimes it even hurts. Pain is magnified because the oxygen is not getting around the way it needs to. I sometimes fall asleep mid-sentence in a conversation. Falling asleep in church has become pretty standard. On my chair, daily. Oliver doesn't even try to wake me up anymore, he just turns off the light and covers me up. On the flip side, I have trouble sleeping at night. I can only get a couple of hours in at a time and it's fitful at best. Sometimes I'm just afraid to go to sleep, wondering if I'll wake up. I'm watching my life slip away and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I fight as hard as I can but I'm losing ground.

That's where the prayers come in. Somehow in the midst of all this struggle, I'm able to find peace and that's due to the prayers of friends and family. I know it's too late for a cure to be found in my lifetime. I'm a realist. But I do have a son and grandson that I care deeply for that I would hate to worry about them having to deal with this. I watched my own mom die a slow, painful death of what I think was the same thing I have - our symptoms are the same, but they didn't really know too much about PF back in 1974. It's hard enough to get the diagnosis today. We need God to step in. We need the funding for research so that treatments and ultimately a cure can be found. This deadly disease affects far more than you can imagine - both directly and indirectly. As you pray for me and my family, I too am praying that it does not touch yours but if it does, I pray a cure can be found swiftly so that you don't have to walk in the shoes that I've had to walk in and the ones that so many before me have. If you don't think your prayer can make a difference, think about this... a snowflake all by itself doesn't amount to much of anything, but look what happens when a bunch of them stick together. : ) Thanks and God Bless.

My Rope is Unraveling

"When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on." I've heard that quote all my life. I've also heard the Christian version - "When you get to the end of your rope - let go and let God." Words. You read them and you nod as they make some sense somewhere in the recesses of your mind. Then life throws you curve ball after curve ball and they are no longer just words but become your life's mission. I gotta admit my rope is unraveling and the finger nails that I have been hanging on with the last bit of my being are cracking, splitting, peeling and breaking. I'm done.

I've been through a lot in my life. Through more things than I even care to bring to the forefront of my mind and I have always been an overcomer and come back stronger. For the first time in my life, I feel knocked down and not sure I have the energy to get back up. I know all the verses in the Bible that are there to bring me encouragement and hope and I try, really try, to let them rise up in me and help me stay afloat, but lately that's becoming harder and harder for me to do. It's spring, with all it's growth and fullness and promise of warmer weather to come. Usually a time of year that I'm outside soaking up every ray of sun that I can get, puttering in the yard, getting that feeling of satisfaction of a job well done and the kind of ache in your muscles that you just KNOW you've put in a good day's work. I just don't have the energy anymore, or the strength. I sit in my chair looking at all the things that need to be done and then just have to look away. I can't do it anymore.

I just feel like such a burden. My expenses are high and I am unable to generate any income at all. I've been denied social security disability many times - first because I didn't have the correct diagnosis and they didn't think I was sick enough, now because I don't have enough recent credits - and I've been told there is nothing more I can do until I am 65. I won't make it to 65. It's only by the grace of God that I've made it to 55. Pulmonary Fibrosis does not let you live that long. We don't know the cause of my PF and mercifully it doesn't seem to be the fast acting kind but it's eating my body away none-the-less. Without being declared disabled by SS or a senior by age alone, I am not qualified to receive any state assistance either. I now have no health or life insurance since my COBRA has run out. I am uninsurable. Oh there is ONE company willing to underwrite a policy for me for $2300 a month and a $5000 deductible. No can do on only $1500 in social security that my husband is able to now able to draw. And we do thank God for that. Problem is that it is not enough. Not with the mortgage alone being $1000 a month. That leaves $500 a month for food, utilities, medicines, life....

I feel like I have become a burden to the world and mostly to my husband. It's hard because we have both worked so hard all our lives and played by the rules. We have never cut corners or reached beyond our means. Honestly I don't remember even once where I haven't bought something on sale. We've been good stewards of what we've had. We've taken only three vacations in 32 years. We're just now, in the last few years, homeowners. And we're losing it all. Our savings is gone, our credit cards are maxed out and we're living in a deficit every month. We'd sell the house, but we cannot get near enough out of it to break even. We're here until they kick us out and then truthfully, don't know where to go. My meds, with insurance, ran about $350 a month and I don't even want to know what the cost will be now without insurance. I'm good for another month or so because I stocked up as I could. My oxygen alone - the home concentrator and portable tanks - run about $600 a month. I haven't even been able to pay the co-pay, let alone the full bill. I have collection agencies calling each day - and mercifully they're mostly recordings and somehow easier to hang up on. I just don't have it to pay them. It stresses me no end. I've become one of "those people."

We went out on a limb and bought a portable oxygen concentrator through a friend on facebook. She was great and gave me a really good deal. Problem is that now that we got it, it doesn't work. I don't for one minute think she sent me an unworking maching on purpose - her dad died from Pulmonary Fibrosis - but whether it was because her boyfriend used an unauthorized charger or something happened in transit, I don't know. We used every penny of our income tax refund to buy it - $1100. I need to send it in to be fixed but I don't know where and quite frankly don't have the money. So now I'm feeling guilty for having had the need to spend what little money we had for medical equipment that doesn't work. Sigh. Gratefully they haven't pulled my other machines but I'm sure that day is coming as soon as they know that they won't be getting any money from my old insurance company.

I feel bad for Oliver. He's had to retire. One, he just hasn't been able to find another job here in the last year and a half and now, quite frankly, I think he's afraid to leave me alone. The lack of oxygen to my brain has affected my mind. I do get forgetful and moving about the house has become more difficult. I will only take a shower or bath when I know he's in the house because I lose my balance so easily and I don't want to become like one of those commercials where "I've fallen and can't get up." Thanks to the goodness of friends, I now wear a medical bracelet that has my whole medical history on it so if something was to happen and Oliver isn't close by, medical personnel can access the info and treat me accordingly. That is a great peace of mind.

Somewhere in all this I've lost me. I can no longer be or do the things that I loved to do. The physical things because I don't have the oxygen enough to make my body run efficiently and the mental things because my mind is slipping into an abyss of darkness that I'm afraid one day I won't be able to come out of. My emotions are raw and I find it harder and harder to just laugh each day. I sit here and look at the dust piling up on the furniture and am helpless to do anything about it. Occasionally I do have a burst of energy and am able to take the duster and move it around, but those days are far and few between. Mostly I have to fight the urge to just write "sorry" in the dust. Oliver has been great about doing what he can around here but let's face it - his idea of clean and mine are not exactly the same. I appreciate his efforts, I feel guilty because all I can do is watch him. I see the stress aging him and that makes me feel terrible. He feels helpless because he can't make me better. We thank God for Charlie as a way to break up the stress.

There are days when just the action of getting up and getting myself a glass of water is enough to take my breath away for over an hour. If you were to see me sitting here and were here in my living room, you'd probably not even know I was sick - unless of course you looked at the oxygen paraphenalia that is flanking me. I can even sit here and hold conversations and be fine. But let me get up to go to the bathroom and by the time I come back, I'm sucking on that oxygen tubing to beat the band. I'm down because I no longer have any medical support. For all intensive purposes, Vanderbilt has "fired" me because I no longer have insurance. I can't get any financial assistance from them because - get this - Oliver draws social security and that's too much income for two people with no children under 18 at home. Yeah well, I'm certainly not going to try and have a kid now just to get some assistance from Vanderbilt - even if that were even physically possible.

I do have my local Physician's Assistant who helps me keep my prescriptions current but she really doesn't know what to do for me beyond that. My disease is way out of her area of expertise and she's too busy with the everyday ills of her other patients to find out. I have tried every program, every company, every foundation, every everything that I've been able to find in my research to try and get help and have come up with nothing. Oh they all feel my pain, but are helpless according to their "rules". We couldn't even get food stamps. I literally feel my life slipping away inch by painful inch. I do not feel like a contributing member of society anymore and that hurts the most. I've become a burden and that is certainly not something this independent woman of Scottish and Norwegian descent ever thought would happen. My world has fallen apart and I can no longer seem to cling to the rope that I've been on for 55 years. I feel like I'm pulling the people around me down with me. Lately it's been hard to wake up in the morning. Where once it was "Thank-you God for another beautiful day and another chance at life", it's now become "Oh God, I'm still alive, now what?"

My lifeline has been the computer and quite frankly, facebook. Just being able to keep in touch with others and to see them living their lives makes my whole day. I play Farmville and FarmTown and they help me with pain management. I'm able to research and be able to make informed medical decisions on my own, which has come in handy since I no longer have doctors to help me do that. My days aren't all doom and gloom, I do smile. I try, I really do try, to find the good side of things and hang on to those. I don't know how much longer I have on this round sphere we call earth or what my purpose is, but for whatever reason, I guess God isn't ready for me yet. It's hard to have to live in a bubble of sorts. What is a simple cold to someone can literally kill me if I catch it. I've had two PF friends who that exact thing happened to within the last month and I've heard story after story of others who have lost loved ones that quickly to this disease. It's like living as a ticking time bomb. You can be toodling around seemingly fine one day and gone the next. It's hard to live with that on your shoulders. It's hard knowing on the days that I'm struggling to breathe even with the oxygen that the day will come when I will no longer recover. It's hard not to panic and something I'm really working hard on. It's hard to know that at any point, because I also have pulmonary hypertension, that my heart can just blow out. There is a fine line between getting the exercise you need and overdoing it. Getting it wrong can literally be a killer. That's a lot of pressure - literally and physically.

I admit that I am overwhelmed. I'm a fighter and have been all my life but the fight is slowly fading out of me. Between the physical assault on my body and mind and the financial stresses and the concern about what the future (if I have any future left) holds. We've come to the conclusion that it may be time to leave Adamsville. Truth be told, the idea of living closer to my grandson and the beach is sounding better and better each day. It won't be easy. First we have to try and get out of this house. Our credit is ruined from the medical bills that have piled up and we haven't been able to pay plus the fact that our credit cards are now maxed out - from everyday living expenses. And we have no idea how we'd pay to get our stuff down there or whether we'll even be able to rent a place. So many unknowns. I'll hate to leave here because I have loved it so but I don't feel I belong here anymore. Friendships have waned and been stressed because it's hard on them when you have to live with these circumstances. I can't blame them for not coming around - it's hard to watch me struggle for things everybody takes for granted. It's hard for Oliver to watch and except for the times he takes Charlie for a walk, he has to. It's hard on my son, Dan, who doesn't even call because quite frankly, he doesn't know what to say. It hurts that he doesn't call, but I do understand. I can no longer hide the dark sides of this disease. I can't hide the pain as I grimace from movement and I certainly can't hide the times that I have to hook up to the oxygen, which has become more and more frequent. I even have to sleep with it now. We do still have our small group from church and they are wonderful. They bring a smile to my face and make me feel just a little bit human for a couple of hours every couple of weeks. We love them.

The good thing about being let go from Vanderbilt is that I no longer have to worry about living within 3 hours of Nashville. Since being automatically disqualified for a lung transplant due to no insurance, that option is off the table and that was the only option I had of beating this thing called Pulmonary Fibrosis. But that leaves us free to literally move wherever we want to, well, at least in our heads. There are days when I'd love to be down by the beach near my grandson and then there are other days when I'd just like to get a motorhome and go check things off my bucket list. Away from the collection agency calls, away from all those things that keep you tied to terra firma. As long as we would be able to have a satellite hookup for tv and internet, we'd be set. I might even be able to assist in keeping a motorhome clean - much less overwhelming than the house. There are days when I dream of something as simple as owning a Motorola XOOM e-tablet. Since I like to read it would be neat to have a tablet to be able to do that with. It would be nice to be able to curl up in my chair and do all the things on the internet that I do. The laptop is just too heavy for me and awkward to do that with. I'd love to go on a cruise. I'd be happy living on a houseboat but I'm not sure Oliver could stomach it. I'd love to visit Hawaii but since flying can severely compromise my lungs, that option is definitely out. I know I wouldn't be able to just swim from Los Angeles to Honolulu - and back. Then I realize that these are ALL dreams that may never come true. Right now, in reality, I can only dream that the electric, water, food and meds are paid for today.

I mourn not being able to do all the things that I always thought I'd have later to do. I worked hard, sometimes too hard, and set aside my dreams and aspirations to be with my family. I always thought that I'd be able to travel when we retired and to have a nice house and be able to get a new car every 5 or 6 years or so. I'll never experience that new car smell again - well, unless I just go sit in one at the dealership. Quite frankly, I may not be able to do that since all kinds of smells now literally take my breath away. I hate the stares I get from people on those rare occasions when I do venture out. Most people are merciless, thinking I did something to myself that caused me to be sick - like it was my choice to be this way. I didn't. I hate that kids now feel they have to hide behind their parents because they are afraid of the oxygen tanks and tubing, which make me sound like Darth Vader. That breaks my heart because I have always loved kids and had a special connection with them. Where once I saw smiles, now I only see fear.

I'm not looking to invite anyone to my pity party. I don't even stay here long myself, if I can help it. Quite frankly, I don't even know what more I want out of life. I guess my biggest thing would be to have some kind of security. I'd like to put all my concentration into fighting this disease and into believing that perhaps, just perhaps, the doctors got it all wrong and I have something else - something curable. I'd like to beat the odds that are stacked up against me. That is my daily prayer. That somehow, some way, SOMETHING will just turn out ok. That at least one area in my so called life would just settle down and not be stirred. I'd like some calmer waters, please. In the meantime, I'll look out the dirty window at the sunshine and the trees and grass greening up and remember that there are seasons in everybody's life and that even winter can only hang on so long. Perhaps the rope unraveling is a good thing after all. Maybe, just maybe, it will be the opportunity to change the grip that will make all the difference. I sure hope and pray so.

A Tennessee Spring Afternoon

Ok, the afternoon started out innocently enough. I really was just heading outside to sit on my lounge chair and immerse myself in a book I've been wanting to finish. It's not the worst book I've ever read but certainly not a page turner by any means. I'm only 50 pages from getting it done and I thought the warm sunshine along with the crisp breeze of a sunny spring day would entice me to finish it. I did start reading. I actually got about 4 pages read before I couldn't help myself, I began looking around.

There is something about early spring clean-up that just begs for you to attack it on a glorious day. I admit that I no longer have the strength, stamina or even the very breath to do what I used to but I couldn't just sit there and do "nothing" like I planned. So, despite knowing better when I've sick all week, I decided at least I could "tame the jungle" (aka mowing the lawn) for the first time this year. There is something about the smell of freshly mowed onions that just screams spring. Yep, you read correct - freshly mowed onions, not grass. At least now I'm no longer surprised when this happens nor think I've lost my mind.

We have about an acre and a quarter of land that is ours, but half of it is wooded. All in all it takes about an hour to mow and quite frankly, it's a "chore" I really enjoy. There is something about the drone of the tractor engine, the smell of the aforementioned onions, the fresh air, the sound of crickets, the mounds of ant hills emerging from the ground, the toads hopping for their lives as the tractor approaches, that just makes you glad to be alive. I must say I have mastered this task. No longer breaking windows or running over things that can tangled in the blades. Since it rained a good deal this week, I didn't need to worry about closing the windows before churning up the dust and dirt. No flat tires on the tractor. No belts coming loose because I took a turn a bit too tight. No bruised knees from holding on to the tractortoo tightly wtih my legs for fear of falling off. I have improved. I got it done in record time and went back to my lounge chair and book.

As I sat there with the goal of really finisihing the book this time, I began to once again look around. I knew better than to look at the weeds poking up from the front landscaping - they can wait. I looked up to the sky to see a hawk fly overhead and smiled as I watched it soar and dive. I heard the distinct sound of the mockingbirds that have shared our property for the past couple of years. I heard a dog bark in the distance and heard the crack of gun go off as some hunter tried to shoot his prey. My nose met with the smell of burning of leaves and wood from others who were clearing their properties of the fallen branches and stuff that the winter leaves behind.

Ok, enough of that... I have to finish this book. I started once more to at least finish the chapter, if not the rest of the book, when movement caught my attention from the left. I looked over expecting to see Duke, our neighborhood Great Dane, but instead my eyes beheld the vision of a half dozen deer come scampering across our yard towards the wooded area across the street. Not an unusual sight by any means, we have deer come by all the time, but not usually when we're out there and certainly not less than 15 yards away. They were absolutely beautiful with their graceful strength. I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear as I saw the last of their little white tails disappear into the woods. I wished I'd have had my camera at the ready but I knew that even if I had it out there with me, I would have missed the whole moment because it was over in an instant.

I put the book down. It wasn't going to get read anymore this afternoon. Instead I just sat there and just really absorbed all that was going on around me. I embraced every sensory experience that I could and I let every muscle in my achy body just relax. And I thanked God for another day, for another breath, for another chance to experience a lovely spring day. We've lived a lot of places over the years and I've met many a spring but I have to say there is something incredibly peaceful and powerful about Tennessee in the springtime. It's not just the promise of things to come or the freshness of new beginnings, it's something more. Something almost intangiable and yet right there. Hard to explain but wonderful to experience.

I'm glad the Bradford Pear trees are giving up the last of their white spring flowers because that means the stinky fish smell that accompanies them will wane as well. It's awesome to see the bright colors of the buttercups and tulips and various other flowers as they poke through the ground in all their glory. I love watching the naked branches begin to bud with their little green nubs of future leaves to remind us of the circle of life. I'm glad it's spring and I look forward to many more beautiful days finally finsihing that book - someday.