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Monday, October 19, 2020

 In 15 days, the scope of this country will change even more drastically than it has since donald trump was elected president four years ago. (I refuse to capitalize his name.)

Since then, I have personally struggled with ongoing depression, and I know I'm not the only one.

I long for the days when I won't feel like this. But in the meantime, every day comes with anxiety and fear that we will never recover from what's happened to our country, but more importantly, to ourselves.

We have become so divided that we argue over things that were once a given: things like science, medicine, truth and compassion. Now, some of us believe the most ludicrous conspiracy theories, vigorously promoting them, shouting "fake news" whenever trump denies a story that paints him in an unflattering light.

We have seen a surge in racism and hate, with armed militias "standing back and standing by."

We have seen friends and families separated, both physically and metaphorically.

I have lost many, but that's the sacrifice I've made to fight for what I believe in.

I know I am not alone in these feelings of despair, frustration, and sadness.

But, what is the answer?

Can we forgive those who have forsaken us? Can we move past the betrayals and the blatant attacks on our character? What if trump gets reelected? Will we heal? CAN we heal?

I'm not sure. And, I hate that.

I used to be so optimistic, floating around the world in a space of eternal hope, imagining that we were progressive, that we were moving forward, that we were EQUAL.

Boy, was I ever wrong. I've become quite the cynic.

About a year ago, I walked into a wall in the middle of the night and nearly knocked myself out. I ended up with a black eye and a bruised ego. The darkness around my eye faded, but it was replaced by darkness in my heart. Nearly every day, I feel like I've walked into that wall again, over and over like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

We can all agree that 2020 has been the worst year in the history of our lives thus far, so it would seem the only way to go is up. I'm not sure that's going to happen but we can still aspire to greater heights.

I do find some solace in watching the trump train head steadily toward the broken bridge, crashing and bursting into a fiery ball of orange flames...

It's no secret where I stand on this president...I HATE HIM. Pure unadulterated hate.

Yep, genuinely despise him.

I know I'm not alone in this feeling either.

The fact that he's a racist, bigoted, misogynistic, malignant narcissist with a history of sexual assault and zero moral compass might be the main reason, but what he's done to people I once cared for is what is the most troubling.

This man has given permission to throw all compassion and kindness out the window in favor of name-calling and division. He's given the White Nationalists the platform to spread their message of racism and supremacy. He's allowed foreign adversaries to ridicule and attack our troops, dismissing the bounties on their heads. He's been impeached. He's allowed dictators access to classified information. He's tweeted QAnon. His abuse of power is ongoing.

Perhaps his most egregious act thus far is how he's handled Covid-19. He's responsible for the deaths of 220,000 Americans (to date) due to his ineptitude on handling the worst Pandemic this country has seen since 1918. Just today, he's attacking Dr. Anthony Fauci in an attempt to discredit our nation's leading doctor on infectious disease. I truly hope and pray this alone will be his demise.

I could go on and on and on, but the list of his wrongdoings is endless and exhausting, just like his presidential term.

In 15 days, we have the opportunity to reset. To seek redemption and begin to mend the deep cuts and tears in society's skin that have left lasting scars.

I can say this much...I do have a glimmer of hope. I have faith that more people are good than bad, and that the loud minority who support trump will be silenced when Joe Biden is elected.

In the next two weeks, I will continue to campaign for the soul of this country, for our redemption. And, I hope that November 4, 2020 I will be writing a BLOG filled with excitement and optimism for the future and our collective recovery.

Until then, I am wishing you all health, happiness, wellness and peace.

And, for God's sake, don't forget your mask.

Oh and shit, if you haven't already done it...


Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Mood-Rings and Marathons

I’ve just returned from a four day jaunt up the coast of California. My good friend decided she was going to run in the Monterey Half. She’s no stranger to running, but we often walk together, because that’s more my speed. And at 5”11” (to my 5’3”) Karen’s a gazelle compared to my meerkat like scurry…which is SORT OF like running for me.

Anyway, we packed up the SUV, pulled our daughters out from school at lunch, and headed north on Friday before Sunday’s big race. Road tripping with two tweens and a nine-year old is messy, entertaining and exhausting…but so worth the moments and memories. 

We got to Monterey lickety split, if you call 6 ½ hours fast. In California driving on a Friday, that was pretty quick. After unloading the car and getting situated in our hotel room, we headed downstairs for Snack Time…

You’ve never seen so many adults crammed in a single file line for two hours worth of free booze. As we looked around the room noting all the other parents and kids, and, as we stood in that line, we knew why. At the 7:15 mark, happy hour was ending in 15 minutes, so the two of us left the line double fisted with some relatively good and cheap house chardonnay. 

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, I managed to slice the top of my toe open. Who puts steel on the bottom of a chair leg? I mean, c’mon. It was a bleeder, and I suspect that may have had something to do with the two glasses of wine I had thrown back. The minor injury put a slight damper on the night but prevented a hangover I suppose. We headed back upstairs to call it a night. 

We had a big day ahead of us at the Runners Expo the following morning. 

Saturday, we were up early as usual, and headed back downstairs for another “free” meal at the hotel. I have to say, this breakfast was MUCH better than what a lot of hotels offer. The girls were thrilled to have Fruit Loops, and Karen and I enjoyed the made-to-order omelets. 

After eggs and cereal, we headed downtown. Karen picked up her bib and we checked out all the gadgets, gizmos, socks, and hydration packets on display. I got some sort of electro-magnetic “massage.” They had a great show special…I could buy that handy machine for a thousand bucks and get a second FREE! What a bargain…a las, I passed. I must admit I felt pretty good during the mild electrocution on my shoulders. Maybe there is something to that.

We made our way to the local free trolley that dropped us off at the Aquarium entrance. Boy, was that something to see. I love that place. So does every other tourist in town, as witnessed by the number of people there on Saturday. The girls were in awe, and so were we. After three hours of ogling the otters and observing the octopi, we headed back to the hotel for a rest. 

We ventured back out to the Monterey Wharf for a lovely dinner at a local fish house called Domenico’s. The food was delicious, and the atmosphere welcoming. I highly suggest you go if you get the chance. Kid friendly, and fun. We wrapped up Saturday with a trip to the candy store where I stocked up on taffy in every flavor. When in Rome…

Sunday morning: RACE DAY. The alarm went off at 5:45, and Karen got herself ready. I brushed my teeth, threw on some stretchy pants for good measure, and drove her down to the starting line. I grabbed a coffee at Starbucks at 6:30 and was back to the hotel by 6:45. It was the first time I had been without kids in three days. I breathed it in, slowly. 

I needed to wake those girls and get the day started. I was in charge of the cheer squad. Lord help me.

Back down we went for more fruit loops and eggs, then it was, literally, off to the races…well race. The girls and I got there in plenty of time and found our way to the finish line. I had Karen’s phone, and of course, the tracking app wasn’t working so we just *hoped* we would catch her. As luck would have it, a nice woman next to me was able to locate her and we knew she was headed our way. 

Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, she came into our sight. I was able to video her running toward the finish, while screaming and holding the sign I made…upside down. 

I was surprised at the emotion I felt when I saw my friend run past me. She was a little nervous at the start, but so determined. And here she was, finishing, and with an impressive time no less. This wasn’t her first half marathon (or full), and it probably won’t be her last. 

I was so proud of her, I cried. The girls thought I was nuts, but as a peri-menopausal woman, I’m never sure what emotions are on deck. This time, it was happiness, manifested in tears of joy. 

We ran to the exit staging area and waited 20 minutes, but never spotted her. I finally asked a runner how long it took to get through that area…”About three minutes,” she said. 

Crap. After trekking through thousands of people and keeping three girls close together, much like herding cats, we finally found her at our intended meeting spot. Hugs, smiles, and photos ensued. It was a gorgeous morning with the sun shining on the marina. A perfect day for 13.1. 

I think she was on that runner’s high thing, because we went back to the hotel to get cleaned up then headed down to Carmel for the afternoon. A lovely lunch at The Tree House CafĂ©, then a *short* stroll downhill to the beach followed. About halfway, we realized we had a helluva walk back…all uphill. 

Again, runner’s high must have been the case, and who am I to deny a woman who's just run 13 miles? The walk to the water was worth it. Carmel’s beach is known for its soft white sand, the twisted and curved tree trunks, the clear ocean, and the stellar views. 

The girls played in the water, letting their toes and ankles get wet in the chilly NorCal water. They didn’t mind. Kids usually don’t. We watched them frolic and play, while others did the same. Dogs raced up and down the shoreline, chasing balls and sticks and each other. Moments like those are the ones we remember. 

Tranquil, yet invigorating. 

I'm pretty sure the girls will remember these moments too. 

We hiked back up the sandy hill, then onto the sidewalk, taking in the charming cottages and homes that lined the streets of Carmel by the Sea. We imagined who might live there, what they did, and planned our next trip. 

We stopped in a few galleries, where I thought I might like to buy a painting from Simon Bull. I guessed $6,000. Karen looked up the price and I was slightly off. It was more like $6,000 x 3. Out of my budget, baby. But it sure was nice to look at, and the girls enjoyed the vibrant colors and the installation, asking lots of questions and showing a genuine appreciation for fine art. 

Of course, we found our way to the toy store. After at least 30 minutes of searching, Piper settled on a tube of plastic pandas. Even at almost 12, this kid still loves little toys, and for that I am grateful. 

Then, at the cash register, we found them…MOOD RINGS. Like any mother would, I bought one for each of us. How else are we supposed to know what mood we are in; am I right? 

We left Carmel and drove up the coast, taking in the 17 Mile Drive while heading back to our hotel, sliding in just in time for the highly anticipated “Reception Hour.” We sipped some more wine, ordered some bar food, snacked on carrots with ranch, and discussed the day. 

We finished the night with a few rousing games of UNO. I am happy to report that while I didn’t run the marathon, I did manage to win one of the three games we played, so there’s that. And, my mood ring indicated that I was both happy and relaxed. It seemed to be on target.

We hit the sack early, prepping for the drive home the next day. After a decent night’s sleep, we enjoyed our free breakky once again, then packed up the Tahoe for the ride back down south. 

Opting for the scenic route, we took Hwy 1 through Big Sur. There was a mix of fog and sun, with moments of lush scenery and light peering through the haze that gave us pause. We stopped along the side of the road, searching the coastline and kelp beds for otters, imagining we spotted them among the floating jungle. 

The drive was splendid, so much to see. Until we hit that 405. Oh Los Angeles…how you frustrate me. My mood ring turned black. Not really, but it should have! The two hours of traffic from Calabasas to Huntington wasn't fun, but was so worth it. This adventure was filled with many memories; ones Karen, Ella, Lily, Piper, and I will never forget. We packed in as much as we could in four days-time. 

You know what I say: Life is for living. Experience as much as you can, as often as you can. This month, ten years since my father and my best friend passed away, I am especially grateful for the experiences I’ve had. 

While I’m not a runner per se, I am a marathoner of sorts. I’ve come to realize that life throws us all sorts of challenges and obstacles. We are the ones in charge of how we handle them. Pushing through, and like a world class runner, knowing there is a finish line at the end; I believe that is the key. 

As I reflect on the weekend, I am filled with a sense of calm, and perhaps, new inspiration. One thing I know: I am a marathon writer, having covered thousands of pages in my time. And, I keep entering that race in some small way, every day. 

So, while I may not be making that 8-minute mile, I know that slow and steady gets you there, eventually. You may not win, but you finish. And, today, coming back to the keyboard is equivalent to lacing up my Asics and hitting the pavement. 

For my friend Karen, thank you for inspiring me to get my bib back on. 

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

My Renaissance

After a long hiatus from blogging, and many false starts, I decided to post today.

It's rainy in SoCal, a strange day in that we usually see a steady temp of 70* and sunny, even this time of year. 

Trigger alert: This post is about politics. But, not all doom and gloom. I promise.

Perhaps it's the reason why I'm feeling reflective; nostalgic even. 

I spent a good part of the morning watching the funeral for George H.W. Bush. A president I didn't care much for, but a man who put his family first. 
And that, I can admire. 

It gave me pause. I read a lot of FaceBook posts showing respect, others not so much. I expected to see that and was a bit conflicted myself. 

I've spent a good amount of the past two years feeling pissed off and angry at the shape of this country.

But, this morning, watching the Bush family mourn while the Clintons, the Obamas and the Carters all paid their respects, sitting dignified; that gave me hope. A church filled with compassion and empathy for an American family, crossing party lines was evident.

Seeing trump sitting beside them, smug with arms crossed, seemingly half asleep~that didn't surprise me either. 

The election of 45 has me turned upside down and sideways. I've expressed this many times and in many ways, from displeasure to outright rage, mostly on social media, but also in person.

I've marched, joined groups, and written endlessly. I've found myself in debates with friends and complete strangers. I've felt a pit in my stomach, far too many times. 

The climate of our nation is different. It's one that has become so divisive, so hostile that hate crimes are up in massive numbers and we've forgotten how to love one another, in spite of our differences. We are no longer tolerant of intolerance, trading it for an us vs. them dictum. Violence is common. 

It's hard to function in this space. I don't like it, and I suspect most of you don't either. 

I think there are myriad of reasons as to why this has happened. But, hands down, I blame our current POTUS. 

His hate fueled rhetoric has stirred up something in nearly every American who's paying any sort of attention to the political climate in which we live. 

We've become reactionary. And, why wouldn't we? We have a president who behaves like a 2nd grader, slinging insults and name-calling as if someone took his ball from the playground. 

The office of the President of the United States has always been the most respected and important position in this nation. 

While we may not have liked or agreed with the men who came before him, I don't believe we lived in such tremendous fear that our own commander-in-chief would turn on us. 

I may be wrong, and this is strictly my opinion. Although, I also suspect (tee hee) that there may be a few out there who agree with me. 

I think we are yearning to get back to a place where our political differences don't manifest in utter disdain for one another. I think we are yearning for a time to connect with others, to hear their stories and share conversations. I think we are yearning to communicate effectively, and build bridges rather than break them down. 

It's no secret that I am passionate about my beliefs. If you know me personally, well, you just know. But, I think many of us, myself included, have been misrepresented and quite frankly, misunderstood. 

My ideologies have been, and will always be about what is best for the collective whole; my motivation altruistic. 

In the midst of this chaos, there has been an awakening. There have been groups of people who had become complacent, their activist fire lit again...myself included. 
I've marched, and will march again. I have donated to organizations like Planned Parenthood. 
I've shared important news stories and shed light on topics that needed to be seen. 

There was a wave...a BLUE wave in Orange County, a once deeply republican seat in SoCal, turned upside down and flipped, sending a clear message:
People voted in favor of change. That gave me hope. 

This is the basic definition of politics:

The activities associated with the governance of a country or other area, especially the debate or conflict among individuals or parties having or hoping to achieve power.

But, what I keep arguing is that politics are more than abstract ideas that affect the governance of a particular area (state or country). Politics are policies that affect people. The old adage that we shouldn't discuss politics or religion just doesn't hold water any longer. Why? Because these "politics" are what dictate our rights and freedoms. 
They control money, jobs, our climate, healthcare, civil rights--Pretty much everything under the sun. 

When someone says, "I don't discuss politics," it seems to me a few things are happening: 

1) They exist in a privileged place where they are seemingly unaffected -the system is working for them.
2) They are so uncomfortable at the notion of examining the disparity and inequalities among people throughout this country, and perhaps even embarrassed by that concept, they don't want to discuss it.
3) They lack a fundamental understanding of our political issues. 

But, the effect of refusing to discuss politics might save relationships, but it certainly doesn't effect change. We all have a horse in this race. 

I've lost friends, and even some family over my stance. But, I remain hopeful that those who see me as an adversary will understand that I am standing up for everyone, even them. Because in my heart of hearts, I do believe in the goodness of human kindness. 

I believe there are far more good people in the world, than bad. 

I believe that flaws and scars are what teach us the greatest lessons, and that it's crucial to remember that everyone has a story, if we can all pause long enough to listen.

I'm doing my best to start listening again. I'm leading with a compassionate and mindful heart. I'm working toward getting the anger and frustration to shift to a positive, creating a much more effective tool for change.  

Some days are a bit harder than others. 

One of my idols, a purveyor of peace, Martin Luther King, Jr., who led with determination and grace in the face of adversity, offered us this message, 

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."

I hope I will be judged by the content of my character, as I hope we all we be given that grace. 

As this year closes and a new one begins, I will remind myself to walk in this space, and to emulate the tenets of Dr. King where compassion, patience and peace are at the forefront.  

And, I plan to return to my stay tuned. 2019 is my renaissance of writing.

Cheers to all~and Happy Holidays. 

Monday, November 7, 2016

Seven Years.

We all remember certain dates. Some are burned into our memories like brands, but the stinging lasts long after the scar heals.

Seven years ago, on November 7, Chris was at the river for a quick trip for his brother’s birthday and my kids were at my Mom’s for the night. We had just closed escrow on this house and I spent most of the day moving little things over here with some help from my friend, Jen.

After a long day, I was exhausted, but needed to get out, needed to get my mind off of things.

Why would you go out if you were so tired? What kind of things did you need to get your mind off of? You just bought a dream house. You have so much to be excited about. Quit your whining…

Well, here’s why.

My best friend was officially dying. Like any minute. And I had spent the past couple of months at her side, either at the hospital or at her house. Every day, I tried. Even if it was for just an hour.

November 4, 2009 was the last day I saw her alive. I was planning to visit on the 8th, but someone had other plans for me.

My dad had been sick for a long time too. A very long time. No one told us he was “officially dying” but he was. I knew it. I saw him whither away, hardly able to eat, spending most of his days sleeping, exhausted from taking a shower. Exhausted from being alive.

For many, many months, there were car rides and plane flights to Arizona to see him. There were car rides to Hoag and then to Menifee to see her. My energy was directed toward them and there was little else to spare for anyone else.

Like my husband. Like my 10 year-old son. Like my toddler daughter.

They were both dying, Dad and Suz.

I remember the phone call from my father that day after he left the doctor’s office.

“Hi Honey.”

“Hi Dad, what’s up?” His voice was shaky. A little warbled. I was walking out of some store, I think it was Ross, with bags of stuff for the new house. A temporary distraction from all that was crazy in my life.

“I have to get a test done. They are sending me to the hospital. They see something on my lungs and need to do a procedure.”

“Dad, it’s gonna be fine. You’re in good hands. Do you need me to come there?” I asked, thinking that I might have to book another plane flight, knowing that Chris was already headed out of town. What would I do with the kids? My mind was racing.

“No, no, that’s okay. But, Honey, I’m scared.”

I paused in the parking lot. I had never heard those words from my father. Ever.

He was the bravest man I knew. He was strong, bold, a force.

And, he was afraid.

So, I was afraid.

Turns out, we were both right to be frightened.

I had seen Suz for an hour or so the day before. By then, she’d been sleeping most of her days. The times when she was awake were sprinkled with moments of lucid observations and comments, quickly followed by hallucinations brought on by the heavy doses of morphine pumping through her body.

When your best friend, since seventh grade, is dying from cancer, you discover new things about yourself in the process. You discover that you can sit in the space of discomfort, the space of grief, the space of sadness as you watch her struggle to turn over. As you watch her struggle to get off the bed, only to move to a chair two feet away. As you watch her struggle to speak, but when she does, she says these words into your eyes while her brother and you sit on the floor by her side…

”This is what true, true, true, true, true friendship is.”

You struggle to not cry because she hates it when you do. You struggle to stay strong for everyone around you. You struggle as she struggles, knowing that you are not capable of fixing this. Knowing that acceptance is your only option. You struggle as you leave that day, every day you leave her, wondering if it will be the last. Turns out, it was.

You struggle.

I hung up the phone with my Dad, trying not to think about his voice and his words and his fear. Trying to be optimistic. We said I love you and he said they’d call and let me know how it all went. That was Friday afternoon

So the morning came and we are back to the crazy day of moving things, Chris at the river and my kids with my Mom. My brain and body were fried. I should have just gone to bed but my buddy called me and told me of this party, that some old friends would be there and we should go.

What the hell? I needed to get out of the house and get my mind off things. My friend Chris doesn’t drink, so I was able to have a few cocktails and relax a bit. I got a good laugh watching a guy I knew knock over the cupcake table, icing and cake splattered onto the concrete, him stumbling to pick it all up. I laughed, hard. It had been a while.

About 11:30 or so, I decided to check my phone. It had been tucked away in my purse, stashed in the corner. I had many missed calls. Calls from my step-mom, calls from my mom.

My dad had complications from his procedure. He had arrested on the table. They were able to bring him back, but he was on a ventilator, unlikely to come off.

My head spun. My friend drove me home, not knowing what to say. What do you say? We sat in silence and he dropped me off, apologizing for my sadness. I was alone.

I barely slept that night, trying to figure out the next step. By dawn, I had mapped out a plan and decided to fly to Arizona, bringing my daughter with me.

All of this was happening the week we needed to be out of our house and move into the new one. The dream house. The distraction.

Chris stayed home with our son, and my nanny worked full-time that week to help with Gavin and the move. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone.

I was able to get on a late evening flight Sunday. As I boarded the plane, Dad was still on the vent.

Suz was still in and out, sleeping more, taking less fluids, quiet. It was a waiting game. I hadn’t seen her in four days.

When we got off the plane and met my step-mom at baggage claim, she had a wistful smile. “You won’t believe this, Dad’s off the vent. He’s awake.”

A glimmer of hope. He was awake. We headed straight to the hospital so I could see him. Lori stayed in the waiting room with Piper and I walked into the ICU, seeing my father lying there, so small, so tired. He weighed 98 lbs. His wrists, once hearty and thick, now bony and transparent.

He was asleep, but alive. I sat and touched his hand. He stirred, opened his eyes and said “Hi, Honey.”

I fought my tears but they came anyway. I knew this wasn’t good. He was alive, but I knew that he wouldn’t be with us much longer.

We hugged, and I wrapped my arms around his fragile body, careful not to squeeze too hard. I wanted to crawl into that bed with him and curl up like I did when I was little, and afraid. I wanted to rewind and go back to when he was the strongest man I knew. I wanted to save him.

I couldn’t.

He had been slowly withering away for three years. Endless doctor visits, endless pills, endless frustration. We had reached the point of no return.

I said goodbye assuring we’d be back early the next day. I left him, then, like I’d left Suz so many times, wondering if it would be the last time. Wondering if he’d make it through the night.

The next few days were a blur. Piper was being looked after by the kind neighbors and Lori and I headed back and forth to the hospital. I was in the room when the doctor explained what had happened during his procedure. The bronchoscopy was routine, they snipped some lung tissue but then Dad went into cardiac arrest. They were able to revive him and put another stint into the clogged artery. The trouble is, the CANCER they found all over couldn’t be treated because of the location of the stint. This was when the doctor said there’s nothing we can do…

There’s nothing we can do…

My sister was there by then. Dad’s birthday was the next day. He was turning 71. We were advised to make arrangements and hospice care. He was to get his affairs in order.

I had read Elisabeth Kubler Ross’s On Death and Dying in college. You know what, there is some solid truth to what she wrote because I watched my father go through the stages at a rapid fire.

     "1.   Denial and isolation; 2. Anger; 3. Bargaining; 4. Depression; 5. Acceptance. People who are grieving do not necessarily go through the stages in the same order or experience all of them." Kubler Ross.

These “stages” affect the dying person as well as those who are grieving. Dad moved through them in 24 hours, settling into acceptance much faster than expected. Although, I firmly believe he’d been working through stages 1-4 the previous three years. He just needed someone to say “It’s happening, your dying.”

I thought about Suz again, who had refused to accept her impending death. She was still hanging on. I was checking in regularly, I needed updates. I held out hope that I might be able to see her one last time, but dreaded the actual thought because she was no longer communicating. She was quiet, her breath raspy and erratic. She was in the final stages. I knew this because I had researched dying. I had researched what to expect. I had researched because that’s who I am and what I do.

We moved my Dad to a hospice house nearby. It was his birthday, November 12. His glasses needed to be repaired, the “transition” part had turned golden brown. I volunteered to take them back, get them fixed so he could sit outside without the sun glaring into his sensitive blue eyes. My uncle had arrived by then too.

“Honey, you don’t have to. It’s fine.”

“No, Dad, I’ll get it handled.” He grinned, handed me his specs, put on his back-up pair and took a puff of his cigarette. This was the first time he’d been outside, after escaping death just days before. The sunlight shone down on him and my uncle, and they smoked together and reminisced. I don’t know what they talked about but I left them in that courtyard of the hospice house, sharing a moment between brothers that I know my Uncle Frank still cherishes.

I found myself at Lenscrafters in the mall. I explained that my dad’s glasses were messed up, and asked if they would fix them. The sales person asked if they were under warranty. I didn’t know. The manager came out, looked up his account and said it had just expired. I started crying. I can only imagine what these people thought, a woman losing her shit right there in the mall eyeglass store, over an expired warranty on Transition lenses.

I pulled myself together, and explained the situation.

My dad’s in hospice, it’s his birthday, can we just do this?

Once they heard the story, they were willing to fix them. I left them there and mindlessly strolled through the mall, heading back toward the car. I stopped in the shoe section of some department store, picking up a pair of tan suede boots. Another momentary distraction using retail therapy to calm my scattered soul.

I made it back to the hospice house, and reality, about two hours later. Dad was in good spirits, in spite of celebrating his birthday in a place where people were dying. Including him.

I told him his glasses were getting fixed, his birthday present. He smiled, thanked me and then we chatted it up a bit.

We all headed home for the night, with some glimmer of hope. Picking my daughter up from the neighbors, I scooped her into my arms and played with my little girl. I talked late into the night with my brother and his wife, who was in the early stages of pregnancy. My sister had flown home the day before, needing to get back to her own kids and husband. We had planned to have a big family Thanksgiving in Arizona a few weeks later.

The next morning, I woke up after the first decent nights’ sleep I’d had in a while. At around 9:00am, while sipping coffee and getting ready to go visit Dad, I got the call.

Suz had died, minutes earlier.

It was November 13th.

Jen, also one of Suz’s best friends, lived in Arizona and was by my side through all of this.  We needed to be together, to share our grief and attempt to figure out what came next. How do you process the loss of your friend, who died so young? Who left behind children, a husband, devastated parents and siblings…How do you make sense of any of it?

I had asked Lori not to tell Dad about Suz. He had known her as long as I had, and I knew he would be sad. That was the last thing I wanted for him. But, Lori told him anyway. And that’s okay, because she trusted her gut, and knew that he would want to comfort me. That he could say the right words, which were simply, “Honey, I’m so sorry. I love you.”

And, when I went to the hospice house that day, those were the exact words he said. And he hugged me, the best he could. He was getting weaker by the hour. It seemed more and more unlikely we’d have Thanksgiving at his house, we thought we’d probably have to have it there.

I stayed for a few hours, then he said to go spend the night at Jen’s. Go be with one another and grieve the loss of your friend. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m tired.”

So, I took Piper and went to Jen’s for the night. Our daughters played together. We drank wine, laughed, cried. We remembered so many funny stories in the history of us, of the Ya Ya’s, our tribe of women who love and accept one another exactly as we are.

I went back to see Dad the next day. My other brother Jon had arrived, and was able to spend time with him. But, Dad was slipping away from us. He was sleeping more, asking for more pain medication, on palliative care for comfort. The words were sparse.

The doctor explained that he would not be going home. He was in the “active dying phase” and we needed to prepare ourselves. It could be weeks; it could be days. Sometimes, it’s fast and it could be hours.

But, my best friend had just died. The day before.

That night, my father moved into a state of calm, quiet solace. He was breathing, but no longer speaking at all. No longer interacting. No longer engaging.

The words were gone. The voice, silent. I had to remember and hang on to those final conversations. I remember and savor them. His laughter, his voice stolen from me.


My God, this was happening. My father was dying.

Suzy died. My father was dying.

He lay quiet for two more days. My third brother arrived the morning of the 16th. He spent time at Dad’s side, saying the things he needed to say. Knowing that Dad heard, but not knowing how he felt.


By then, we had all said our peace.

I was watching Dad like a hawk, checking his legs for the telltale signs of mottling. Checking his feet and hands for coolness. Watching his breath stagger, waiting for the “death rattle” they warn you about.

I watched and waited. My step-mom had been loyal, barely leaving his side to go to the bathroom or eat. Everyone else was exhausted as we’d been waiting on pins and needles, hardly sleeping, unsure and nervous that we’d get that call.

It was late in the afternoon and Lori and I decided to stay while everyone else went for a nap, or food, or just some time away.

I knew I couldn’t leave.

In the four days he’d been in the hospice house and the five days he’d been in the hospital, he had made his peace. He’d seen all of his kids. He shared memories and cigarettes with his brother. He’d had his moments and phone calls and conversations.

He was ready. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t.

So I lied. I held his hand, told him it was okay to go. Lori held his other hand and said the same.

Even though I wasn’t ready.

I had said all the things you need to say. I knew where I stood and where he stood and we were one. I was his daughter, he brought me into the world. It was only fair that I be at his side when he left.

It was quiet. There was no rattle. No struggle. Just quiet.

His breath was soft and slow.

Then, it stopped.

My father was gone.

Suz was gone.

In four days, I lost two of the people who have meant so much to me. Two people who shaped my life in so many ways. Who shared in the love and glory of my accomplishments. Who stayed by my side when I wasn’t the best person I could be. Who loved me, when I didn’t love myself.

I’ve written about their deaths before, but this time, after seven years, it feels more raw than before. It feels more real. The grief morphs and changes. It hides and sneaks up when you least expect it. I know you all feel this. I know it.

We all have our own stories. This is part of mine. A huge part.

I share this because it helps me process my grief, my feelings of loss and sadness. I write because it helps me think and discover the truth inside. It helps me move forward. It reminds me of my own strength.

I write in their honor, pursuing my dreams of sharing my love for words and language. Feeling confident in my abilities, motivated to LIVE my dreams and honor my own truth.

Hope resides in me. It lives through memories and progress and knowledge and belief.

Dates are burned into our memories like brands. Although some are painful reminders of loss and grief, others are the moments we cherish.

As I sit here, writing and processing, tears in my eyes, I am sure of one thing, that our love and light is not lost when death arrives. That we are in charge of how we use our grief. That we have the opportunity to sit with it, let it sink in, feel our tears and then move forward.

My wish for you today is that you look at your own stories of loss. Remember those dates, because they matter. That you honor your grief in some small way, that you feel your tears, that you sit in silence and pause, then move forward. 

This is me, now. 

Sitting in the silence.

Feeling my tears.

And moving forward.