That Time Joe Biden Said the Right Thing

I don’t usually get into politics here because I don’t want the two or three people who actually read this blog to get all yelly in the comments section. I’m not a political wonk and don’t really enjoy the debate. But every once in a while something catches my attention to the point I can’t ignore it.

Today I’m bending my own rules because of Joe Biden’s announcement that he will not enter the 2016 presidential race. Why do I care so much about this announcement when I haven’t even stepped into the steaming heap of, um, news, that’s been generated by the Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton coverage? Because Biden’s primary reason for not running for president is the same reason my own world is upside down: grief.

As part of Biden’s reasons for not running, he said this:

I know from previous experience that there's no timetable for [the grieving] process. The process doesn't respect or much care about things like filing deadlines or debates and primaries and caucuses.

For most of Biden’s vice presidency, I only took notice when he’d say something stupid make a gaffe that got a lot of news coverage. My opinion of him was pretty much formed by those gaffes. I didn’t bother researching Biden’s career. In my mind he was just another politician who existed in my periphery.

My opinion changed in May when Beau Biden died from brain cancer. Beau was Joe’s son. In the coverage of Beau’s death and funeral, I learned that he was not even the first child that Joe had buried. Suddenly this political caricature with a chronic case of foot-in-mouth came into sharp focus as a living, breathing, grieving human being. He had buried a wife and two children. You don’t just shake that off, I don’t care who you are.  

But it's never just gone. 

I can’t say that I know how Biden feels. Nobody really knows how Biden feels, except for Biden himself. But I do know what it’s like to be in more emotional and spiritual pain than you ever would have believed possible. I know what it’s like to feel like your heart has been shattered – no, pulverized – and set on fire. I know what it’s like to feel lost and alone even when surrounded by people who love and support you, because the ONE person in the world you want to wrap your arms around more than anyone else in the history of ever is gone from this world. And he is never, ever coming back.  

As I learned about all of Joe Biden’s losses, I stopped thinking of him as a politician and started thinking of him as a person. (I know, I know. It would be great if all politicians were people.) He was still out there in the public eye, doing his public servant gig, in front of cameras and everything, putting on his brave face for the world. Talking, smiling, legislating. All that crap. One would think that he had moved on. And many thought he had. But that’s not how grief works. You don’t just get over it and move on.

Like I said, I can’t know how he feels, but there are common traits among the bereaved. Like the façade. The brave face that makes people think you are so very strong. What the brave face hides is that you feel like you’re dying on the inside a little bit every single day. We put on the brave face because we live in a society that doesn’t deal with grief very well. In generations past there would be a period of public mourning. The bereaved would wear dark clothes to signify their grief and people would respond accordingly. Now we have an unspoken agreement with each other to keep things light and cordial. Once you get a couple of weeks past the funeral, there’s an understanding that the only proper response to “How are you,” is “Fine, and you?” Small talk is not an invitation to pour out your soul.

Hmm. Good compromise. 

As Biden said in his press conference this afternoon, there is no time limit on grief. But you will reach a point where you can put your brave face on, suck it up, and go through the motions of normal everyday life. I’m now 9 long months into my own journey and I'm more functional than I was at first. I still have to fight against the grief every single day. I first have to fight my way out of sleep. Then I have to fight my way out of bed. Then I have to fight my way out of my pajamas. Then I have to fight against the urge to say, “Fuck it” and go back to bed after I’m dressed.

Do you see the pattern here? Fight, fight, fight, just to function as a normal person. Then all day at work I have to fight against the urge to crawl under my desk with a blankie and box of chocolates.

IT'S NO FAIR!!!!!

It’s exhausting, really. Living a normal life through the fog of grief is absolutely exhausting. It’s like running a marathon through a wall of Jell-O while trying to do all your other daily tasks. It’s hard and it’s messy. And it makes you weary right down to your bones.  

As a member of the grief community (yes, there’s a community – you’ll find it when you need it) I sincerely appreciate Biden’s candor during his announcement. Time and time again, our society fails to respect the fact that grief does not end when the funeral is over. For those closest to the deceased, the hard times have only just begun. Even someone who seems ok – walking, talking, smiling, laughing – still staggers when nobody’s looking.

Chasing Normal: My Dichotomous Life

When I wake up in the morning, I hear her. Screaming, howling, wailing, “NO!! NO!! NOOOO!!!!!” She continues her protest through all my waking hours. This barrage comes from a pitiful figure who lays prostrate on the ground by my husband’s grave, her face pressed into the soil made damp by her tears. She is utterly defeated by an all-consuming grief. Locked in a state of disbelief and unmitigated devastation, she beats her chest as if to mold the fragments of her shattered heart back into a functioning organ. She is my Inner Widow, and she lives in the space somewhere between my head and heart.   

Valentine's Day: The 25th Year

Picture It: Valentine's Day, 1990. At the beginning of the school day, a very sweet boy gave me three roses as a token of friendship. We were in 11^th grade that year, and we had been friends since 3^rd. He gave roses to other girls in our little circle of friends that day, so my roses weren’t fraught with any romantic notions, no awkward “Will you be my Valentine” stuff. 

Whew! Amirite?

Little did he know that I’d been interested in him as more than a friend for a long time. I was simply too scared to say anything about it. I was afraid of ruining our friendship or making things weird with our circle of friends. I was especially afraid that he didn’t feel the same way. I was even more afraid that he did.

Fast-forward to the end of the school day. After carrying the roses with me all day and answering like a bajillion questions about them, I could not ignore my feelings any more.

REO Speedwagon Would Understand

When I got home from school I did what any self-respecting 16-year-old girl would do: I ran to the wall-mounted kitchen phone (next to my pet dinosaur's cage) and immediately called my BFF.

Me: Eau-mi-gawd, I like totally have to tell you something!

BFF: Eaukeh, tell me!

Me: I like, totally like Mike.

BFF: You mean you like, like-like him?

Me: Totally.

In unison: SQUEEEE!

But there was still the little problem that I was too scared to say anything to him about it. Luckily, my BFF was easily recruited to the task of nudging him in my direction. The next afternoon, he called me to say, “What is with BFF today? She keeps telling me I should ask you out.” The conversation blossomed from there, and we shyly confessed having “feelings” for each other. Like, totally.

Seriously, how could these two kids NOT end up together?

A few days later, we had our first official date. What we did not know then is that a movie at Laurel Lakes 9 and dinner at Pizza Villa would be the last first date either of us would have. Our shy confessions of “feelings” (like, totally) grew over the years into a deep and enduring love. From a foundation of nervous giggles and sweaty-palmed hand holding, we would go on to get married, build a life together in a sleepy little town by the Chesapeake Bay, and bring two amazing new people into the world.

That’s not to say it was all lollipops and rainbows. God knows we had our battles over the years, both petty and epic. But through it all, we always managed to hash it out, come to a mutual understanding, and confirm that we still loved each other – even in moments when we didn’t particularly like each other.

Storybook romances can be messy sometimes.

On a side note, it turns out my early fears about making things weird in our little circle of friends were unfounded. To this day, they are my closest friends in the world. They celebrated with us at our wedding. They happily welcomed our babies to the world. And more recently, they stood with me as we watched the funeral director close his casket. They held me as I wept for my Sweet Boy, and they took care of me while I crumbled under the weight of my grief even though they had just lost one of their best friends.

This is the first Valentine’s Day in 25 years that Mike won’t give me roses. It’s not the flowers I’ll miss. It’s his presence. His vitality. His devotion. His dedication to just being the best version of himself he could be. Hopefully some memories will bubble to the surface that make me smile. After 25 years, I have so very many to cherish.

In Loving Memory: Michael Anthony Salek

It's been one week since I buried my soul mate. The father of my children. The one I was supposed to grow old with. My very own Miracle Man. I'm still waiting to wake up from this nightmare.

When I last posted in this space, it was to flip the big ol' double bird to Arnold Chiari Malformation.  Mike was getting ready to go in for decompression surgery. He was supposed to heal up and come home to resume his normal life. Unbeknownst to us, "normal" would go on permanent hiatus.

An Open Letter to Arnold Chiari Malformation

Hello, Arnold.

Didn’t think I’d see you back again so soon. It doesn’t seem very much time has passed since you last turned my world upside down. In fact, I didn’t think you’d dare show your face around here for another ten years or more.

It’s not the first time I’ve been wrong.

Honoring Carl: Out of the Darkness

Last summer my family was rocked when my nephew's father Carl ended his long and heartbreaking battle with schizoaffective bipolar disorder. This summer, exactly one year and one day after Carl's funeral, Sweet Little Sister and her teammates - the aptly named Iron Maidens - will participate in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Out of the Darkness overnight walk in Philadelphia.

Instead of creating a long and rambling post about it, I'll let Sweet Little Sister's words convey what suicide leaves in its wake, and how the AFSP is working to prevent future suicides.

Yes, I am linking to a fundraising page. If you are inspired to donate, please do. Every little bit helps. But even if you don't donate for whatever reason, please read what she wrote. Mental illness is very real. And it is very deadly. And raising awareness is as important as raising dollars for research - so pass the word along.

The Polar Vortex According to Sassyfats

If you live anywhere near North America, you are aware that people are freezing their assess off damn near everywhere this week. We’re not just having chilly winter temperatures, though. Oh no. This time around TV meteorologists have given us a new (to us) name for Mother Nature’s temper tantrum: the Polar Vortex.

Let me rephrase that: Polar!!!! Freaking!!!! Vortex!!!!!

Apparently the term is not new to meteorologists. They know all about global weather patterns and the fancy scientific names for them. For reasons I will never clearly understand, they have decided to share the term polar vortex with the general public this week. Which leads me to wonder if meteorologists have ever met the general public.

Agent K got it right.

We can deal with terms like freezing temperatures and wind chills. We've been hearing those terms for decades. We're comfortable with them. We understand that they are actual things that are normal. But if you tell us a freaking VORTEX is escaping the North Pole (!!!) and turning a large portion of our continent into an ice cube, what you have is a “situation.” Close the schools!! Save the children!! You know those doomsday preppers we've all been ridiculing the last couple of years? Well eat crow, motherfuckers, because you’re gonna have to build a bunker and stock it with canned goods and water BEFORE THE VORTEX HITS!!! AAAHHHHHHHGGGGG!!!!

We all have the SyFy channel. We know that a vortex is never a good thing. 

Ok, ok. Calm down. According to meteorologists, there is always a swirl (aka vortex) of air above both poles, it’s all part of the global weather system, it’s normal and natural, we just don’t usually feel the effects because the swirly air stays up where it belongs. But this time, the swirly air at the North Pole got all lopsided n’shit, thereby giving TV news people the opportunity to get everyone all spun up about a vortex then go outside to see if they could turn boiling water into snow.

Pro Tip: Using a Supersoaker is way cooler than using a coffee mug.

Some people (assuming Rush Limbaugh counts as a person) have accused left-wing global warming alarmists of making stuff up to push their left-wing agenda to save the leftmost wing of the leftiest side of our planet. Ugh, liberals.

Or something like that. I, however, have another theory. It’s not political. It’s not religious. But it is very, very alarming. And it is very, very real.

Which pole got a lopsided vortex? The North Pole. And who lives at the North Pole?

This Guy!!

To be clear: I am not implicating Santa in any wrongdoing. He is likely still in the Bahamas enjoying a well-deserved vacation with the Missus. That being said, Santa does rule over a large civilization of elves who also live at the North Pole. I am not implicating them in any intentional wrongdoing, seeing as how most of them work very hard to help Santa pull the whole Christmas Eve thing off every year.

However, Santa does also have an intelligence collecting agency aptly named the North Pole Intelligence Agency (NPIA). The special agents who work for the NPIA are dispatched to homes all over the world right around the beginning of advent - because nothing heralds the birth of Christ quite like elf spies. Their mission is to monitor their assigned children and give Santa daily behavior reports so that Santa knows how much coal he needs to bring with him on the sleigh. 

Yeah. Him. And many the others like him.

The average elf on the shelf is known to be both sneaky (they are, after all, spies) and mischievous. During the holiday season my Facebook feed was full of my friends’ pictures showing their in-home elves swinging from ceiling fans, sitting on piles of toilet paper they’d unrolled, and binge-eating leftover Halloween candy, among other things. 

To some parents, the elves are a helpful part of the parenting team, a visual reminder to children that they really need to up their game if they want the cool swag this year. To other parents (myself included) they are annual reminders that some dolls are just plain creepy. See how the eyes are cast to the side? How long do you have to stare into its adorable face before the eyes slowly turn toward you and peer into your very soul? How long after that before it kills your entire family in the middle of the night, all the while giggling like an innocent child as a cheerful music box plays in the background? Not that my elf-on-the-shelf aversion has anything to do with some of the movie viewing choices I’ve made in my lifetime.

See, Mom? Poltergeist didn't rot my brain. It warned me about the dangers of creepy-ass dolls. 

My point (yes, I have a point) with all this elf talk is that thousands (perhaps millions) of NPIA operatives who have a known penchant for mischief (at best) and are possibly evil murderers (at worst) all had to return to NPIA headquarters after Christmas. Since they work for a jolly old soul, they got a week or so to
cut loose before returning to HQ. 

It's like their Spring Break. Only elfier.

However they chose to spend their vacation time, they all had to report back to NPIA HQ on the same day. Their preferred mode of transportation is flying like Superman above the clouds. But since the legion of creepy-ass flying dolls all returned at once, the atmosphere could not sustain the impact of all their little bodies slamming into the same swirly airspace en mass. As a result, those jokers done popped a hole in the atmosphere, thereby allowing the vortex to get all lopsided n’shit. To put things into a more scientific perspective: Popped Atmosphere + Lopsided Vortex = Frozen Lighthouses.

Move over Einstein. You're not the only one who can create scientific equations.

Now there is talk of us getting hit with another dose of polar vortex in the near future. My guess is because when all those elves saw what they did, mischievous and/or evil bunch of creepy-ass dolls that they are, they celebrated their massive power and then decided to see if they could do it again. Exactly when they'll try their little experiment is not exactly known, but it has been strongly hinted at by TV meteorologists who aren't above scaring the shit out of the general public to get ratings. But whenever they do plan to repeat it, they'll start off like this: 

Gather, Legion!! The time has come!!

 And we'll end up like this:

Is it cold enough for ya? Har har!

Some doubters may disagree with my hypothesis. But since my writeup includes a radar map at the top and a scientific equation near the bottom. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as some rock solid sciencey stuff right there.

Including a picture of Einstein makes it all the more legit.

 

Need... More... Elastic... Pants...

Thanksgiving is upon is. At this festive time of year we celebrate all of our blessings by indulging in a national day of gluttony. And why shouldn't we? Have you seen the sales that Safeway's been running on Thanksgiving food this week? It would be a waste NOT to take advantage of the savings!

You might expect to see an "I'm so thankful" post right about now. And to let you know that I'm not all piss and vinegar, I'll throw you a bone: I am thankful for my children, my husband, my family, my friends, my job, my home, and a real whole lot more than I can rattle off in a list. Don't get me wrong - I have much to be thankful for, and I do thank God every day for many counted blessings.

Now that that's out of the way, can I vent now? Once upon a time, not very long ago, I was a gym-dwelling zealot who took great pride in practicing healthy behaviors to make my body healthy and strong. Awash in the teachings of the Fat Acceptance movement, I was adamant that my body was amazing at any size and that as long as I practiced healthy behaviors, I was on the right track. I felt amazing and confident. It. Was. Awesome.

Then I turned 39. I had a friend at work who warned me that my body would start falling apart at 40. My body responded by saying, "Why wait? Let get this party started NOW!" For many years I had written off my intermittent back pain as a side effect of being too big for designer britches. When I embraced the lifestyle of a badass gym rat - working with a trainer and taking spin classes for Pete's sake! - the pain in my back got steadily worse. Did I take that as a hint that I needed to slow down? Or maybe ask the experts for some modified exercises? Hell no!! I was a badass gym rat. Pain was just part of the package. Pain was a sign of weakness leaving my body. Pain was my friend. (Shout-out to my Paris Island trained brother for that one.)

As it turns out, pain was my body's way of letting me know that my spine was screwed up in a multitude of ways, and I needed medical attention. When it reached the point that I couldn't stand upright without using my arms to pull myself up, I conceded to medical intervention. I ultimately learned that I have stenosis, degenerative disc disease, arthritis, and at least one disc that sticks so far from its assigned vertebrae that it is bent upward and pressing on a very pissed off nerve.

Why you gotta do me like that, L5?

Enter Dr. Smartypants, the very doctor who had saved Miracle Man's life. He gave me what medical type people call a facet block - which is fancy talk for slamming a needle into your spine and injecting a cocktail of fairy dust and dragon blood (or something) in there to make the affected nerve shut the hell up. The first time I had this procedure done, way back in June, I was amazed at how well it worked it. I could walk like a normal person, I could exercise (gently, mind you) without needing to take heavy pain medication, and I was so happy to finally be cured.

Then my damned gallbladder went south, which took me away from the gym even more. By the time my gallbladder was out of my life, the benefits of the facet block had worn off. I decided the pain of having a needle slammed in to my spine was worth another three months of relief, so I called up Dr. Smartypants and scheduled another injection. I was all excited to be on my way to relative normalcy again, and to resume my lifestyle as a badass gym rat. But this time, the injection only worked for a few weeks. Yes, weeks. About three weeks after that second procedure, I was back to experiencing excruciating pain every day.

You want to know the funny thing about excruciating pain? And by funny I mean seriously fucked up. Excruciating pain makes you want to find a comfortable position and stay there. It makes you want to cry a lot, and it makes you want to give up on ever being normal again. I don't know about you, but when I get all weepy about life in general, I start to need stuff like chocolate almost like I need oxygen.

So let's do some math. Sitting on my ass + Consuming therapeutic doses of chocolate = My clothes are getting tighter. As much as I would love to blame the tight clothes on my dryer, I've been down this road enough times before to know that the clothes are not the problem.

But Sassyfats, you say. What happened to all that talk about self-acceptance and loving your body just the way it is, no matter what?

Meh. It's easy to preach self-acceptance when you're taking positive steps toward improved health. It's not so easy to believe all that preachin' when you're sidelined and counting down the hours until you can take your next dose of Tylenol, which is barely worth taking because it doesn't work as well as Motrin but you can't take NSAIDs because your kidney doctor said so, and really the only thing that does work is Percocet and you can't go through life in a zombie-like state forever. And then you realize that the source of your pain is not an injury that will heal - it's a progressive condition that will never be better than it is today. And it makes you want to turn around, take out your spine, bitch-slap it a time or two for knocking you out of commission, then krazy-glue it back into place with the hopes that it has learned its lesson and will stop being such an asshole.

Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Thanksgiving. Tomorrow I will partake in the usual Thanksgiving tradition of eating until I hate myself. But hopefully I will not fall victim to the month-long stuff-your-face-athon between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Two years ago I was convinced that intentional weight loss was a bad idea because of the high failure rate. I'm still convinced that "going on a diet" will only lead to heartache and extra stretch marks. But here's the thing: Someday I will probably need spinal surgery. I need to start getting my body ready for the recovery period. The less of me I have to carry around, the less hellacious the recovery will be.

After Thanksgiving I am going to ask my physical therapist about going back to the gym. I'm not going to be able to hit it as hard as I used to, but maybe I can find a way to get my heart rate up without killing my back. And I'm seriously considering going to a nutritionist to help me get my head back into the game of eating natural, healthy foods in appropriate portions. I'm still not trying to reach a certain number on the scale - been there, done that, have the gravy-stained, stretched out T-shirt. But as long as I can shrink fat cells and build muscle tissue, I think I'll be on the right track to a stronger, healthier, able-to-stand-upright-and-live-an-active-life me. 

Till then, Happy Thanksgiving!

 

   

      

    

In Loving Memory: Terra Francella

It only takes a moment. One minute you're going through the motions of your normal life, and the next minute your entire world is unrecognizable.

That moment came on Christmas morning in 2010 for Terra Francella. She was out driving on that chilly morning, and she took a bend in the road a little too fast. Terra's life-changing moment came when she lost control of her car and a mailbox crashed through the windshield, crushing her skull. In the blink of an eye, this vivacious wife (of Miracle Man's cousin) and loving mother of two little girls became a Traumatc Brain Injury (TBI) patient fighting for her life. And her husband was thrust into the position nobody wants to be in: Do I remove life support and watch my life partner slip away, or do I hold out hope that she will beat the odds?  

It was Christmas day. They had two little girls at home wondering why in the heck they weren't opening presents and enjoying a normal Christmas morning. If there was any chance that Terra would pull through, D was not willing to pull the plug that day. As long as the EEG showed brain activity, D insisted she be kept alive no matter what the doctors said. Against all odds and prognoses, Terra continued to show signs of life.

For the next three months, Terra remained in a coma. Most of the doctors who examined her said she was unresponsive. They said she would never wake up. They said she would never breathe on her own. They said she would live in a persistent vegetative state until she finally expired. Why not let her go?

But D saw something that the doctors did not. When he spoke to her, her heart rate would go up. Her eyelids would flutter. In fact, one time when he played a recording of their daughters' voices for her, a tear slid down her cheek. He knew that Terra heard him, and that she was still "in there." As long as Terra showed these signs of life, D refused to give up hope.

As so many people do these days, D turned to Facebook to keep family and friends apprised of Terra's progress. In the social media arena, Terra's story spread like wildfire. Hundreds of people began following Terra's story. Many more than that prayed for her by name as she was added to prayer lists all over the world. Soon, the rallying cry of Team Terra was "I Believe" - in God's greatness, in God's glory, and in God's ability to heal even the most hopeless of cases.

Little by little, Terra began to come out of her coma. And then she did all the things the doctors had said she would never do. She woke up. She came off life support. She walked. She talked. Granted, she never popped out of bed to give her characteristic, "How y'all doin'!" in her Tennessee twang. But every baby step toward normalcy was a miracle all its own.

After a few weeks of "Wow, you won't believe this" kind of progress, Terra went home to live with her family. But she was not without deficits. She had lost her sight in the accident. Her memory was hit-or-miss; although she seemed to recall random facts from her pre-TBI life, she rarely remembered what her life was actually like. She needed 24-hour care. And yet she did not seem to miss being able to live the life she'd had before - her amnesia gave her the unique gift of being able to live in the moment without longing for the past or worrying about the future. The major progress slowed until it had leveled out. She would have some baby steps forward here and there, but it eventually became clear that her condition was the new normal. Her family adjusted to the new Terra and life moved on.

As much as the miracle of her survival was celebrated, there were people who would shake their heads and say how sad her existance had become. Before the accident she had been a breathtaking beauty full of spunk. After the accident she was a perpetual patient who seemed capable of little more than merely existing. Why had she been kept alive for such a sad, dismal life?

I have a theory. (Listen up, this is the important part.) Her body was broken. Her mind was broken. But her spirit - the essence within her that was sent to this life by God to learn whatever lessons and play whatever role in the master plan - remained intact. I believe that her soul continued to learn and grow through her ordeal on a level that we couldn't see on the outside. I don't claim to know God's motives, but the fact that she was still here is enough explanation for me that her mission in this life was not yet complete. I believe that as long as there is breath in our bodies, our souls continue their journey along God's path on a level that no human can see or understand. And just because we don't understand someone's circumstances doesn't mean there is no value there.

Shortly after Christmas last year, Terra began having unrelenting seizures that were severe enough for her local ER to have her airlifted to a top-notch facility more than 50 miles away. Even with the advanced care she received, her condition deteriorated. Having been through so much already, her body and spirit were battle weary. For the first time since her accident, D sensed no fight in her to survive. After three agonizing days of waiting, watching, and ceaseless praying, her family said their goodbyes and removed life support.

But Terra wasn't done here. After the ventilator was removed, Soldier Girl kept on breathing - much to everyone's surprise. Later that day, she woke up. When D asked Terra if there was anything she wanted or needed, her response was, "I want you to take me shopping and then to the spa." Which, by the way, was a totally pre-TBI Terra thing to say. Outwardly, she did not seem to realize what she had been through. Just that she was very tired, and she didn't want to fight any more. 

Thus began the trasition from hope for total restoration to a long goodbye. Over the months she kinda chugged along, but grew increasingly weak. D engaged hospice, who visited their home a few times a week to help care for Terra. Last weekend, Terra lost the ability to hold down the formula she got through her feeding tube. She told D how tired she was, and that her grandmother - who had died when Terra was 6 years old - had told her it was time to get ready to go home. A hospice doctor came to visit, and he confirmed what we'd already suspected: It was time to let Terra go. Out came the feeding tube and the IV hydration. Then began the vigil - D held her hand and watched her draw one breath at a time while her body completed the process of shutting down. She remained comfortable and peaceful, clutching the stuffed animal she'd had all her 38 years. After four long days, Terra drew her last breath and crossed from this life to the next.   

With hundreds of Team Terra prayer warriors lifting her family to God for comfort, peace, and healing, those who loved Terra the most dearly have stepped into yet another new normal. Among those left behind are her parents, siblings, husband, and two little girls who will grow up without their Mommy. As I sit her writing this, tears streaming down my face for the vibrant life that was lost and the broken hearts of those who loved her, I pray that those of us who shared in the journey will always remember the hope and the faith we invoked in the dark times. We may be sad to have lost her in this world, but she is fully restored in God's unfiltered glory on the other side. No more blindness. No more weakness. No more struggle. Terra is finally whole again.  

I Believe.



Ascend, may you find no resistance.
Know that you made such a difference.
All you leave behind will live to the end.
 - Alter Bridge, Blackbird   



 

UPDATE: Many people are grieving in the wake of Terra's passing, and much to my surprise my humble post has drawn a lot of attention. I wrote this post as a way to honor Terra's memory and to make sense of an incomprehensible tragedy. To keep the focus on honoring Terra's memory, please feel free to use the comments section to share your fond memories or Terra, to express condolences to her family, or lean on each other in this time of profound grief. Just bear in mind that people closest to Terra are reading these comments, including her children. Any comments that are negative or especially upsetting to them will be removed. May God touch all our hearts with peace and healing.      

 

Damn! You Fat as Fuh!

Today has been a day that will live in infamy. For me, anyway. Might have just been a normal Thursday for you. But if you're reading this you'll get to hear (read) all about my crappy day. Yay for you! And apologies in advance.

Sleep deprivation, intense back pain, cold and rainy weather, and the inability to get anything meaningful accomplished today all contributed to my Day-O-Meter being stuck on SUCK all day. The level and intensity of suck just grew throughout the day. I started at Dust Buster and ended on Dyson-on-Crack. So by the time I got off work I was just ready to go home and fall into the warm embrace of my loving family.

Like this. Only with less smiling and more yelling.
Seriously, why don't kids just do what they're told?
Jeezy Peezy!!! Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, read on.
 

As I trudged to the bus stop - umbrella in one hand, bag in the other - my body language probably made it easy for the average person to guess I was not a happy camper. My shoulders were slumped, I was walking slowly to avoid slipping on wet pavement, and I had engaged the Urkel Stance (knees slightly bent, pelvis thrust forward) to mitigate the stabbing pain in my spine.



I'm sexy and I know it!

I started to shuffle across G Street in this manner when I looked up and saw a man crossing from the other direction. He was about 40ish, light-skinned Indian, balding, wearing glasses, and dressed in business casual attire. He could have easily blended in with most of the IT engineers I've worked with in the span of my 16-year career of correcting the spelling and grammar of certified geniuses who make a hell of a lot more money than I do. I made a mental note to avoid walking into him as he was on my side of the crosswalk, but other than that didn't form any strong opinions about him one way or the other.

Then he spoke. As we met in the middle of the crosswalk, he looked me in the eye and said, "Damn. You're fat as fuh..." Neither of us stopped or slowed down, so I'm not sure if he finished that last word or not. I imagine he did.

Did that fool seriously just say what I think he just said?

My initital reaction was, "Wait, what?" His facial expression had seemed cordial, like he was going to extend a casual "Hello" or something. It took me a few seconds to process the insult, so I didn't deliver a snappy comeback or anything. And to be honest, I'm not really sure how fat a "fuh" is, but It's not like he was giving me new information by calling me fat. I've lived in this body for 40 years now, and I've been a multitude of sizes and weights. Trust me, I know I'm fat. I've seen me naked.

It's not like I've never been insulted by a stranger before. Hell, I've come to expect it from certain demographic groups. Usually the insults come from teenagers who want to prove to their friends how cool they are by observing a known fact. Dorks.

When I was younger, I'd go hide and cry and wish that I'd said something to put them in their place. After all, back then they were my peers and had just reaffirmed that I was not in the least bit cool. I mean, it's hard to feel cool when you're publicly humiliated by your peers. But as I've been through enough life experience to grow a thick skin and become comfortable in it, I've been able to brush off encounters like this for several years. Some witty young man wants yell "FAAAAAT BIIIIITCH!!!!" from his car window? Whatever, dude. I may be fat, but at least I don't have to lead your miserable life.  

But today, I couldn't brush it off. I'ma tell you the truth - my feelings were hurt. I had to blink back tears as the encounter played over and over in my head. My reserves were already just about depleted from my craptastic day and his insult stung. And that pissed me off. 

I had about 15 minutes to think about it while I waited for my bus. Then I realized why I was so offended by the whole thing (besides the obvious): I was raised to be a nice person. To be kind and considerate, and to treat other people with a certain default level of courtesy and respect. In fact, there are days I have to put a lot of thought and energy into not offending people with my words or actions because, quite frankly, my inner voice sounds more like Lewis Black than my usual easygoing self. Am I perfect? No. But at least I try to be kind to people.

So why does this asshole get a free pass? Given his age and appearance, he really should know better than to insult strangers just for funzies. Had I encountered him in a meeting room to discuss network diagrams, his feelings about my appearance would have been the furthest thing from my mind. Hell, even on the street it was the furthest thing from my mind, until he said something. Frankly, I don't give a "fuh" whether he found me attractive. It was irrelevant information - he was some random guy on the street, not Prince Charming. But I do care that he expended the effort to be intentionally cruel. I guess I kinda feel like if I have to hold my tongue when I observe something I think is unpleasant about a stranger, then so does everyone else. That's how civilized societies work. 

By the time my bus arrived, I was casually hoping this guy would kinda sorta get stabbed in the face on his way home. I was also kicking myself for not having pushed him down in the wet street and then sitting on him so he could experience "fat as fuh" in its entirety. Oh well. If there's a next time, I'll know what to do. 

Did you say something, Sir? Would you care to repeat it?
I'm sorry. I don't understand what "mmmfff mmmfff" means.

 

Eviction Notice: Stabby McStoneful

Bright and early tomorrow morning, I will be liberated from the wretched gallbladder that has held me hostage under its reign of terror - and indigestion - for the last month or so: Stabby McStoneful. I've named her (yes, her) Stabby McStoneful for two reasons:

Disjointed Thoughts. Brought to You by Percocet

This is not a real post. I just have some thoughts rattling around my brain that I needed to get out before I could sleep. Tonight I had some realizations: 

I cannot be trusted with anything from Papa Johns. 

Since my gallbladder attack a few weeks ago, I have been really good about avoiding fatty and spicy foods. (They are triggers for an attack, which feels like a demon is fighting its way out of your ribcage.) It's amazing how the threat of unbearable, searing pain will motivate you to change your diet. But tonight we got some pizza for the kids. Which means we also got breadsticks and a cinnapie. I was totally fine with my gallbladder friendly meal - until it was time to clean up. Instead of just discarding the kids' leftovers, I found myself pulling a Cookie Monster over the sink, only with pizza & cinnapie instead of cookies. I was all OM NOM NOM NOM, crumbs flying everywhere, garlic butter dripping on my shirt. It was...pure bliss. Then 5 minutes later the nausea hit and that hot poker feeling in my upper right quadrant started to rev up. So I took an anti nausea pill and a Percocet to head off a full blown attack. Thankfully, it worked. Unfortunately, the side effects drove the rest of my evening. 

Narcotics and caulking guns do not mix.

I started the tub caulking project last weekend. I was down to the last seam - along the back of the tub. It's a short seam, so I figured I'd knock it out real quick while the kids were getting ready for bed tonight. Turns out I was experiencing a Percocet-driven bout of overconfidence and bravado. Not only did the caulk ooze out all over the side of the tub (and on my foot, and on the wall tiles, and on the floor), I could not for the life of me figure out how to make it stop. It's not that the caulking gun is hard to use, it's that my problem-solving skills had already clocked out for the night because Percocet. I finally thought to release the trigger (duh), and the tube-shaped Vesuvius finally stopped erupting. There was caulk pretty much everywhere - except the seam. So I used my finger to spread it over the places the caulk was supposed to be. It ain't pretty, but hopefully it's sealed. I'll have to check it tomorrow in the light of day and without the influence of strong painkillers. 

The more people tell me what a breeze gallbladder surgery is, the more freaked out I get about it. 

Please don't reassure me. All you're doing is increasing the probability that something will go horribly wrong. Ever hear of Murphy's Law? Stop invoking it with all your proclamations that I'll be "just fine." Tangentially related, I may need to have my anxiety meds adjusted.

Some of my favorite pictures in my camera roll are selfies of Em.

She swipes my phone, downloads new games, and takes pictures if herself, her Barbies, and the TV. Since this isn't a real post, and since I'm too loopy to think of a concluding paragraph that neatly ties everything together, I'll just leave you with her latest selfie. Because it makes me smile. Good night, Dear Reader. 

 

The Accidental Food Drive

One of the many routine emails I get every day is the daily digest of my local freecycle listserv. I’ve never given anything away or received anything through the listserv, but I like to keep an eye out for stuff like free TVs and furniture. (Don’t laugh – it happens.) The other day I opened the digest email and saw the usual offerings of baby toys and requests for computer tables. Just as I was about to close the email and hit "Delete," one message stood right up and punched me straight in the heart:

Sassyfats vs The Cheesesteak

Hello, world. Have to warn you up front: I'm writing this post on my phone and I had heavy narcotics last night. There will be typos & misspellings & run-on sentences. Grammar nazis: You have been warned.

Yesterday I had a very delicious Philly cheesesteak from a food truck in DC. Since it was a payday and I was hungry, I also sprung for the seasoned fries & Diet Coke. Yes, I'm one of those weirdos that drinks diet soda with their thousand-calorie meals. Not saying it makes logical sense, just that it makes sense to me. Don't be hatin'. 

Anywho, shortly after lunch I started to feel discomfort in my midsection. Believe it or not, I don't usually eat heavy meals like that. No really, I don't. I used to, I won't lie. But it's been a long time since my last steak & cheese & seasoned fries meal. So indigestion made sense to me. I figured I'd eventually burp & feel better. 

In Loving Memory: Carl Martin III

This is gonna be a long one. Grab a snack – and hanky – before you settle in.

Carl arrived on my radar screen about 20 years ago. Originally he was part of the rag-tag bunch that made up Sweet Little Sister’s posse. You know those years of your life when your friends mean EVERYTHING to you? Sweet Little Sister had A LOT of friends during those years, and Carl started out as a face in the crowd.

But it wasn't long before Carl went from “face in the crowd” to "that punk dating my sister." To be fair, all boys who wanted to date my sister were instantly granted “punk” status. I had just recently escaped my teens, I knew what boys were like, and I have been fiercely protective of my little sister since the day she was born. (Yes, even when I was beating up on her when we were kids. That’s all normal sister stuff, right?)

And also to be fair, Sweet Little Sister was already a third degree black-belt in rebellion and shocking behavior before Carl came along. But still, it was easier to blame the boyfriend than the sister. They skipped school a lot together, they got caught drankin' a lot together, and there was at least one occasion when my dad caught him in my sister's room, threw him out of the house by the scruff of his neck, then chased him around the front yard while Carl cussed my dad out and ran for his life.

Carl was what you'd call a troubled teen. He acted out a lot. And he got in trouble a lot. He had an arrest record. He’d been to jail at least once. And it seemed to me that he was dragging Sweet Little Sister (the third degree black-belt in rebellion and shocking behavior) along for a seriously bumpy ride.

Then something miraculous happened: The birth of my awesome nephew almost 17 years ago. (We shall call him Awesome Nephew #1, as I have two other awesome nephews who are younger. Where was I? Oh yeah...)

The grudging respect I had for Carl did not begin to take root until Awesome Nephew #1 was actually born. For the nine(ish) months leading up to that hot July day, Carl was the punk-ass kid who knocked up my teenage sister and therefore deserved wrath and scorn. But the day Sweet Little Sister went into labor, I saw a side of Carl I had never given him a chance to show me before: loving, tender, and responsible. Not only was he a dedicated partner to my sister, he was fiercely determined to be a good dad.

My grudging respect for Carl grew into acceptance as I saw how much time he spent with the baby, and how involved he wanted to be as a father. The day he broke my sister’s heart when Awesome Nephew #1 was about six months old, I not only wanted to hulk-smash the motherfucker (seriously, don’t mess with my sister), but I was sad that he wasn’t going to be part of the family any more.

But he didn’t exactly go away. He wasn’t Sister’s Boyfriend any more, but he was still very much Awesome Nephew #1’s Dad. Like so many other teen fathers, he could have walked away without a backward glance. But he didn’t. Not only did he remain a consistent presence in Awesome Nephew #1’s life, but he dated a girl who embraced Awesome Nephew #1 as part of the Carl package. When they eventually married, she was a devoted stepmom who treated Awesome Nephew #1 as one of her own. When Devoted Stepmom and Carl had two children of their own, Carl and Devoted Stepmom went out of their way to nurture the bonds between Awesome Nephew #1 and his half siblings. They didn’t all live in the same house together, but they got some good quality time together.

As time marched on, Carl outgrew his troubled-teen persona and grew into the responsible adult he wanted so badly to become. It was at that point I realized that even though he wasn’t my sister’s boyfriend anymore,  I still saw Carl – and now Devoted Stepmom and the half siblings – as part of the extended family.

But then life, as it so often does, brought Carl and those who loved him to his knees. He was in his early 20s, and had started to have some odd behavior. I didn’t realize how serious things had gotten for him until the day he climbed to the top of the highest roller coaster at Six Flags, where he was a ride mechanic, and stared at the ground for two solid hours. I don’t remember if he was talked down or someone went up there and got him. But he spent 3 days in the hospital after that (72-hour hold, for those of you familiar with the world of mental illness) and emerged with some medication that was supposed to make him all better.

To give you the reader’s digest version of the diagnostic process, it took awhile for the doctors to nail down the right diagnosis. But ultimately we learned that it was not depression, not anxiety, not even bipolar disorder. What he had was schizophrenia, and it would rule the remaining years of his life.

If you have never had to navigate the world of mental health care, count your blessings. Finding the right diagnosis and treatment is a process of trial and error, not to mention knock-down drag-out fights with the insurance company. It took awhile, but the doctors finally found the right medications at the right doses to allow Carl to be lucid enough to live a normal life. But as with so many other mental patients, he would stop taking the meds when he felt normal again. And each time he went off the meds, he ended up in a darker place than he was when he had started taking them. His behavior became dangerous. And as with so many other mental patients, his marriage to Devoted Stepmom ended in divorce as she sought a safe environment for herself and her children.

As Sweet Little Sister and Devoted Stepmom set up house together so the children could live together as siblings, Carl fell off my radar screen again. I knew he was living out of state somewhere. I knew that his treatment was on-again, off-again. And I knew that his relationship with his kids was on-again, off-again. He was absolutely forbidden to see the children when he was off his meds – he had become too unstable. But even when he was on his meds, his version of reality made him fairly unreliable. I don’t think he ever stopped wanting to see his kids – there was just this roadblock called schizophrenia in the way.

He loved those kids. No doubt.

In the interest of helping them understand what was going on with their dad, the children were counseled on his illness and how they could cope with their feelings in a healthy way. The underlying message, which was true even when Carl was in the grips of his greatest delusions, was that their daddy loved them with his whole heart, and they didn’t do anything wrong to make him go away.

I hadn’t heard Carl’s name in awhile when I learned that he’d gotten remarried. My first reaction was shock. Was she nuts?? Did she have any idea what she was in for??? But then I learned that yes – she knew about his illness, she had learned how to best support him, and she loved him enough to take on the challenge. When they first got married, he seemed to be doing really well. Beloved Wife was a positive influence on him, and stayed involved in his treatment enough to help him be OK. They moved to a far-off state because they had been offered a combination job/living arrangement that was too good to pass up. They were there for a couple of years, and one Thanksgiving Sweet Little Sister took Awesome Nephew #1 out to visit. From what I understand, a lot of much-needed bonding took place because Carl was present. His treatment was working. And Awesome Nephew #1 got to know the version of his Dad that I saw all those years before.   

But then. And isn’t there always a “but then”??

Carl and Beloved Wife had to move back to his home state for reasons I’m still not really clear on. When they lived in the far-off state, he was in the social services system. They helped him pay for his meds and therapy, and he was in their job-training program as an auto mechanic. I know there are people in our society who go on about tax-payer dollars, grumble-grumble, why don’t they just get a job, grumble-grumble. But when someone is rendered incapable of working because of their illness, they need a little help getting the intervention they need to become a productive member of society again. He met that criteria in a huge way. But when he moved back to his home state, his meds ran out before he could get established in that state's system. He had no way to renew his prescriptions. Before anyone knew it, he descended once again into the abyss.

One day I got a phone call. “Carl tried to kill himself again.” In previous attempts he had used pills. But this time he had climbed to the top of a streetlight with a noose. Luckily he had made enough noise to draw a crowd, and had made the rope long enough for them to catch his legs after he jumped from the light pole. But they did not catch him before the rope snapped. They lifted him up enough to keep the noose from suffocating him. But by then a great deal of damage had already been done. His windpipe was crushed. He suffered a stroke. He had a severe neck injury. He was in a top-rated hospital for three months as he recovered. And he was released the minute Medicare said they were done paying for his treatment - on Christmas Eve.

He was never the same after that day. Instead of putting him on the meds that had worked so well for him in the far-off state, the hospital doctors had given him something that didn’t work so well. No matter how passionately Beloved Wife advocated for him, the doctors did not listen. “We know what we’re doing,” they said. “Trust us,” they said. When Beloved Wife first took Carl to his old psychiatrist when he got out of the hospital, hoping to finally get the right mix of meds for him, the doctor told her he honestly wasn’t sure he could bring Carl all the way back. There had been too much trauma. Too much damage. Too much time.

Carl limped along for several months after that. He and Beloved Wife moved in with Sweet Little Sister and Awesome Nephew #1. (Devoted Stepmom had since remarried and moved out with Half Siblings) Beloved Wife fought like hell to get Carl the care he needed. We all held out hope that he would keep recovering, and get back to the stability he enjoyed when he lived in the far-off state.

But it was not meant to be.

Last weekend, Carl went to a nearby hospital to receive treatment. But as soon as nobody was looking, he snuck away from the hospital with a bottle of pills in his hand. He wandered around for God knows how long, and ended up behind the apartment building where he and Beloved Wife had once lived. He sat down in the shade of a dumpster, swallowed that bottle of pills, and went to sleep. The police found him later that afternoon, far too late for intervention.

I was standing in the soda isle at Safeway when I got the call. I cry-shopped through the rest of my list and then howl-cried on the drive home. I knew he was on thin ice, but dammit, he was supposed to get better. He had so much promise before the schizophrenia took hold. His life never should have ended this way.

Knowing what I know about suicidal mental illness, and knowing how much love he held in his heart, I think Carl honestly believed he was doing the right thing. I don’t think it was a selfish act, either – I think he believed his family was better off without him. If only he were capable of believing otherwise.

I spent a few hours at Sweet Little Sister’s house the next day, along with many other friends and family members, hugging, crying, and remembering. As the three most influential women in Carl’s life – Sweet Little Sister, Devoted Stepmom, and Beloved Wife – pooled their resources to make the funeral arrangements, old pictures began to surface. Pictures of a younger, happier Carl. Some with his kids. Some with his friends. And then the picture that almost stopped my heart: Carl was Awesome Nephew #1’s age. He looked so much like Awesome Nephew #1 that I had to ask which one of them it was. Carl had long hair and a big, genuine smile on his face. This was about the time he showed up as part of my sister’s posse. Had I seen this picture 20 years ago, I’d have thought, “Stay away from my sister. Punk.” But not now. The Carl in this picture is so young – his whole life stretches out before him. I see the light in his eyes – and so much potential for a rewarding life. And it makes my tears all the more bitter to know how his life will play out – and how the light in his eyes will come to be extinguished forever.

And so I pray. I pray for healing, comfort, and peace for those who loved him the most. As much as my heart hurts from how Carl's battle with schizophrenia ended, theirs have shattered a thousand times over. His three children. His three wives (official or not). His sister. His parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins. May they feel God’s loving arms around them as He carries them through their grief.  

My most fervent prayer is that Carl has finally been released from his nightmare. May his weary soul be troubled no more, finally resting in the peace that so eluded him in life. And may his finer moments live on in our memories.

Carl Martin III
February 17, 1977 - June 22, 2013
May your light shine on forever