"Oh God, this is it"

Some dates just ingrain themselves in your memory, January 13th is one of those dates. Not because I am superstitious about the number 13, but because on January 13, 1994, I totaled my first car. Not intentionally of course, but completely totaled nonetheless and almost totaled myself in the process. I was sixteen and driving my little red Pontiac Fiero to school one Thursday morning when I suddenly lost control around a curve in a roller coaster of a road. I wasn't speeding and don't know the cause of the control loss, but I found myself turning to the left and then after over correcting my steering wheel to the right I saw the edge of the pavement before me in slow motion and remember saying to myself "Oh God, this is it!"

I woke up alone and cold with the car still and the only sound coming from a cassette tape still playing in the radio. I looked around me taking in account what had happened to realize I was in the confines of a broken and mangled corpse of a car. I knew that my parents would kill me if they heard the music I was listening to and in severe pain I leaned forward in a desperate and thankfully successful attempt to press the eject button to silence it. I then reached to my door handle to open it and emerge from the car, but the door didn't move and I looked down to see that though I thought I felt my attempt, my arm had never moved from my lap. I was trapped and couldn't move my left arm or legs.

I woke up next to a woman's voice asking me my name, asking me my phone number and telling me it would be okay.

I woke up again to sirens, lights flashing up above me, the sound of my mom's voice and several people talking all around me. The cold was getting colder and pain was overcoming my body. I still could not move within the confines of my car. I began yelling for someone to get me out of this car. I'm going to blame the expletives I was using on pain and shock and finally calmed after my mom instructed me to calm down and hold still. The firemen and paramedics were working to get me out of the car and did not want me moving my neck as they did not know the severity of my injuries. I fell in and out of consciousness as they worked. My sunroof was already broken from the accident, so they cut and pried the roof more and in protection covered me with a sheet to raise me up through the roof.

I woke up again on a hard and even more cold surface and my neck immobilized in a brace. A woman's voice told me she was going to have to cut my clothes off to determine the extent and give aid to my injuries. I pleaded with her in my modesty to keep me covered, still hearing numerous voices all around me. Sixteen and selfishly upset that my brand new jeans and the popular at the time flannel shirt I had gotten only the night before were being cut off my body and ruined.

I woke looking at the ceiling of a hospital room with voices of my mom and friends around me. My neck still immobilized in a brace, I could not see anyone unless they leaned directly over my face. Begging for something for the pain, my mom explained that they would not yet give me anything as the doctors wanted me to be able to tell them where my pain was. It was all over!

Time would determine that I had broken my left arm, left leg and pelvis and the before mentioned shattered sunroof had cut my head causing a substantial loss of blood. A six hour surgery with two of our town's best orthopedic surgeons repaired my arm and leg with rods in both preventing me from having to wear any casts. Yet the combined breaks put me in a wheelchair for a period of about six months. The hospital therapist taught me to walk with one crutch under my right arm within the parallel bars of the therapy unit which I was able to do for short distances. Though my blood levels were low, medicine did not know what we know now about AIDS and blood transfusion, and the decision was made to allow my body to build back it's own blood supply. It was a long process that kept me very tired and just the exertion to take a shower and get ready in the morning would cause me to pass out.

I don't know if I slid on the morning's wet road or if I blew a tire (I had four blown tires at the end of it) causing my wreck. Beyond my mind's distinct picture of the edge of the asphalt my car went over a twenty foot embankment which would have been more if it had not been caught in by the trees in Brenda's yard. Brenda was the woman who I woke to asking me my name and phone number who's schedule never had her home on Thursday mornings ever, except for this particular morning. She was getting ready when she heard the collision outside and instantly called 911, knowing with the landscape whatever had happened would be bad.

I eventually got another little red car, a Nissan Pulsar that time, that I could easily sling my wheelchair in the hatchback of and hobble around the car to the driver's seat. My head healed, my bones healed and through another surgery the following October, I got the rods taken out and as high school senior, I began to play a few sports I had never had the courage to try out for before. After the wreck I had a new sense of trying new things, pushing myself and not allowing intimidation to stop me, I realized the quickness that life could be swept away. I learned about being temporarily handicapped and overcoming obstacles. I learned first hand about divinely appointed timing and the miracle of life.

Yesterday was eighteen years since my wreck. Maybe I am a little superstitious now as I have always picked the number 13 as my lucky number being that it marked the day I beat the odds of living through a wreck the emergency responders said I shouldn't have. I am reminded of it when my little bit of arthritis kicks in after excessive exercise and periods of cold and rain. I still have minuscule splinters of glass that make their way to the surface of the skin on scar of my forehead and my daughters have questioned the surgical scar on my shoulder and the longer one on my leg.  I am thankful that I was wrong when I saw the edge of the pavement, wrong when I said "Oh God, this is it," or was I? Maybe I was wrong in the fact that the pavement's edge was not the end of my life, but right all along "Oh God, this is it," as the edge marked the beginning of my life.

I never thought I would get sentimental over a tank of all things...

I'm not a military enthusiast, a war history buff or anything like that. To be honest, I feel like I am being a little punished when my husband chooses a military show on the history channel. I know it's important to our history and I do appreciate the education, but I still find little interest in it. That said, I was a little shocked at myself this week when an old army green tank had me with teary eyes. The local newspaper specified it as an M47 Patton, though I didn't know or really care what kind of tank it was, it was one that sat in the front yard of a neighbor's house for decades. It was something of a landmark in the neighborhood as it aided in giving directions, "you're going to go past a house with a tank in the front yard," and was a definite topic of conversation for anyone that wondered about such a large and unique lawn ornament.  I didn't know anything specific about the tank, I never climbed upon it or sat in it's turret, but I did sit in the company of it's owner many times and for that I am very grateful.

What makes this particular tank special is that it was Harry's. Harry McCauley was one of my dad's best friends which gave me the opportunity to sit in his presence many times to enjoy intellectual conversation and debate. Just having a tank in his front yard should be evidence enough that Harry was a one-of-a kind man. To know him and have the blessing to be part of his life only confirmed that fact. Against social faux pas, many of our discussions centered around religion and politics. Both of which he had solid and unashamed stands on and would substantiate his opinions with innumerable historical and biblical references. He wasn't someone who just talked to hear himself or waste his breath, his words had literal and figurative meaning reaching varying degrees of perspective. His words made you think, ponder, study and even question yourself at times. He had a great and unique sense of humor which only colored conversations brighter. As much as Harry could talk, he would listen too and no matter how much more knowledge he had about a subject, he never educated with arrogance or condescension. That is what I loved about our talks, they seemed to just mean something and I always walked away knowing a little more than I did upon sitting down.

Harry passed away last March. While we know that death is inevitable, he was as I said, my dad's closest of friends and to witness my father's quiet grief was a new experience for me and hard in itself. When my dad told me last week that the tank had been sold and he was helping oversee it's move off the property, I was upset. I wanted to be there to see it's move and to somewhat commemorate the day, but I really didn't think that a tank transportation day would constitute a sick day in my employer's eyes or understanding. It's monumental presence seemed like a lasting reminder of Harry and was an emotional link to him. However, the tank was moving to a museum which was in my opinion the most honorable place for it as more people could enjoy and appreciate it than just neighborhood passersby. When people view it in the museum it went to or the the next place it will move in it's journey, they will not see the man I see when I would pass through the neighborhood or will see in it's pictures. They will see a relic of history, of wars fought and battles won and monetary worth. But Harry will be there too, just a piece of him forever memorialized in this tank, forever a part or our personal history and now rightfully displayed in a museum of valued history.   

A second gray hair, a rite of passage and a metaphor.

I found and pulled my first gray hair about a year ago, thankfully it took a year to find another one at at 34. I was getting ready this morning, did a final spray of my hair and was just having the "this is a good hair day" thought going through my head when I saw this gray hair emerging from the part in my hair. The light hit it just right and the "good hair day" thought fleeted fast as the gray hair seemed to exclaim itself brighter and brighter amongst my dark brown hair. I grabbed the tweezers and plucked the strand from my hair wondering how I had not noticed it before as it was now a little over an inch in length.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a gray hair bashing person, I am not fearful of age or the changing of my skin, hair and overall appearance as I age. Though I pulled out this morning's gray hair, I at the same time felt a sense of a rite of passage in this thing called adulthood. Like maybe this gray hair was that of a lesson learned, an obstacle conquered or a hinderance plucked away from my life and I was instantly given the explanation of where this gray hair came from and what it represented. You see I've had a conflict with someone for a few months now and yesterday, we sat down and had a time of reconnection and resolve to work things out. We equally agreed that the longer we had let the conflict go on without addressing it, the worse it had gotten. Ignoring conflict did not make it go or fade away, ignoring the hurts and offenses had only made them grow in substance and grow the distance between us. Our time together yesterday was long overdue, much needed and well served and all parties walked away from the conversation with offenses dropped, hurts extinguished and a fresh and positive outlook on the restored relationship. With the conflict gone, things can return back to normal with no residual evidence...such is the case with my unwelcomed gray hair.

My gray strand was not something that just came up overnight, the longer I overlooked it the longer it grew. The longer I thought about the hair and the metaphor that had been revealed to me in my bathroom mirror, I wondered how fast hair grows. Being the googler I am, I googled it to find that hair grows at a rate of about half an inch per month. How's that for confirmation? At an inch long, my gray hair had been growing the entire time of this conflict. Yet as quickly as I noticed and plucked it away, my hair had once again returned to normal with no indication of it ever being there. It is the same with resolved conflict and forgiveness in the relationships with those we love. Unlike a head full of gray hair, we can not cover offenses and conflict in a relationship with a bottle of hair dye. We have to address conflicts that come up at the first inclination, indication and instance to prohibit them to grow into something bigger and unmanagable. That way relationships can return to what they once were and grow in beauty.

What I learned in 2011

My Top 10 List of What I Learned in 2011

1. Ignorance judges, experience understands.
2. Sometimes we have to separate from the world to remember who we are.
3. Take time off to enjoy the day instead of working it all away.
4. Summer river days are necessary to my well being and peace of mind.
5. Give myself permission to say no to others, so I could say yes to myself and my needs.
6. Somethings can not be fixed, somethings just are.
7. Sometimes there are no words for the situation, other than a sincere "I love you".
8. Being a good person does not mean being a doormat.
9. I alone dictate how I let others treat me.
10. Death is not just, fair or explainable and grief resonates in different ways to different people.

What I learned in 2010

I'm not one to make new year's resolutions for a few reasons:
1: Part of it just seems too cliche to stick with.
2: The rebel in me just doesn't want to follow the crowd into making goals that for the most part people don't stick with past the second week of January.
3: If your resolution is something you really need to focus on or change, you should do it as soon as you see it necessary, not wait until a specific date to start, thus delaying the goal in the first place.
4: I'm already perfect...no changes needed! Ha Ha...that was a joke people. I am far from perfect and realize the gap to perfection widens more with the passing of each day.

So instead of making resolutions, last year I ended my year by making a list of the things I had learned in 2010, instead of focusing on what I might do for the next. I thought I had only saved this list in a facebook post, but after rummaging through months of status updates, I finally found it in a must easier referenced note. I am posting it here, not only for any readers I might have, but for my own reasons of having an quicker retrieval method in the future and to pass the time while I reflect back over the past year to compile a new list for 2011.

My Top 10 list of what I learned in 2010

1. zumba
2. when you don't fit in, be comfortable standing out.
3. family isn't defined by bloodlines, but instead by heartstrings.
4. some of the best times can be around a fire or in a closet.
5. we are all busy, but real friends always find the time.
6. to stop expecting from people what they will never give.
7. I may be at the bottom of some people's lists, but I am at the top of others.
8. to walk the red carpet without tripping in heels.
9. to be comfortable in my own skin, even when others don't approve.
10. to embrace my role as the crazy, eccentric aunt....cause it's a lot of fun.

To text or not to text?

Our pre-Christmas dinner conversation included my dad's obvious disgust of texting and the degrade of social skills that it will bring in our children's generation. I would say, we discussed it, but I just sat there and kept quiet in an effort to avoid the debate. I text, he knows that and we've had this conversation before. In it I feel as the burden of responsibility of the technological advance of our society falls on my shoulders and I am there as the single representative to back it up. My dad rambled on in his rant to explain how texting will eventually have our children socially dumb due to the fact that our current communication skills are lowering as fast as smart phones are rising in our society. He is convinced our children already have a hard time carrying on a conversation and texting, messaging and email will have our future generations completely unable to communicate socially, read body language or foster relationships.

I text, I like the ability to do so and appreciate that I have a record that I can look back to. If I need to have a conversation without anyone eavesdropping, I can text. If I need to ask someone a quick question, all I have to do is text the question and can expect a quick reply without having to rearrange my afternoon schedule to listen to someone talk endlessly about ailments, family drama and so on when I just can't commit to that conversation at the moment. When there is an event or something I need to know, I have it in a text and can easily find the conversation and remind myself without the need of post-it notes on my nightstand, fridge, car dashboard, and every crevice of my purse. I have all I need in one device at my fingertips and I find that quite convenient. I have even referred to a text record to defend myself when accused of saying something I didn't in a recent conversation.

Texting has it's advantages, however I do agree that it has disadvantages. Sometimes we prolong a conversation by waiting for a reply than just hitting the dial button and having an actual voice conversation that would take less time. Text messages void one's capability to pick up on tone, sarcasm and emotion which can lead to misunderstandings or a lack of attention when one desires or needs it. Though we "feel" more connected, texting, social networks and other technological advances can't replace the human's relational need of face time, create memories or foster meaningful relationships.

I let go of the conversation at hand, and gratefully welcomed a new one with the entrance of our daughter, her husband and children, and then sat to a full Christmas dinner spread across the table. After dinner we retired to the comfort of an overstuffed sofa and chairs and talked as family conversations go, interweaving between children, work, history and so on. As we talked, my daughter and her husband sat quietly on the couch playing on their phones. They were in complete oblivion from our conversation unless we specifically called on them to pay attention to something. Though they may have been texting too, they were in the most part playing games on their newly acquired phones. Still, the image of the afternoon plagued me later as I thought back to my irritation of my dad's ranting, yet the fact that his point was proven by my own children as they were unable to just sit and enjoy an Christmas afternoon in conversation with family. I don't fault them, I checked my phone a few times and even uploaded a picture of my daughter to facebook when she finally fell asleep beside me. Nor can we completely fault the phones as, for the most part, teenagers and young adults would rather play a game of pick up sticks than sit and have a conversation with older adults, phones are simply today's distraction. Still as smartphone users and parents of the next generation, we will have to use and teach moderation and the nearly extinct abilities to use reason and respect. Reasoning when is the time and when is not the time to text, play and update our status and respecting the people in front of us enough to put down the phone and be present.

It's Pajama Day...I think!

I love when my girls' school has pajama day and who wouldn't? Those few days a year they get to wear the most comfortable clothes on earth and spend all day in their pajamas. Frankly, I'm a little jealous and wish we could institute a few adult pajama days to be added to the national calendar so we could get away with the same attire at work. Of course, as adults, we are not nearly as cute as kids are in their pajamas and children's are much more modest than some of the adult versions...so maybe it's a good idea that we don't have adult pajama days. Nonetheless, as a parent of anti-morning girls, pajama days make my job easier. After their nightly bath they are officially dressed for school and one part of our morning routine is scratched off the to-do list as complete, thus helping life run a bit more smoothly.

Our elementary school will sometimes have pajama day for the whole school or each grade on a different day. So, when the girls told me last night that today was pajama day, I had to be sure. You see I love pajama day, my girls love pajama day and there's nothing bad about pajama day except for when it isn't really pajama day. Did that make sense? Let me explain. When my girls were in kindergarten and first grade they came home with notes as to each of their grades having pajama day, with one on one day and the other the next. The first pajama day came and I dressed my first grader in her pajamas. She left for school happy and comfortable, while my kindergartner was upset with jealousy that she didn't get to wear her own. Any parent of siblings know we have to constantly teach our children that they are not always going to get the same thing, be invited to the same birthday parties and have the same friends. This lesson is part of them learning that the world is not fair and though they are sisters, they are also individuals. I was finally able to diffuse her mood with the explanation that she would get to wear her pajamas the next day, as her grade wasn't participating the same day as her sister's. I dropped them off at school and headed to work thankful for a semi-smooth morning and with pajama day off my mind and out of my thoughts. 

Later that evening, I returned home to two unhappy children. My first grader was irritated that she was the only child in her class wearing pajamas and my kindergartner was angry that she was the only one in her class who wasn't wearing pajamas. This is what you call and epic fail for the mom team, as I apparently mixed up the notes. Not that either note had a grade specified on it, but still, I'm the mom, thus the fault is mine. As if I did not feel bad enough about the mix up, I later found out from my first grader's teacher that my daughter kept her jacket on all day in class so as not to allow any other children to notice what she was wearing. The unfortunate thing is that if either teacher or the school had called me about their attire, my girls, who wear the same size, could have met in the bathroom and switched clothes in an instant and the world as we know it would have been at peace. However, I did not know until it was too late and my "mommy of the year" nomination was withdrawn completely from the running.

So as I mentioned before, when my girls told me today was pajama day, I had to be sure, completely, positively and undeniably sure. It's not that I do not trust my children, but after the epic fail of my past, I don't trust myself. I instantly requested a verification of pajama day from other parents on facebook and was assured that it was, in fact, today. So today I sent my kids to school in their pajamas and though I was given all the reassurance it's the right day, there's still this quiet fear in the back of my mind that I failed once again as will be there every pajama day.