The Year That Almost Didn't Happen

So I haven't done a whole lot of blogging this year. I write when the words come to me, and this year they've been elusive but for a few exceptions. This, however, came to me as soon as the chill of impending winter set in.

Usually, if I sit down to write a ‘year in review’ post, I (a) wait until the ENTIRE year is over, and (b) take for granted all the silly and superficial ups and downs of daily life. Usually, my heart aches for the pieces that were torn away three and a half years ago. This year, my heart is full. This year I’ve been blessed beyond my wildest dreams and yet, it almost didn’t happen. 2015 nearly ended for my family before it even began.

The day we came home to the carbon monoxide detector going off, none of us had ever experienced that sort of situation before, and everything seemed fine, so it would have been all too easy to just brush off the warning – take the batteries out of the detector to stop the annoying alerts and go about life as normal. We almost went to sleep that Sunday night no different from any other... except, if we had done that, we’d have never woken up. We’d all have died from an invisible intruder we should have known was lying in wait.

Instead, that night, we carted three people and five cats to a local hotel, literally minutes from our home, but that night it was a safe haven. I remember sitting in the living room waiting for a friend to bring cat carriers, wondering how much gas I was breathing in just sitting there. I remember reaching into the depths of my bank account to pay for the hotel room that was saving our lives. And most of all, I remember the seriousness and the fear on my family’s faces the following day when they  solemnly told me that none of us would have survived if I hadn’t insisted on going to the hotel that night.

Unfortunately this set off a whole cascade of unfortunate events and I couldn’t possibly count the tears I cried in those first couple days. Then – a miracle. Though every call I made to inquire about heating assistance was fruitless, help came to us in our time of need. Through the unimaginable kindness of what most people would consider near-strangers, people with whom I just happened to share a common interest, the malfunctioning appliance was quickly replaced. Because of another stranger who helped fill my car with firewood, we were kept warm through the week we waited to have the repairs done. People I'd never met before cared for my family as though it were their own, and I will never forget that kindness.

In fact, that’s why 2015 happened.

That’s why the first hug I got from A in three years happened.

It’s why AJ, my sweet (borrowed) little 6 year old with autism, crawled up into my lap and told me I was his best friend.

It’s why I fostered and found homes for four more litters of kittens (Prose and Haiku are HOME for the holidays – adopted together last week!)

It’s why I got to celebrate a Sweet Sixteen with M - who was THREE when I met her!

It’s why I got to help make Christmas magic for a friend who was also struggling.

It’s why I got to go on my first date (yes, at 25 years old, and no, he wasn’t the one, but I enjoyed the rite of passage!)

It’s why I got to take my best friend to Washington DC for her 30^th birthday, fulfilling a lifelong wish for both of us.

It’s why I got to bake Christmas cookies with my friend’s little girl last week.

It’s why every minute of these 365 days happened.

The kindness of near-strangers; that's why those things happened.

And it's why the next 365 days will happen.

Why I will train at the Dojo once again, recapturing the self-confidence karate gave me years ago.

Why we will be there to celebrate a 17^th, 13^th, and 7^th birthday.

Why we will foster several more litters of kittens on their way to forever homes.

Why we will all be here to continue paying it forward.

The ugly, evil parts of the world are all-too-visible and can easily trick us into thinking that the entire world, and everyone in it, are cruel and unforgiving. I, however, have proof that this is not the case. An outpouring of human kindness is the reason I'm here, and this time of year, I can recall all too clearly how things could have been different, so once again, I owe my thanks to people who were there for us last winter. Yes - there are still good ones out there - and to them, I say: Thank you... for 2015.

Too Long

Princesa,

It has been too long since I wrote.  I am sorry.  I have given you reasons before and I don't think you need to hear them again, I think you will understand perfectly well, but I do want to make sure that you know that even when I go a long time between letters, it does not mean I am thinking of you or missing you any less.  I still fall asleep every night snuggling Ellfant and thinking of you.  I still pray night and day for your health, safety, and happiness... and for you to come home.  I still see you in every little detail of my every day.

Yesterday I opened the closet to get out a coat to wear, and saw your flower umbrella that you got for your seventh birthday, and the pink rain jacket we bought because you didn't have one to wear to school, and I wished you were here to use them.  I allowed myself to part with a few of your things - outfits, shoes, things like that - so that your friends J and N can use them.  You should see the pride they take in wearing "A's clothes".  How they tell me they miss you every time they put them on.  How my heart smiles seeing things that used to be yours bringing other children joy.

You're going to be 11 soon.  I thought double digits was hard, but 11... goodness.  The day I said goodbye to you, you were 9.  Little.  11 is a pre-teen!  I hate so much that I have missed these 21 months of your life.  I wonder what has changed about you.  Which of your little quirks you have retained, if you've gained any new ones, what parts of who you were when I saw you last that you have outgrown.

Stores are full of fun spring and Easter goodies.  I long to put together an Easter basket for you, to pick up another pair of adorable Easter socks in the dollar aisle, to take you to the store and have a fashion show to pick out the very best swimsuit for summer.  Mom made Paczki last weekend and the weekend before... and I think about how if you were here, I'd barely get any!  But I wouldn't mind, because it would mean you were here.

I can't look forward to your birthday this year.  It was so very hard for me last year, even though I put a smile on and celebrated for you.  We'll celebrate again this year... but it won't be the same without you.  I'll miss picking out the perfect presents and watching you open them and exclaim "Oh, I just did want this!" even when you'd never seen it before in your life.  I hope you'll have cake and presents and ice cream and love wherever you are.

But I don't want my letter to be all about being sad and missing you because you were never one to dwell on the negative, the things you couldn't control - you were one to seize the day, enjoy the moment we were in.  So I'll fill you in on our 'moments'... on one condition... you tell me everything you can remember that put a smile on your face since I last saw you, when I see you again.

Mom is still working a lot, but she does it for our family and I know she loves and thinks of you all the time.  She's been cooking a lot of fun treats lately that I'm sure you'd be glad to help her out with... at least the licking the beaters part.  She misses sharing her bagels with you in the morning, you helping her dry the dishes.

Danny is going to college now, he's mostly taking general classes because he's still not quite sure what he wants to do 'when he grows up', but he seems to like it.  He plays video games all the time, as usual.  He's also driving now (I know, scary, right?) so there's an extra person to run errands around here.  He had a friend over last weekend... and they, you know, played video games while sitting next to each other, haha.

M doesn't come over every day anymore because she's almost 15 years old and big enough to stay by herself for a few hours - but we get together on weekends sometimes, or even weeknights especially if it's going to be cold in the morning so I can drive her to school.  We go shopping, play games, go out to eat... a couple weeks ago we went to Fort Rapids (the indoor water park I took you to where we saw some of our friends from church) and had a really good time.  Wished you were there.  We'll go when you come home.

I know you'll want an update on the kitties... they are doing good.  I think I wrote to you before that Boo went to kitty heaven, but that I got another kitten and named him Marbles - he's about a year and a half old now.  He and Tiger (or, "Stripey Cat" as you liked to call him) get along really well, even though they beat up on each other and chase each other around the house a lot.  Marbles got out of the house the other day when it was snowing and really cold... Danny and I had to drag him in from under the deck!

As for me... I worked for a few months as a nanny for a 3 year old boy and a newborn little girl.  I quit that job a couple weeks ago because it was just too stressful - funny how other people's kids are so much harder to handle than you guys!  I'm back to looking for jobs and helping Shannon with your friends J and N, and little M who has turned into a toddler since you last saw her, and R who was born last summer.  I love being at their house because they know and understand everything you and I went through.  Shannon understands where you're coming from more than I think you even know.  One day maybe you can talk to her about it.  I've also been doing the same stuff, helping orphans find families and getting them home, and seen a lot of beautiful families in the process.  And I taught myself how to make really cool bracelets and if you were here I'd make you a pink and purple one.  Actually, I do have a surprise for you when you go home... for all our missed birthdays, Easters and Christmases.  I can't wait to give it to you.

I wish I could hear from you and hear how you're doing, what you're up to, who your friends are, how you like school... we're going to have a lot of catching up to do when I see you again!

I love you Princess.  I love you like the moon at night - big, and round, and warm, and bright.

I love you.  Goodnight.

Love you forever,
"Kai"

The Year With No Hugs

I want to preface this by saying that I do recognize and appreciate and love the friends and family who are still in my life.  I give thanks for every one of you, because without you, this would all be so much harder.  My Year With No Hugs wasn't truly hug-free because of you.

It's January 1 again.  Another year passed.  Last year, I had so much to say about the previous year, because 2012 was so eventful for us (and no, not in good ways, for the most part).  This year... there's not much to say.  2013 was not eventful but for that I struggled with my health some more... three more surgeries and a birthday in the hospital, among other things.  But there's one thing that does stand out about 2013.

Since I met A in 2004, as well as since AJ was born in 2009,  there have been a few times when I went weeks, or even months, without seeing them.  Pawns in the cruel games adults played against each other, there were times when I couldn't see them... but they were always temporary, because I was needed.

2012 was the year that all changed.  When I made the phone call that changed our lives, I knew that this could be the case.  I also knew I had to do it anyways.  2012 was the year I said goodbye to my babies.  Gave my last hugs... if only I'd known they had to last this long, I would've hugged a little tighter, held on a little longer...

After exhausting all possibilities of bringing them home, I rang in 2013 with a heavy heart... hurting, because I knew I wouldn't be spending the new year with my babies, but still a little hopeful that things might change, and still glad to say goodbye to 2012.

We didn't get a miracle in 2013.  Things didn't change... not in the way I wanted, anyways.  I suspect they haven't changed at all... but there's no way to know for sure... because 2013 was the first year since I met A and since AJ was born that I didn't see them at all.

Not a glimpse.

Not even in passing.

Many times I thought of them, how I used to hug them close and thank God for putting them in my life... and I wished I could hug them again.  I dreamed about one day when I might get the opportunity to get just one more hug.  But it didn't come.  2013 was The Year With No Hugs.  Not once did I get to hold my babies close, smell the way their hair smelled after bath time, snuggle up and read a book, embrace them because I was so happy to see them again.  Not once.  I didn't even see their little faces.  Not.  One.  Time.

A whole year without hugging someone you love more than life itself is a long time.  It's a hard time.  It's a hurting time.

Maybe that's why I have so little to say about 2013.  When someone you love is missing... not much else matters.

I'm healing.  There will be two squares missing from my little patchwork family until A and AJ are in my life again (however long it takes)... but I'm learning, slowly, how to get by until then.

Who knows?  Maybe this will be our year.  I'm not giving up hope so long as there is breath left in me.  I'm still praying, every day, for our miracle.

Babies, wherever you are... prepare to be hugged, because when I see you again, I owe you a whole year's worth.

Te extraño

In Spanish, it means "I miss you".

And I do.

I know the odds are a million to one that you'll see this.

But sometimes it makes me feel better to imagine that you will...

So I just wanted to tell you that I miss you.  So much.

M said she saw you.  That you looked grown up.

She told you I said "hi" (even though I never asked her to - she knew I would've wanted to tell you hi.)

You said "hi back", and that you loved me, and to give me your kisses.

When M told me I cried.  Not because I missed you, although there are plenty of times I cry for that...

Because you loved me.

Still.

And if you love me, you must know I love you.

I miss you, princess.  Especially right now.  Especially at Christmas.

And I love you so much.

Hasta te veo, mija.

Auto Manufacturers Must Not Have Kids

This is the conclusion I have come to this week.

Why?

Well... remember riding in, say, your grandma's car in the 1990's?  And how she didn't have a nifty button to push to roll the windows down, you had to use that horrible crank thing?  Yeah, that was no fun, right?  Worse, if you've ever had the misfortune of driving your grandma's car, and happened to want fast food, or cold beer (whichever is your choice intoxicant), you know those things require MEGA muscles!  And if the person in front of you at the drive thru is smoking in their car and you want to roll the window up whenever its being down is not vital to your mission, it's doubly rotten.

Boy, it sure is a good thing they developed those nice little switches that make the windows go up and down BY THEMSELVES!  No longer will we have tired arms at every drive thru, no longer will you bump a window crank getting something heavy out of the car, no, now there's a BUTTON!  And better yet, in the driver's door, there's a button that LOCKS all the other windows, so your kids CAN'T even play with them!  One of the best features, by far, about Clyde, the 1990 Honda Accord I inherited (funny enough, it did used to be my grandma's car) when I was sixteen, was those automatic windows... which honestly I didn't even expect in a car that old.

Surely, when I bought a NEW car... when I was lucky enough to get my hands on a 2010 vehicle IN 2011... it would have the same ingenious invention...

But wait...

...........

....................................

......................................................................

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NOT THE CRANK WINDOWS!!!!




So at first I was like... "Eh, okay.  I got this.  I'm a big girl, strong arm muscles from carrying babies.  I can do this."

Then I was like "Man, this is really irritating when the guy in front of me at McDonald's is smoking... but oh well, more exercise."

Then I met Ophlf, who you may remember from a previous post.  Despite being "completely fictional"... Ophlf picked up RIGHT AWAY on those crank windows and what they meant.

The first time I was driving down the highway before I heard the faint whistling sound from the back seat.  'What is that?!' I thought.  'Was one of those creepy abandoned places I visited *actually* haunted, and the ghost decided to hitch a ride??'  I glance in the back seat.  Nope.  Crank is suspciously out of place.  Hmm.  Maybe I bumped it.  Surely Ophlf couldn't have figured that out AND reached it from his 5 point harness car seat!

The second time I was barely down the street because the window was WAY open and I was catching an icy breeze.  Stop to close it.  Notice that it's open just enough that, if he could reach the handle, Ophlf couldn't possibly have pushed it any further.  Hmm.  Maybe it's not the ghost.

Then a couple days ago... Ophlf did not want to get into the car.  No, that's an understatement.  Getting Ophlf in the car was like getting a cat into a bathtub full of water.  Finally wrestling the little goober into his car seat, restraining his upper body at very least, Ophlf commenced kicking.  Kicking everything in reach of his (long!) legs.  I sat and observed.  My first assumption had been right.  Ophlf could not reach the window crank... with his hands... but the feet... right to the window crank.

The normal warning him not to do it again, applying consequences, etc, was completely ineffective.  Ophlf was hell-bent on rolling that window down as far as he could.  Usually when I wasn't looking, so that later, when I was driving alone and could not easily stop and roll the window back up (which requires a yoga-like reach into the back seat, because car manufacturers are dumb), I was stuck with a whistling and/or cold gap in my car's keep-the-outside-out-and-the-inside-in armor.

THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY.

I'll illustrate, because I feel like it, and so you can see how hilariously bad I am at MS paint.

Yeah.  So here I am thinking I'm safe with a nice new car, and THEY'VE PUT THOSE INFURIATING CRANK WINDOWS ON IT!  Combined with Ophlf, I'm doomed to an eternity of bad hair days and frantically fleeing said window.  WHY, car manufacturers, WHY would you do this??

And then it dawns on me.  They must not have children.  To someone with no children, a crank window is merely a mild inconvenience.  To someone with children, crank windows can be irritating.  To someone driving around a child like Ophlf, these sort of windows MAKE YOU WANT TO GO EVEN MORE INSANE THAN YOU ALREADY ARE!

Ever determined, as I am, I was going to put an end to this window problem.  I scoured the internet for some sort of device to child proof this type of window - because if they were still making cars with that feature, some smart parent had come up with a device to child-proof them.

Nope.

Nada.

Nothing.

The best I could come up with was a bunch of guys with beards explaining how to remove the window crank.

'That could work...' I thought.  I didn't want to have to remove it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

One video featured a fancy little tool, which the bearded man (I assume he has a beard, I'm not sure I ever actually saw his face, that's just how I picture him) assured you could be made at home or bought at a store.  This almost made me laugh audibly.  Broke as I am, and mechanically inept, there would be no tool for me... regardless of how seamlessly easy it made the process look.  Take a look for yourself:

Lacking the fancy tool, I looked for another method.  And I found one, a method using things I already had!  This website advertised that all you needed was a flathead screwdriver and a rag!

I set to work immediately, even enlisting the help of best friend, best friend's roommate, and best friend's ex husband (don't ask).  Not a one of us could get the stupid thing off with a rag.  All we learned is how to break the window crank... which was not exactly what I was going for.  Ophlf could've (and probably would've eventually) done that himself!

Ever determined, I showed the tool video to my brother, who, though he doesn't get enough respect from me (well, I'm his older sister, what do you expect?) is actually kind of a whiz with tools and various other science stuff.

He made me the tool.

I'll wait while you go back and read that sentence again.

HE MADE ME THE TOOL!

Not only that, he went out to my car in the freezing cold, and, though scraping up the door panel a little bit (although our previous attempts had done quite a bit of that, so it's hard to tell what's what), GOT THE STUPID THING OFF!

I almost hugged him.

Now the door panel by Ophlf's car seat looks like this instead:

HAH!  Take THAT, three-year-old!

And now, despite the fact that *I* didn't actually do anything other than look up a video and tear a rag up, I'm feeling incredibly accomplished.  The nap time saga may still rage on, but I WIN the crank window battle.

I think I deserve chocolate.

My Little Boy

I write about A all the time.  Probably because I spent the most time with her.  She needed me the most.  The crisis we faced was HER crisis more than anyone else's.  But regardless of the reason, I talk about her a lot.

I don't talk about her half-brother a lot.  And he was my baby too.  In fact, he was almost more my baby... because when I brought him home at 8 weeks old, no one had ever attended to his needs the way I did.  I was his first secure attachment.  I was the one he wanted when nobody else could calm him down.  I never even realized the gravity of it until my mom told me one day, after the umpteenth person had handed him back to me to handle, "You're his favorite person in the whole world.  Nobody loves him like you do."

And I cried.  I held my baby boy - my first baby boy, and cried.  Because I loved him so much.

First picture... blurry picture... of his first night home.

I was the one up with him all those sleepless nights.  I was the one who comforted him when he didn't feel well (which was often, as he had a rather stubborn case of GERD among other things).  He slept by my side in a cosleeper for six months.  I bought his formula, his diapers, his clothes.  I saw his precious smiles.  I was there for all his firsts.

First bath

First baby food

First time swimming

First trip to the pumpkin patch

First Trick-or-Treat

First birthday

And now, three years after that last picture was taken... my baby boy is four.

And I forgot his birthday until today.

No, it wasn't his first birthday without me.  Yes, it's been over a year since I've seen him.  Yes, I was up to my ears in something else that day.  But when it was his sister's birthday in May, I broke - completely.  And I forgot his.  And he was my baby.

How horrible is that?

When I realized it tonight - that my baby boy turned FOUR without me ever noticing - I knew it was coming up, I never forgot the date... but I missed it - I started to cry.

Four.

Tonight I want to take a minute to talk about my little boy... who isn't such a baby anymore.

He loved mashed potatoes.  And pizza.  And pretty much any kind of junk food... but when he was a baby, peas were his favorite.

His first word was "duck".  And I put a lot of effort into that!  The kid had more ducks than I can count on all my fingers and toes.

My mom used to sing him "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep", and he'd get this serene little smile on his face, like that song just made everything better... even when I teased her after realizing that the lyrics sort of, kind of suggest that it might be about slavery.

His favorite toys were balls, cars, and any markers he could get his hands on.  Thus the following picture:

Once, he dumped out an entire bag of potato chips, and then laid in them.  Some people would've been mad.  I barely managed to stop laughing long enough to take a picture.

He loved his bath... except for the part where I had to wash his hair.  He didn't like water to touch his head... at first I thought it was just lying down, but dumping it was worse.

When he was 18 months old he broke his leg while not in my care.  He had just barely started walking and then had to drag that heavy thing around half the summer... it sucked.  But it didn't keep my little guy down.

This is the last picture I took of him...

My best friend was cutting his sister's hair, and he took it upon himself to find one of her daughter's headbands and put it on - his way.  It was too cute not to take a picture!

He was two and a half when I said goodbye to him.  I had no idea it would be the last goodbye for so long.

He faced so many struggles in his short little life.  I wonder how he's doing now.  If his fits have calmed down or gotten worse.  If his language has improved, or slacked.  If he's still my chunky monkey who was wearing 4T shirts at two.  If he's anywhere near potty training.  If he's going to Head Start.

Even just where he is.

Because that little boy is another piece of my heart, walking around outside my body.  And maybe I didn't have him as long, or as intensely, as I had his sister, but he was my little boy all the same.  And I miss him.  I love him.

Happy late birthday little man.  I know it's no excuse, but if you were here, I wouldn't have forgotten.  We'd have had a party.  Maybe driven down to Nelsonville to ride the train (if you don't like trains, you would have if you'd stuck around me much longer!) like we did when my brother was that age.

One day we'll be together again.  I know it.  Love you much, my little goober pea.

Sometimes

Sometimes, Princess, I wonder what it's like to be you.

One year, three months, and six days ago, you and I had the most difficult conversation either of us have probably had in our entire lives.  A conversation I'd feared would eventually happen for over seven years.  A conversation that confirmed my worst fears.

I will never forget a single detail about that day, or that conversation.  Months later, I was asked how I remembered all the details of that conversation, and I responded, unequivocally, "I will never forget a single word.  I can't."

A sick feeling settled in my stomach that day that didn't go away.  It got better with time - and distraction - but it never completely went away.  Once I knew the truth, I couldn't pretend otherwise.

To this day, things randomly remind me of the immense feelings of that day.  Fear.  Anger.  Disgust.  Heartbreak.  To this day, sometimes, it feels as though I'm living the whole ordeal over again.

Then I remember.  I am the lucky one.  For me, it was just a conversation - albeit the most troubling one I have ever had.  For me, it was only your words that will stick permanently in my mind.

For you, it is your life.  

As much as I'll never forget that day, that conversation, neither will you... and nor will you forget the events that brought it about.  You don't simply have to live with the memory of the words, how they made you feel, but with the horrible memories.

So when something brings me back to that day, makes me feel like I'm living the horror all over again, I wonder... do you experience the same thing?  Do things remind you, sometimes, of what you've been through?  Do you lie awake at night like I do, unable to get the horror out of your head?

My heart breaks when I realize I know the answer.

I remember, a couple years ago, when we all still shared a room, hearing you cry in your sleep.  Rousing you from your nightmares and finding you confused to realize you were in a safe place with someone who loved you, and that this time, the terror was only in your dreams.

Yes, you remember.

And then I think how sorry I am.  Sorry for what you went through.  Sorry that even when you entrusted me with your secret, I couldn't help you.  Sorry that while I live with the memory of that conversation in my head every day, popping back up at opportune moments, you live with the real memory.  The memory of what happened... sneaking up on you all the same.  Sorry that I couldn't put a stop to the chance that something like this might happen to you again.

But then I realize - you're strong.  You're one of the strongest people I've ever known, little as you were.  Stronger than I am, for sure.  When I fell apart... you held it together.  What other choice did you have?  When I cried and asked God "Why?", you just kept going on... no need to dwell on the "why" of a situation you couldn't change.  When I felt as though my joy had been stolen, you went on to find it again wherever you were.

You'll be okay - because you're a survivor.

I just wish you didn't have to survive so much.

I wish you never had those moments that I have, where something hits a little too close to home and brings it all crashing down around you again.

I wish I could shoulder the whole burden for you.

I wish you'd had a chance to just be a kid... none of this weighing on your mind.

But I can't change those things.

So I'll just wait.  Wait here for you, the same place you left me.

Until you come home.

And then we'll make all new memories... and fight the monsters in our nightmares together.

I love you, princess.  Keep your head up, like you always do.  Even when it gets hard.

And I'll keep trying... to be as strong as you.

Pretty Picture

Dear Princess,

I haven't written to you in a long time, besides last night.  I'm sorry.  Sometimes it's just too hard, and I know I have to stay strong so I can be here for you when you come home.  But lately, for some reason, I've just been up late every night thinking of you, and wanting to tell you so many things.

Today I spent all day across the street at Shannon's house with her, Mike, the kids, and our friend Hayley and her family.  We had a brief conversation that made me think of you and choked me up, and when I came home, I was still thinking of you, and thinking of how even in the short couple of months you knew them, Shannon, Mike and the kids became your family just like they are mine.

When crisis struck for you and me, I relied on Shannon a lot.  She came over as soon as I got home on that last day... she sat with me in the front yard while I cried and talked to a police officer and talked to your grandma.  Friday night after her kids were in bed, she brought me over pizza and pop and an offer to talk, cry, or whatever I needed.  We talked a lot that night, and she made me feel better.  She understood the situation we were in better than anyone, and she told me she knew that you knew that I wanted you, that I was fighting for you... and that you wouldn't forget it.  I needed to hear that so badly.  She spent the next couple days with me... because I just desperately needed to not be alone.

The next time I saw your friends J and N, they were eating lunch at the kitchen table, and J asked to say a prayer.  She said "Bless Mommy and Daddy and Mike and Katie and N and M and grandmas and grandpas and uncles and aunts and everyone we love, and especially pray for A, so she can be safe and come home to Katie's house and play with us some more.... and that's all."  When Shannon looked over I had tears in my eyes.  Your friends loved you so much, that even though they were just kids themselves, they remembered to pray for you.

It was only a couple months ago that I was standing in their kitchen and noticed something.  Your picture, your 2nd grade school picture, was hanging on their refridgerator.  I'd given it to them a while back, so the girls would have it to remember their friend.  I commented "Aww.  It's my baby!" and Shannon told me the picture had been hanging there since I'd given it to her, so that they'd think of you every day.

I was so touched.  Sweetie, as much rotten luck as we've had, we've had good luck too.  We've had amazing people put in our lives.  Shannon and Mike and J and N love you and think about you and pray for you to this very day.  They support me and listen to me when I need a shoulder to cry on because I just miss you so much.  They know the situation we're in better than anybody else, they know how hard it is, and they care.  And just because you're not here right now doesn't mean they've stopped caring.  Not one bit.  They haven't forgotten you any more than I have... and trust me, forgetting you is something I will NEVER do.

So even when you feel alone... like I do sometimes when I miss you so much that I think nobody could possibly understand... I want you to know that you're not alone.  You have people, just like I do, who are thinking of you and praying for you, even if you don't know it... and they'll be right here with me to hug you and welcome you whenever you come home!

Don't forget... I love you like the moon at night... big, and round, and warm, and bright.
I love you, goodnight.
<3 - "Kai"

The Last Day

I think about it all the time.

The last day.

The last hug.

The last words.

The first tears.

I woke up before the sun and put on my brave face before I woke you.

I practiced holding back the fear, dread, sorrow, and disgust that had been festering in me all the day before.

I shook you awake and readied you to leave the place that had been our haven for almost a week.

We said goodbye to the ocean.

I drove us to the shuttle bus.  We climbed in and I buckled you safe in your booster seat.

Every mile we drove closer to the airport, my shoulders felt a little heavier.

We got donuts for breakfast.  The anxiety in my stomach kept me from eating much of mine.

I like to think you had no idea.

I tried not to let on.

We boarded the first plane.  I let you pick, aisle or window.  You picked window.  We watched Florida out of sight.  We played with play-doh.  We watched the sun coming up over the ocean.  We looked through an I-Spy book.  We got drinks from the beverage cart.  You wore your Minnie Mouse ears the whole time.

In a plane, the miles go by faster.

By the time we landed in Washington DC, my stomach had sunk impossibly low.

We got lunch at Wendy's between flights.  You got barbecue sauce with your nuggets.  I couldn't eat, again.

I didn't want to get on the plane.

I kept hoping that somehow it would be delayed, cancelled, diverted.  I didn't care how or why.

It wasn't.

We boarded.  I took a few last pictures.

I hope I'm imagining an edge of nervousness behind your smile.

I know I'm not imagining it in mine.

As I watched the ground grow closer, I drew you near me.

It was time to tell you.

All the feelings I'd been trying to hide all day... you were about to feel them too.

I had tried to keep that from you as long as I could.

I told you that I was going to take you to meet some people.  People that we'd never met before, but I knew they were nice people because I'd talked to them the previous day.

I told you I needed your help.  I told you they could help us, but only if you told them the truth.

You didn't want to.

Maybe I shouldn't have pushed you.

But I did.  I asked you if you wanted them to help us.  You said yes.  I asked you if you would tell them the truth so they could do that.  You said yes.

I wonder if you knew then, or if you didn't know until later, that I was asking too much of you?

I wonder if you knew you wouldn't be able to do what I'd asked?

Wheels touched down.

You told me you just wanted to go 'home'.  "To the cats".  To OUR house.

I told you I did too... but we had to tell the people the truth first.

This time I wasn't the only one carrying a weight of stress on my shoulders as we walked through the airport.

It was palpable how there was no longer any distance between us and that which we feared.

I was afraid to let you out of my sight even to use the restroom (but I did).

As we sat in the baggage claim waiting for my mom, the stress mounted.

I tried to lighten the mood, playing games with you, chatting about things of little consequence.

Minutes lasted for days.  I wished them away.  I wanted to get the hard part over with.

Now I wish I had those minutes back.

When my mom finally came, we both hugged her.  You told her, too, that you wanted to go home to the cats.

She, too, reassured you that we would... we just had one stop to make.

I wonder if your palms sweated like mine did on that car ride.

We walked into the building together.  I asked for someone to help us.  They tried to send us away.  I begged.  I insisted.

Things didn't go as planned.

I had wanted you to feel safe.  Safe enough to share the burdens of your heart.

You knew you weren't.

I tried to hide the phone calls from you.  The angry voices.

It was because of that that I almost missed the last hug I gave you.

A woman came out to take you to a room to talk.  Her name was Katie too.  I remember telling you that if her name was Katie she MUST be our friend.

I gave you a hug.

I told you I loved you.

I watched you out of sight.

You didn't want to go without me.

You were scared.

I pushed you too much.

No matter how much you might have wanted to do what I'd asked, your secrets stayed locked away.

The woman came back without you.

She told me you hadn't told her anything.

She told me we would have to leave.

Without you.

I asked her if I could say goodbye to you.

"I don't think that's a good idea," was her response.

She told me you were already crying for me.

I broke.

Panic struck me.  Terror.

I begged her to protect you.  To tell you I loved you.

She said she would.

I clung to my mom and cried.

She, too, demanded your safety.

We were given a chance to gather a few of your belongings to give to you.

I was shaking.  I wasn't thinking clearly.

I don't even remember what was in the bag.

I gave it to the woman named Katie.  I asked her again to make sure you knew we loved you.

Then I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life.

The hardest thing I will ever do.

I walked out of that building without you.

As we walked down the sidewalk, my mom and I, a thought crossed my mind.

Another time.  A time when I had been on the inside of a window similar to the ones we were walking by.  A mimed reassurance.

I turned to look in the windows just in time.

There you were.

Behind two inches of glass.

Sitting stiffly in a chair, alone.

Looking right back at me.

When you saw me you stood, and came to the window.

I immediately stopped the flow of my tears and forced a smile.

I pointed to my eye.

Then I crossed my arms.

Then I pointed at you.

You pointed to your eye.

You crossed your arms.

You pointed at me.

Then you held up two fingers.

I touched my fingers to the glass.

You touched your fingers to the glass.

I tore my body from where it was cemented to the ground.

I waved.  I mouthed "bye-bye".

I forced another smile.

Then I turned away.

I walked to the car.

I cried all the way home.

I failed you.

I'm sorry.



A hug of reassurance.

A signed 'I love you' through two inches of glass.

A flood of salty tears.

And that was the last day I spent with you.

Confessions

I have to confess something.



I hate this time of year.



The holidays are hard for me.



I don't care for the Halloween costumes, candy, buckets and decorations.



I hide out alone on Trick or Treat night.



I get sick of seeing and hearing "I'm thankful" everywhere.



I even hurt, seeing stores stock up with Christmas trees, twinkly lights, colored papers and toys for every child's wish list.



I hurt going to the mall and seeing the line of squirming children waiting to see Santa.



I dread going to events, get-togethers, and even just family dinners... and putting on a plastic smile, because I'm not really happy.



I wasn't always that way.



I used to love going to the pumpkin patch.

I used to wait anxiously for Trick-or-Treat night.

I used to have so much to be thankful for.

So much that words weren't even enough to describe it.

I used to love setting cookies and letters out for 'Santa' (even when it wasn't for me anymore).

I relished in creating the perfect scene for 'Christmas morning'.

I even loved the post-Christmas mess left in our living room every year.

But now it's all a painful reminder.


I don't have anyone to take Trick-or-Treating.



There's no one to watch playing at the pumpkin patch.



I lost those for whom I was once most thankful.



There's no one to write letters to Santa or pose for photo ops.



No one to appreciate the culmination of my efforts on Christmas morning.



Not much point in really making an effort at all.



When everyone else talks about their kids' costumes, handprint turkeys and mile-long wish lists...



I think about my wish list.



And there's only one thing on it.



I just want to see them again.  It's killing me to miss them growing up.



So I'm sorry, in advance, for my plastic smile.



I'm sorry for the times I'll excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom.



I'm sorry I can't be excited with you when you tell me your holiday plans.



This time of year is just too painful right now.



Maybe someday it won't be.



Maybe.

Time Flies

Sometimes I just can't get over it.

This feels like it was just last week.

It wasn't.  It was years ago.  Those handprints aren't so little anymore.

Those little girls have grown so much.

My baby isn't a baby anymore.

He's probably starting Head Start this year... when it seems like just yesterday his sister was graduating.

She's ten whole years old and going to be in fourth grade this year - I can't believe it.  When I took the above picture, she had just started Kindergarten.  (The date is wrong)

My 'Little A' is older than my M was when this sweet picture was taken.

M started high school last week.

This trip to the zoo was over four years ago.

My babies.  They were so beautiful.

They are so beautiful.

They wouldn't even fit in these car seats anymore.

I love them.

I miss my little boy... my trouble-maker, who will be four years old this year.

I miss my little girl... the one who has seen more than any child should have to... and who finds a reason to smile anyways.

I thank God I still have the privilege of spending time with my big girl... who is turning into such a wonderful young lady.

Time flies.

Kids grow.

Enjoy every minute you have with them.

Endometriosis sucks.

That's it.  It just does.  There's no other way to put it, it just flat out SUCKS.

Imagine being in pain... ALL THE TIME.

After FIVE surgeries in as many years, intended to reduce the pain.

Pain so great that sometimes, all you can do is curl up into a ball and cry.

Pain so great that sometimes, you *choose* to spend a beautiful evening in the Emergency waiting room rather than outside, because you just can't stand it anymore.

Imagine living all, or almost all of your days, in that pain.

Going to work in that pain... trying to be productive... trying to forget how much it hurts.

Spending time with friends in that pain... unable to fully enjoy yourself because it hurts every.single.minute.

Attending special occasions in that pain... trying to smile and chat when all you can think about is curling up with a heating pad.

Harder still, attending things like baby showers, births, children's parties, mother's day lunches... in that pain.

That pain that constantly reminds you that you may never have the privilege of giving birth.

Praying you can still be glad for others who don't have to struggle in the same way you do.

Praying that the pain doesn't make you bitter.

Imagine thinking you were doing so well, having a good day... and then breaking down crying at the smallest thing, realizing you were really just holding it in all that time.

Imagine heading into another surgery... and looking forward to it, because it just might make the pain better.

Imagine being dependent on doctors and medications - often ones stigmatized by one group or another (birth control, pain medications, anti-depressants)... just to live a semi-normal life.

Imagine not knowing if you'll *ever* feel better...

Or knowing that you may have to have a premature hysterectomy just to gain some relief.

And that in doing so, you open yourself up to a whole host of other possible issues.

Imagine realizing you're lucky in so many ways... this disease is not usually fatal...

But the pain makes it so easy to forget... or not to care.

Imagine that this whole time, it seems like no one understands.

They label you:  Whiner.  Addict.  Downer.  Liar.  And so many more.

Sometimes, they even abandon you.  Your struggles are too much for them.

This is not a disease for which people can easily have sympathy.  There simply isn't enough understanding yet.

Google doesn't even recognize it as a word.

Imagine knowing that THIS... is your life.

There is no escaping it.

That's where I am, right now.  And I'm trying hard to push on, to be okay...

But sometimes, I just need people to understand... that they don't understand.

And that that's okay.

But be patient with me.

I'm fighting a battle you do not know.

Anniversaries

This summer has been full of anniversaries for me.  Not so much joyous ones as painful ones, unfortunately.  I'm doing pretty well staying in the present despite these strong memories, but I also think it's healthy to respect the past and the feelings these anniversaries bring out in me.  For that reason, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on them tonight.

The first anniversary I faced this summer was an old one, a wound that has healed over and instead become a scar - one that has changed me and that I will have with me always, but no longer so fresh.  June 13, 2001, was the day my parents split up.  It always falls within a week or two of another day in June that causes me distress over the things my family has been through in the past 12 years as well.  But in the past few years I've been okay.  This year, that just so happened to also be the anniversary of the day A and I left for the best vacation of our lives.  So yes, I looked back on and felt the depth of how my life changed on that day 12 years ago, but I no longer thought only of how it changed for the worse - I looked at how it shaped me as a person and even changed for the better.  Would I have ever become the person I did and left for that vacation a year ago if it weren't for the events of my adolescence?  Would I have the empathy I do for teens who are going through similar things to what I did?  Probably not... and for that I wouldn't change a thing.

The next set of anniversaries was harder.  June 20 was the day our lives changed forever... the day my sweet A told me the one secret I couldn't keep... the day I set out trying to make things right for her... and ultimately failed.  The following day, the 21st, was the day we flew home and disaster struck.  They didn't believe us.  I couldn't keep my promise... the one I made to A that I would help her.  I couldn't keep it because the system wouldn't let me.  We parted ways in the most painful way possible... we said our goodbyes in sign language through a plate glass window... I... love... you...

June 20, 2012... the day the storm brewed up.

June 21, 2012... the last happy picture before everything changed.

June 27 was the hardest anniversary of all.  That was the day it had been one year since I saw my princess A.  That was the last time I laid eyes on her, our final goodbye.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  She was in the back of her grandpa's truck, no booster seat.  Somehow I bought myself time.  I spoke as quickly as I could.  I told her I loved her, that I had tried to help her, and that I was sorry for the things that were happening to us.  I told her I would miss her and that I would always be here for her.  I asked her if she remembered my phone number.  She said she did.  I told her to remember to tell the truth all the time, and to try not to get in trouble, to make good choices at school and to take care of her little brother.  Then I told her I loved her again.  When they drove away with her, we both waved until we were out of sight.  That was the last time I ever saw the little girl I raised for seven years... the little girl I love like she were my own flesh and blood... who I would give my life for.  Now it's been a year.  The longest I have ever been away from her by far.  Not a day, or even a moment goes by that I don't miss her... that I don't regret what happened a year ago... but I do believe she's coming home, one way or another, and that God will protect her until then.
This year the pain of that anniversary was eased by the joy of a coming birth.  I spent the night at my best friend's house helping her prepare to be induced the following day with her 4th little girl.  After a couple of crazy days with hospital policy, Rylee was born on Sunday, June 30.

Congrats, Shannon & Mike, and thanks for the new memories of snuggling your little ones!

Those days last year set in motion a battle we fought for the better part of a year... one that didn't end the way we hoped it would.  It makes the anniversaries sting all the more that we tried so hard to make things okay, and we just couldn't.  Those painful anniversaries shouldn't exist.  They just shouldn't.  We should be enjoying another summer together... but instead, we're both going it more or less alone.  I live for the day we have a happy anniversary to celebrate... a homecoming.

July holds a different set of anniversaries.  Tomorrow, July 15, will mark two years since my best friend Angie went to Heaven after a five and a half year battle with cancer.  She was only 20 years old.  It was a year ago, almost to the minute, that I last saw her... that we said, not "Goodbye", but "See you later".  We never said goodbye... we even talked about how we never would... because we knew it wouldn't be goodbye, not really.  We knew we'd see each other again in another life.  Instead, the last words I said to her were "I love you."

This may be the only two days of the year that I spend much time thinking about those particular hours two years ago that came at the end of Angie's life.  That's not the person she was and that's not how I like to remember her.  That's not how she would want to be remembered.  I spend most of my time focusing on who she was before that - the funny, silly, compassionate, beautiful, strong and amazing person who was my best friend for so long.  I remember how scared she was of 'losing herself'.  She didn't want a time to come when she didn't feel like herself, because she was so sick.  I thank God that she was able to maintain her sense of self right up until the very last week.  I thank God that when that time came, He brought her home quickly.  I thank God that He gave us time to say that one last "I love you".  And even in those last difficult days... I know she could hear us.  I know she knew we were there.  She became agitated when someone started to cry.  She calmed when we reassured her that we would be okay.  She heard us when we told her it was okay to let go.  Her pain ended two years ago.  In that way, it's a happy anniversary.  But it's a terrible one for the rest of the world, for we lost a beautiful, amazing person... one who I was privileged to call one of my best friends.

Angie and I, goofing off a little over two years ago.

At the end of the month, a day will come that marks one year since the passing of my precious one-year-old kitten, Boo.  A couple weeks later will come the happier anniversary that marks the homecoming of his younger brother, Marbles.  My kitty-babies.  This August will mark one year since a very dark time in my life.  But I'm better already and I'm going nowhere but up.

My Boo, when he was a tiny kitten.

My Marbles... this is about as tiny as he ever was!

As painfully full of anniversaries as this summer has been, I am proud of the way I have handled them.  I am glad for the happy new memories I've made, and for all the ones I'll make in the future.  And I know one day, just like the anniversary of the day my parents split up, the wound that those days have given me will be nothing but a scar - one that has changed me, and one that has made me who I am.