Flourish and Flair

Today is my dad's birthday. And since he loved to laugh, I'm going to tell a funny story. Even better, I'm going to tell a story on myself which would only make him laugh harder...

Several years ago, my mom and dad decided to go on a gambling trip to Shreveport. And since it was my birthday, they offered to take me along with two of my friends, Heather and Courtney. I had never been gambling before, and I was beyond excited. You see, learning to gamble is like learning to walk in my family, and I was feeling about 27 years behind schedule. I spent days looking up hotels and casinos and studying the rules of games. (I'm a nerd; studying is what soothes my anxiety). 

As time grew nearer and my mother questioned more and more about where we'd like to stay, I threw up my hands one day in despair while sitting in the coaches' office. 

"I don't understand," I complained. "Everywhere I look I cannot find any hotels in Shreveport." 

"What do you mean? There are lots of hotels and casinos in Shreveport," replied Heather. 

"No. I type in 'hotels in Shreveport' and nothing comes up. The closest I can find is somewhere called Boss-ee-ay City." 

"I'm sorry. What?" 

And so, I said it again. "Boss-ee-ay City." Only I didn't just say it, I slowed it down and spoke really loudly as if I were speaking to someone mildly deaf or obviously foreign. 

BOSS-EEEE-AYYYYY CITYYYY. Just like that. 

Stifling laughter, Heather replied, "Do you mean Bossier City?" But she said it all slow and simple -- BOZYER -- as if she was speaking to a 2nd grader. An obviously foreign 2nd grader. 

Realizing my complete ineptitude and waste of four days of Google searches, I immediately hid my embarrassment with indignant outrage. Because the best defense is ALWAYS indignant outrage. And as both a perfectionist and an English teacher, I get especially embarrassed when I mess up words. 

So you can guess that I was at DEFCON 1 for outrage. 

"There's no Z in there! That's stupid."

"Why don't they just call it Shreveport? They should just call it Shreveport."

"I've never even been to Louisiana. How should I know what they call their dumb ol' towns?"

And, my personal favorite last grasp... etymology. 

"Well, Louisiana was founded by French people so I just assumed it was a very French pronunciation. Boss-ee-ay. Like it would end with a flourish. With some FLAIR." 

I have to hand it to Heather. Until that point she had held it together pretty well until that very moment. But listening to me rant about the flourish and flair of the French language (which I do not speak) sent her into convulsive fits of laughter that included tears and a near asthma attack. 

After a few moments/hours/days, I finally began to see the humor of the situation. And as I am always unable to resist the temptation of making someone laugh, I confided my language faux pas (and that one IS French with all kinds of flourish) to Courtney as we drove to Louisiana. As expected, I was rewarded with guffaws and snorts, but this time it was okay because I was laughing along.

***FLASH FORWARD*** to the elevator ride up to our rooms at our hotel, the Horseshoe Hotel and Casino. 

We have been friends for two decades now, and the strongest common thread in our friendship is the ability to hit each other with the perfect inside joke reference when the other least expects it. A humorous sucker punch if you will. A zing.

In fact, it's my favorite thing, and I consider myself a zinger ninja. So in the elevator, this is what happened. Courtney hit me with a mispronunciation allusion, my cheeks flamed red, and then we collapsed into laughter. Not being in on the joke, my mom immediately asked what it was we were going on about.

Against my better judgment, I let Court and Heather tell the story. My father just shook his head. My mother was incredulous. Even more, she was delighted. 

See, I come by my zinger stealth naturally. For the next two days, it was a nonstop barrage.

"Should we stay here at the Horsey-hoe (Horseshoe)? Or go on to the Isle of CaPRY (Capri)?"

"I heard they were winning big at Hair-RAWS (Harrah's)."

"I love LOUIS-EYE-ANNA. Let's tour it in our Chev-o-roll-lay coop-pay!"

They practically vomited fake French flourish and flair all over my bruised ego.

But every time they did it, there was my dad, chastising them to leave me alone. It wasn't funny. I learned my lesson. All my life, he'd been my protector -- my Daddy Dean -- and this was no different. Each time they pestered, he'd swat them away.

You're never too old to be a daddy's girl.

When we returned home to Fort Worth, my parents and I hauled in our luggage, and my dad took up his post on my couch with Pat Sajak babbling away on the television. Heather and Courtney had talked them into staying the night instead of going home so that they could match wits with my mother, a legendary Scrabble player. As we headed out the door to Heather's for dinner and Scrabble, I asked my dad one last time if he'd like to join us.

Eyes closed, just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and without missing a beat, he replied...

"No, I think I'll hang out here for a while. Watch some Wheel of For-too-NAY."

And as my mother cackled and my shoulders slumped, I remembered how good it feels to sit on a joke until just the right moment. And he hit me from the top rope... with flair.

Nope, you're never too old to be a daddy's girl. Or a well-deserved punchline.

Happy Birthday, Pops. Your girl misses you big.

Tuesdays

The first time my father lost his mind, it was a Tuesday.

I stood in line at the concession stand of a junior high football game, staring blankly at the smiling booster club moms and dads, while on the phone, my own father spit curses and lies about my mother and, later, about me.

The first time I did not recognize my father's voice, it was a Tuesday. 

The first time I ever had a panic attack, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever considered my own death, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever prayed for my own father's death, it was a Tuesday.

I have a real and palpable anger about Tuesdays.

***

Looking back, almost a decade later, I know now that wasn't really my father on the phone. It was a plague of chronic disease, financial despair, and unregulated medication.

It was a man whose brain was betraying him, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy; a wrecking ball of delusions and conspiracy and rage.

It was a mind, once full of joy and song lyrics and the names of every person he ever met, now tormented by even the simplest of tasks.

It was a distortion; a funhouse mirror reflection of the man I had cherished my entire life.

It was a jailer of logic and a thief of memories.

It was a havoc I would not wish on my own worst enemy.

***

There were many other horrors that would happen in the years between that phone call and my father's death. Some happened on Tuesdays, I'm sure, but when there are so many sadnesses and fears, the calendar fills up quickly, and other days have to suffice. 

But when my father died, he died on a Tuesday, just as I had prayed those hundreds of Tuesdays before.

I think about that prayer often. I've spent a great deal of time and money, on therapists and vacations and cheap bottles of wine, trying to come to grips with that prayer. How a daughter can pray such a thing for her hero. How I could pray for an end to the madness however God might see fit. Maybe He would take him to spare all of us; maybe He would take me, at least, to spare me. Either way, I prayed.

My guilt is that I prayed that prayer out of anger and selfishness. My shame is that it wasn't the only time I prayed it. I war with that shame often still.

Over time, my anger and frustration transferred from my dad to his disease, Parkinson's and its terrible little sidekick, Dementia. And although I eventually forgave my father the grievances he had caused, I still found myself praying often for the end. An end to this cruelty. An end to the indignities he endured. An end to his confusion and tears and pain. 

So, in the exquisite and beautiful circles of life, his life ended on a Tuesday, but my pain did not.

I have a real distrust of Tuesdays.

***

There have been several deaths this half year that have affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it's just the feeling of loss in general. Perhaps it's the ways they are connected back to my father -- the music he loved, or the storytelling he so encouraged, or the afflictions that tormented both him and my family. I was told that I would often see my father's death in the deaths of others, especially in those whose endings feel so familiar.

Last night, I read that Pat Summitt, one of my idols in education and sports and being a badass woman, was dying. This news hit me profoundly, and I found myself praying, yet again, for a quick end. 

There is something to be said for all of our old stories about knights and warriors and the dignity of a clean death. That's something especially foreign to those suffering from dementia -- a clean, quick death. It's a nice idea -- romantic, even -- but death, no matter how swift, is never clean, and I felt all of my old guilt rising again as I prayed. 

I thought of her and my father, two people who never met but still shared a space in my life. Two people who share the bad luck of a bad disease. Two people known for kindness and teasing and hard work and their bright blue eyes. Farm kids who came from nothing. One grew into a legend, having everything and more; one was everything and more -- a legend --  to me.

***

What I pray for, I've come to learn, is not just a prayer for him but a prayer for me. An end to my own confusion and tears and pain. I think it must be what so many people experience when they watch a loved one slip away, heartbreakingly slowly, over time.

It's hard to reconcile the selfless act of letting go with the selfish want of being free, and pain is a parasite feasting off such conflict.

A few weeks ago, I read a passage from a book, A Monster Calls, a children's book that (like so many books for children) is really meant to teach us all. It stuck with me and comforted me, and I've gone back to its earmarked page many times. So in addition to my prayer, I read it over and over, first in a whisper, feeling silly and useless, alone in my bed; then out loud and steady in hopes that somehow God would bring it to others.

The article had said that her family had stopped accepting visitors and that she might only have days left to live. But I knew, without question, what day my heartache loves best. 

So it was that I woke up this morning, a Tuesday, to say goodbye yet again.

I have a real loneliness and an ache for healing on Tuesdays.

The Roller Coaster

The last two weeks have been an up-and-down, sideways-twisting, loop-the-loop, roller coaster of a ride. With any chronic disease, like Parkinson's, this is the way of life. It's been this way for many years, but this felt different. It feels different, I should say, because it is different. It has felt like the ride was coming to the end.

When I got home two weeks ago, we prepared for the very worst. Each time we thought we made a decision, something happened to make us question. To make us afraid we were wrong. It has been the most confusing, sad, gut-wrenching moments of my life, watching my father deteriorate and seeing my mom struggle. There is no handbook for these moments. There is no one who can make these decisions for you. Even if you've had that talk with your loved ones (and if you haven't, you should), it's so hard to know when the end is really the end? When is enough truly enough?

We live in a society where it's practically a sin to stop. We believe in fighting and hanging on and never giving up. And for 95% of the time, that's a pretty great attitude. There are times, however, that I've wondered who is hanging on for whom?

Each of us has separately said our own goodbyes to my dad. I have been for years with each decline. And in the last two weeks, we've let him know that it's okay to let go if he's tired. He hasn't though, and we've decided to let him fight as much as he wants. It feels selfish, in a way, to put that decision on him, but it also feels selfish to keep it for our own.

For most of this time, we make the 140 mile trip, we sit in his room for hours, and we wait for the few moments he's awake. My mom monitors his pain by his facial expression. She explains what the nurses are doing if they do not. She strokes his forehead and sings softly to help him sleep. My father was always the caretaker, the nurturer, when we were sick; now that task has fallen to her. And she's more beautiful at it than anything she's ever done, I think.

Two nights ago, my mother's best friend of nearly 50 years (my Aunt Patti) came to sit with us. As she and Mom told stories from when they were young and wild, I watched my father watch them. They told story after story for almost two hours. Some, I had heard (like my mother putting my dad out of the car on a wintry night on the Canyon E-Way and then forgetting where she left him); others I had not (like how my dad, before they officially met, would come into the diner where my mom waited tables and order a $0.25 cup of coffee and then leave her a $5 tip). They cackled and cut up, and the whole time, my dad grinned. I kept waiting for him to sit up and defend himself or tell a story of his own, but that's an empty wish. Instead, I was just grateful for the grin.

And today, he's been awake and lucid more than in the past two weeks combined, looking at my mom, smiling, answering her questions with a nod or a blink, and even telling her, "I love you". It was the only Christmas gift she needed or wanted.

I know that my dad isn't going to get out of that bed again. I know his wounds will never fully heal. The inevitable is the inevitable for a reason. The train will eventually return to the station because the ride cannot go on forever. But today, it's enough to just still be on the track.

Merry Christmas and love to you all.

Thursdays

Thursdays are my mother's favorite days. Thursdays are shuffling cards, homemade desserts, and good friends. Thursdays are a break from worry, from heartache, from pain.

On first appearance, they look innocent enough. Christmas sweaters, Santa earrings, coin purses. If you happened by, you might think them a book club or a prayer group, full of grandmothers and aunties, just waiting to pinch your cheeks.

You'd be wrong though. These are not your average grandmothers. These are my mother's people, and anyone my mother spends time with could never be anything but fun and fierce. If you've got nickels and quarters in your pocket, you're nothing but fresh meat.

The game is Rummy Dummy. At first glance, it seems simple enough: a game devised on the sequence and systematic playing of specific, pre-determined hands. Looking deeper, however, it becomes a gauntlet of seemingly impossible card combinations meant to do nothing but strand its victim while it bleeds you of all your silver change.

It's not an expensive game. It's just a quarter to join and a dime for every round you don't lay your cards down, but with each coin you drop in the bucket, your desire to quit is only tempered by the insatiable need to hear the jingle of all those coins in your pocket.

Any time I'm in town on a non-holiday Thursday (which is not often), I'm invited to the card game. I like it because it makes me feel grown-up. Contrary to popular belief, "grown-up" is not an age-thing; it's an acceptance thing. But always -- always -- there are pre-game reminders from my mother.

"You'll need to pack a lunch."
"You have to pay attention."
"Don't be on your phone, texting at the table."
"When you cut cards, leave the bottom."
"Don't be late."

I learned that last truth pretty quickly yesterday as one of the regulars showed up, late from a doctor's appointment, midway through the first hand. The penalty for showing up late? A dime in the pot, 55 points on your scorecard, and a second go-round on hand #1. That dime buys you nothing apparently.

As a lifelong careful observer of rules and devout follower of protocol, Thursdays with the girls always give me sweaty palms for at least half an hour.

While we played, I tried to stick up for one of my favorite ladies when the others were complaining about a well-played quick hand that ruined all of their plans.

"Don't be nice to her just because she's the oldest! No special treatment!" They chorused and crowed, and even she admitted, "It was kind of an ugly play... But I don't care."

"I should have known better," I thought to myself as I watched this 90+ year old woman flip a card across the table with such fierce grace that it'd put all those baseball bat flips to shame.

Over the course of three games, they complained and wheedled and poked at one another, but they also caught up on one another's lives and grandkids and holiday plans. They even cut loose a foul word or two (which only made me love them more). During lunch, they listened to my mom's update on my dad. They let her talk, they helped her cry, and they comforted her with fudge and homemade cookies and empathy that only wives and mothers and daughters who had journeyed this road can give. At the end of the day, they wrapped us in big hugs and whispered support.

I am so grateful for these women. My mother has always been private with her pain, yet they don't allow her to hide. And with each moment she shares, I see the trust she has in them -- a feat not easily accomplished. But more than just listening and comfort, they cut us no slack. They took our quarters and dimes without hesitation because that's what you do on a Thursday. And my mother would have it no other way.

I did manage to win a game, and I will tell you that I've never worked harder or been more proud of a handful of dimes and quarters. I put them back in my mother's coin purse for another Thursday with the girls. And it was money well-spent. 

(Just kidding. It was totally my mom's money to begin with. I'm not quite grown-up yet.)

Axe

I hate the smell of Axe body spray.

As a junior high teacher, it's my right -- nay, my duty as an American educator -- to lead the fight against its use. Axe is the pubescent attempt to avoid showering after gym class, to snag a date for Friday's dance, to blend in. It is desperate and overbearing and toxic. My school's hallways are clouded with it often. I now confess to having even used my locker key to confiscate bottles from a few of the worst offenders.

So it was with great pain and regret that four years ago, at the top of my father's Christmas list, sat my worst enemy: Axe Body Spray.

It did not make sense. My father was 68 years old. He'd been married nearly four decades. He is not overbearing or desperate. Why was this on the list, I demanded  inquired.

To which my mother replied, "It makes him feel better."

My dad -- my beautiful, strong father -- could no longer shower himself. Often, he could not toilet himself. He had accidents. He was always sweating. And although the staff at his nursing home showered him every other day, he was ashamed. He would douse himself in his aftershave and deodorant, but to no avail. So he would wait patiently for his next shower day, trying to hide his embarrassment.

My mother had given him Axe after a trip to Dollar General one day. It was the only thing that could cover not only himself but also the smell of other residents and cleaning products. It was a change from the smell of sickness, old age, dependence. It shouldn't have surprised me that Axe was his antidote. It had erased all other living smells from my hallway and classroom for years.

It hurt. All my life, I could recognize my dad just by his scent. He smelled of Lava soap, Old Spice, the roll of Certs mints or cinnamon candy he always kept in his pocket, and just a hint of WD-40. "Just a dab behind the ears", I'd tease him. There have been nights in the past four years that I woke up, longing, heartbroken, for that scent. I can remember wondering what other kids' dads smelled like. Maybe  fresh ink and paper, or expensive suits, or suntan oil and chlorine. My dad smelled like hard work. It was the smell of confidence and independence to me. I felt ashamed for questioning his choice.

So I begrudgingly gave in, buying him cans and cans of it for any occasion: birthdays, Christmases, Tuesdays. It did not matter. If it was what he wanted, it was fine by me.

Last night, as I stood next to my daddy's bed, feeding him ice chips, I took in the smells around me. Antiseptic, colostomy bags, uneaten hospital food, fever sweat.  His eyes searched my face, questioning. His lips moving. His voice a whisper of visions and words I could not understand.

And I longed for the smell of Axe Body Spray.

Scrabble

One of my mother's favorite games is Scrabble. She is amazing at it. She used to play Scrabble with her friend, Ann, who was the only person who could ever beat her on a regular basis. They'd sit there for hours, studying that board, looking not only for the places to score the maximum points available but also for the places to defend. And sometimes, they just were looking for the places to screw over the opponent.

I did not inherit my mother's love for Scrabble. I stare at the board for about 5 minutes, working out different patterns in my head, and then I just get so tired of searching that I give in. I go for the most points I can get, and I hope that it's enough to sustain me if my opponent scores big.

I do not have the patience or the wherewithal to ever be  excellent at Scrabble.  

I didn't beat my mother at a game until I was almost 30, and it's a feat I've only repeated a couple more times, if even that.  But if I were to think about the gifts my mother tried to instill in me, I cannot help but think about that board.

A problem has to be studied, and weighed,  from all sides.

Striking first may not be your best play.

Know your opponent's weakness and tendencies.

The best offense is sometimes a really tough defense.

Working hard for something, devoting your best effort to it, is worth all of the headaches.

That sometimes in life, you draw some shitty letters, but it's up to you to make the most out of them.

And that no matter how hard I try, I'll never be quite on her level.

Happy Birthday, Mama. Thanks for never letting me win.

There Is Goodness Here

I am a firm believer in the heart. It has led me my whole life, and I am rarely failed by it. I don't care about your bank account or your home or your career. My eyes deceive me; they are too easily fooled. If you show me your heart, however, my heart will know you.

And this is what it knows: there is goodness here.

A few weeks ago, a young man from my hometown was critically injured in a high school football game. Although I don't know him, I know his family. I know my town. I know its heart. I know when it's broken.

I know when it's healing. And I know when it doesn't heal on its own. From nearly every opponent on its schedule, and from every corner of my Panhandle home, there has been love heaped upon their hearts.

My heart began here. My heart still lingers here. There is goodness here.

Sixteen years ago, I walked into my school. I met my children and my friends. My heart knew that I had come home again. There were days that my eyes deceived me. There were days my ears only heard doubt. But my heart...my heart could not be fooled.

I heard what people said about us.

I knew what people thought of us.

I felt what could become of us.

And my children and my friends, they showed me their hearts. And my heart could not be fooled.

Tonight, I watched as those children stood in honor of our dear Maria, who makes our building shine. They had not known who they were giving for -- only that it was needed to give -- and so they gave what they could, even when it meant less for themselves.

There is goodness here.

I watched as my friends handed her a check that may not solve her problems but might ease her soul even if for only a moment. And I felt her arms around me as she walked down the line of faculty members giving bigger and better hugs than any of us are strong enough to give. Monday she will show up again, the same as she has every day since before her diagnosis as well as after, ready to make our building shine.

There is goodness here.

There is goodness where I began. There is goodness where I now am.

My heart sees your heart, and my heart cannot be fooled.

Because there is goodness here.

Big Kid Stuff

Tomorrow morning, this little guy will head off to Kindergarten.

It sounds so cliche to say that it feels like yesterday that we were all at the hospital, awaiting his arrival into the world. But it does. Cliches may be tired, but that doesn't mean they're false. And it doesn't mean they don't make my heart ache just the tiniest bit.

The first time I became an aunt, I was 16, living 300 miles away. I missed all of this, and I didn't fully understand or appreciate what I was missing. The first words and first steps. The silly songs and scraped knees. The tiny hands around my fingers becoming bigger hands holding mine. Learning to tell a joke, ride a bike, write your name. I couldn't fathom how quickly Baby Stuff becomes Big Kid Stuff, and I couldn't imagine how much we'd miss that Baby Stuff again.

I didn't know how to be Aunt Deana back then, and I never really caught up. Even now, I sometimes feel that I'm just catching on. I'm thankful that I have friends who make me practice.

As I was driving home tonight, I found myself thinking about tomorrow morning. School will be starting for me as well, and even though it's the 15th first day as a teacher, I still get butterflies. Wondering how the day will go, worrying that I will forget something important, curious what my students will think. Seventh graders in my school come to me almost like Elliott will appear to his teacher: nervous but excited, curious but cautious, hopeful for a good day, a good week, a good year.

I would say that I'm worried, but I know my friend, Courtney has the market cornered on that, and rightfully so. But I am claiming "hopeful" for tomorrow as my wish for Ell is the same wish that I have for all of my students.

I hope:

• you are more excited than nervous.
• your dad packs your favorite lunch, maybe even with an extra dessert.
• you like who you are sitting with.
• you don't feel too lost.
• you are kind and others are kind to you.
• you make a friend.
• you make lots of friends.
• you (and your mom) have more smiles than tears.
• you learn a little something.
• your teacher makes you feel appreciated and welcome.
• you go home, bubbling with stories, ready for the next day.

But mostly, Ell, I hope you always know how loved you are -- bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean -- today, tomorrow, and every day. I can't wait to hear all about this next big adventure.

Little Girl Lost

It's Father's Day.

I tried to write this morning, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The weeks since I last saw my dad have been tense and sad. He was not in good shape, physically or mentally, and it's been difficult. It's funny since I've written about my dad and his illness several times here. (And here and here and here. Or here.). Far more often than I ever thought I would; I am a private person who shields herself with a loud and feisty public personality. In this way, yet again, I am my father's daughter.

But to untwist him from my life, to remove him from this space, would be damn near impossible. For the last seven years, his path has become my own. We wander hand-in-hand, lost in a world where we don't recognize ourselves. I have found myself there again today, but this time, I am alone.

My entire childhood, I feared the death of my dad. I thought it would be the undoing of me -- that I would wake up one morning, and he would suddenly be gone. Often, I would lie in bed, wondering how I would get along as if his absence would hobble me as if I had woken up to have my leg amputated or my eyesight lost. How does a little girl imagine life without her hero?

And then I would hear him coming down the hall, and I would wiggle my toes and open my eyes, knowing that the world was still on its axis.

I never stopped to think that there are things worse than death. Because there are. My dad is my hero still, but he has not been allowed a hero's death. Heroes die in battle. They die strong. They die with their wife's kiss and their children's names on their lips. They don't die inch-by-inch.

I woke up this morning with my dad on my heart. I pulled up old posts and pulled out old pictures. I thought a lot about when I was a little girl. I thought about his hands, so calloused and worn. And how he was old pearl-snap shirts and trucker hats before they were cool. And how he smelled -- like Lava soap, freshly-mown grass, WD-40, and Certs breath mints.

I waited until I knew that lunch would be over and the dining room quiet before I called my mom's phone. He doesn't hear well, and his booming voice is often barely a whisper. I knew she'd be there, visiting him at the nursing home because even if he didn't know it was Father's Day, she would.

When she put him on the phone, he didn't have much to say. Even in his prime, the telephone was difficult for my dad who so loved to see someone's face as he told them a story or reeled off his latest joke. Our conversation was stilted and one-sided as I asked him questions he didn't know how to answer.

When my mom got back on the phone, she confirmed what I had begun to suspect several months ago. My father didn't recognize my voice. She's also noticed that he's stopped referring to me by my name and instead calls me "Sister", the nickname my family used for me until I was 10.

I once wondered how a little girl loses her hero, but I never once thought to wonder how the hero forgets his little girl. Now I wonder how long I will live in his mind at all.

I've always thought that the cruelest thing that has happened to my father is not that he is dying but that he is dying in a trap. His body broken, his mind intact. But even that is no longer true, and I am devastated.

I remember when I was six, my dad tried to teach me to take a fish off the hook. I kept recoiling at it, claiming I couldn't do it, putting on my best scared little girl act. It flopped and fought against my hands, its gills fluttering and flailing for oxygen, and I asked why I couldn't just wait until it died to remove the hook. Surely it couldn't take much longer. "Because it's in pain" was his reply. I can still remember the crease in his eyebrows, the frown on his face, 32 years later.

I've always thought about that moment, seeing my father as the fish in that desperate fight for independence and dignity. But it's only in hanging up the phone and hearing my own ragged gasps that I begin to understand what it feels to be on the end of that line.

Forty Reasons We Love Heather

Sometimes, there just aren't enough reasons to love others.

Sometimes, there isn't enough space, or enough words, to tell all the reasons that you do.

Today is our darling friend, Heather's, birthday. It's a big milestone birthday that I'm probably not allowed to tell you. Not because she feels old but rather I'm worried there's some sort of age limit on the acceptability of fart jokes. I hope not. Dinner conversations will never be as funny again.

So instead, I'm using this space to not only share my words about the wonder of Heather, but I'm also sharing the words of some other friends. And I shall reveal the FORTY reasons we all love her.

1. She likes fart jokes.

2. She cackles when she laughs really hard.

3. I love Heather's dry wit and kind heart. She is so very funny and giving. -- Debi Campbell

4. She is adventurous and has traveled the world.

5. The sarcasm. Oh, the sarcasm.

6. Heather will tackle any challenge without fear.

Okay. Maybe a little fear.

7. Heather was the first person that made me feel like part of a team at Nichols.  She made team meetings fun, and I loved that she was just this side of crazy. XLR8Rs 4 life, yo! -- Angela Kaker

8. She's a badass nerd.

9. Loyalty. If she's got your back, she's got your back. Always.

10. She's tough. As nails.

11. My first awkward moment with Heather was during a team potluck lunch.  I brought deviled eggs, with bacon. I had no idea she ate meat-free! She was gracious, even after she took a bite! oh how she loved our Brain Busters. I so appreciated her sensitive way she motivated or mentored all kids, but she sure had a special way to love on a student even at their hard-to-love moments. -- Annie Garza

12. She's a vegetarian who is cool enough to take you out for a steak dinner.

13. Heather can fix anything. I mean, I can fix anything with duct tape, but she can really, really fix it. Like, for real. -- Me

14. She weighs less when she's drunk. Honest. #Science

15. Heather is not intimidated by head lice, broken wells, or pee in a Gatorade bottle. If you're a teenage boy, and you've done something unbelievably stupid, she will own you.

16. I love that she was always unflappable. No matter what the kid did at camp or how much they were bleeding, Heather would stay calm and take care of the situation. I also love her ability to be a kid.... I think that is why the kids loved her so. -- Denis Cranford

 

17. One of only two adult that I know, in real life, that can rock some pigtails. With attitude.

18. Her generosity of time, money, and spirit. There is not an hour of the day you cannot call her. There is not a moment she will not be there.

19. Vegetarian or not, she will hunt down the big daddy rat in your shitty camp apartment and feed him to the snake living in the hall closet. Word.

20. She was always so much fun to be around. Her wit and charm were delightful. One of my favorite memories of her is when she was one of the back-up singers with Sally and me (the de la Vida singers), and we used rubber gloves to make our boobs bigger and we used small stones taped to the gloves to make nipples. Heather was game for anything, and we had so much fun. Heather, you are awesome!!! -- Nurse Barbara

21. Heather is apparently unafraid to have big ol' fake boobs with stony nipples.

22. I guarantee that Heather is laughing so hard she is wheezing and searching for her inhaler right now after 20 and 21.

23. She does not know the meaning of "that's a SIPPIN' shot".

24. One of my favorite Heather stories is when I went with the girls to her graduation in Abilene. It was my first introduction to "Blue Tattoo" (an intensely blue-colored schnapps). We did consume some adult beverages that weekend. It was my first experience of partying with people that could be my kids. There are so many wonderful memories of Heather and camp that are too numerous to mention, but I do clearly remember her 30th birthday party when I learned how much Heather loves PINK! Happy Birthday, precious girl. I love and miss you to pieces!!! -- Nurse Sally

25. Checking the after effects of Blue Tattoo is considered an experiment. #science

26. She is a rockstar teacher and coach. She spends hundreds and thousands of hours raising other people's children because she will love the unlovable. She will teach the unteachable. And she manages the unmanageable. 

27. She is one hell of a mentor.

28. I love Heather's ability to see the silver lining and do so with the most wicked, yet delightful, sense of humour.  -- Jamie Fletcher

29. Whenever I think of Heather, the first thing that comes to mind is her smile. You almost never see her not smiling! She is so encouraging and happy -- she brings light into any room she's in. -- Stephanie Shackelford

30. Heather, you are one of the most loving people I know. Not only are you loving, but you are real! And that is so hard to come by! To let you know just how awesome you are, I created a poem:

Oh Heather, oh Heather,

No matter what the weather

You are always real, 

probably the realest person ever

At Mt. Loma or Fossil Hill

Your friends are close like birds of a feather.

Marcus is so cool,

You're raising a trendsetter.

Happy Birthday to you,

stay awesome and cool

And your years will keep getting better and better.

Love, Jarrett

31. She's a fantastic mom. And she didn't let anything stop her from being a mom to someone who really needed her. They save each other every day. And it's amazing.

32. Heather, you are amazing. You have truly influenced me in the kind of teacher I am today. You have the kindest heart, and watching you raise Marcus really inspires me in my everyday life with my kids who need a hero. -- Katie Krambeer

33. I love that Heather because she is so loving and compassionate. She loves animals, special needs children and people in general. I've also always loved her passion for sports... especially soccer. One of my favorite memories of Heather is being able to joke around with her in ways you couldn't with most girls and seeing her face when someone says something that could be taken a few ways and watching her try to contain herself is priceless. I still have the post card she sent me. :) Heather is one of a kind and will always be special to me. -- Ryan Willey

34. She believes that a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste.

35. She suffers no fools. And she does not mind telling you if you're acting like one.

This. This is the look you'll get, fools.

36. Heather is crunchy outer shell, soft gooey inside. She is secretly sentimental and delighted by the small things.

37. Heather is one of the smartest people that I know.  Yet she doesn't hold that over anyone's head -- unless they are truly stupid. She has no patience for stupid people. However, she has incredible patience with young children. Especially those that are difficult to deal with. I often turned over a challenging child, saying, "You're going to have to deal with him/her. I don't know what to do!" And she's pretty hilarious too. But most of all, I would say she's loyal, and I know that she always has my back. -- LJ

38. Heather is a firecracker! A tiny but mighty spirit with an engaging, devilish smile that instantly makes you want to join her team. Whether it's her sports team, department team, or team of friends -- she's spunky and vivacious, and forever branded in my NJH "Good Stuff" memory bank. -- Angela Stidham

39. She throws a mean set of dice. There's a one-eyed Pit Boss at the Horseshoe Casino and Hotel who can verify this.

40. Heather, you are steadfast. When the winds are wild, you anchor us. When seas are calm, you push us. You steer the ship. You fix the broken parts. You dive in when any of us go overboard. You are the sturdy life jacket, the whimsical umbrella in our cocktail, and the lighthouse guiding us home. 

--D, C, and L

Happy Birthday, Heather-Feather. We love you fiercely.

Three is a Magic Number

Three is a magic number. It always has been. It always will be.

Our Brooklyn Claire turns 3 today. And she's pretty magic.

In the tradition of 3rd birthdays, a series of haiku poems.

Hair bows and tutus

Pearls, curls, and rowdy, wild girls

This is Brooklyn Claire.

Sunshine and giggles

This is our ladybug wish

Mostly, you comply.

Fierce independence,

The world is too small, I fear

For the likes of you.

Who dares defy you?

Rain your fury upon them,

Little Pink Storm Cloud.

But when there is peace,

There are pouty lips, sweet sighs

The world rights itself.

Such a little girl

Standing in a sea of boys,

steering your own ship.

Blue eyes and big hopes

Guide you on your merry way

Let us come with you.

Today is special.

Three is a magic number,

Just like you, sweet girl.

Happy Birthday, Brooklyn. I hope today is all birthday cake, belly laughs, and beauty. I love you.

*Photo credits, as always, to the Mullaney and Hopkins families who, unlike me, always have their cameras and who cannot stop snapping photos of their gorgeous children, thank goodness.

What Love Is

When I was 5 or 6, I went with my mother for a portrait sitting. A local artist at the rundown Pampa mall created a beautiful portrait in chalk. I don't really remember the actual sitting; I'm sure it felt like it took forever and a day. But I remember my father's reaction when he unwrapped it. It stole his breath, and it is one of the only moments in my childhood I can recall in which I saw my father cry. It is, to this day, his favorite gift.

I thought, "That is what love is." Attention to detail. The element of surprise.

When I was 7, my father bought our family a VCR. We thought it was our big gift until he told us to go outside. There, with snow falling gently, sat a brand new white station wagon with a big red bow. All for my mom. I did not think, "Wow. Who on Earth wants to be surprised with a station wagon?"

I thought, "That is what love is." Big moments. Red bows. Extravagance and newness.

As a child, I loved to watch my mother and father dance. They would twirl around the dance floor of the night club they managed while I roller-skated past them, calling for them to watch me. But when they danced they did not take their eyes from one another.

I thought, "That is what love is." Slow dances. George Jones. Letting the world melt away.

All my life, I would watch my dad come in from working out in the cold. He would take off his work gloves and put his cold hands on the back of my mom's neck to make her jump and squeal. She always knew he would, and she never tried to avoid it. And then, he would stand behind her at the kitchen sink and kiss her.

I thought, "That is what love is." Shared jokes. Cold hands. Warm kisses.

My entire life, my dad would tell jokes. Some were long and complicated. Others were short and corny. A few were downright filthy. But they were all followed with a sharp, surprised laugh. And when it was really good... a short snort. When my mother laughs, her whole face laughs. When my father smiles, his eyes dance. No one can make my mother laugh like my father. And nothing makes him smile like her laugh.

I thought, "That is what love is." More smiles and laughter than shouts and tears.

Sometimes there were shouts and tears and stony silence. But there were apologies and warm kisses and letting go, too.

I thought, "That is what love is." Forgiving. Second chances. Moving on. Making it work.

And now, six days a week, my mother gets into her battered old Buick and drives 60 miles, round trip, to see my father. There are days full of domino games in which she always shuffles and sometimes plays for both him and herself. The only day she misses are Thursday card games with her friends. My dad teases her by calling it her "work day". Thursdays are hardest for him, but he never asks her to miss it. There are no more giant red bows or slow dances or hands freezing from the cold. There are tears some days, but there are also smiles. There are kisses hello but there are now always kisses goodbye. There has been health; there has been sickness. There are unanswered questions and there are unsure futures. There are hardships and heartache, but there is sacrifice and strength as well.

And sometimes, even now -- even through everything -- when they hold hands and look at one another, I think, "No. I was wrong. This is what love is."

Forty-one years worth.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Logic vs. Not Logic

I scared the ever-loving hell out of a poor AT&T guy today. He was only about 20 or so, and I'm sure he's had no training for the likes of me.

I went in today to talk about rearranging my plan. I've had both of my parents on my cell phone plan for the last 4 years, and I know there has to be a better, more cost-efficient way to handle our needs. I've known that the quickest way to chop about 30 bucks is to cancel my dad's phone, and I've known it for a long time. I just haven't been able to do it. Every month, I pay the bill, and I promise that I'll make that change. Yet I don't. It's a promise I never keep. Sure, it's only $30, a drop in the great Cosmic hat, but it could definitely go to use elsewhere. This is logic.

My dad has been in a nursing home for the past two years. We haven't given him a phone for lots of reasons, most of which I'm sure seem heartless to anyone who isn't in our situation but hopefully save everyone the smallest of heartaches and heart attacks. I lied and told him it had been stolen after a hospitalization. It was hard because I'm not one to lie to my dad very often. It was terrible because he's always been able to see through them when I do.

I confessed to a friend last weekend that I'd been paying the bill even after he went into the nursing home. This is not logic. She wasn't shocked, but it's been in my mind since then, wriggling worm-like, begging the question of why.

I don't know why. There is not a sane or logical or remotely understandable reason to keep it. If this were happening to anyone else, my dad would've already scolded me into cutting that cost months ago, telling me to "toughen up" and "let it go". But it is happening to my dad, and as I've learned, outlooks and opinions change drastically when he's at the center of them.

My dad has Parkinson's, and that will never change because there is no cure. And he is getting worse, causing me just this week to postpone a visit because he wasn't well enough. Even his medication treatments bring little relief to his continual muscle freezes and immobility, and when adjustments are made, we risk his mental stability and the emotional stability of my entire family. The last 5 years of his treatment, trading sanity for independent movement, have been a damn work of art in how to rob Peter to pay Paul. A mural, painted entirely with false hope, disregarded opinions, and monkey shit.

My dad has changed so much -- physically, mentally, emotionally -- that he feels less and less like the man I grew up with every day. He's still in there, so sly and sharp some moments that it's scary, but there are others that disconnect me in a way I once thought unimaginable. That's hard to say, especially to someone who doesn't have a parent at all. But my whole life, I thought the worst thing that could ever happen would be for him to die. It is only after years of watching him slowly disintegrate, of watching all of us fall apart, do I concede that perhaps there are far worse things than death. Maybe that's naive or selfish or cliche -- it certainly feels that way -- but I know that I wouldn't wish it on my very worst enemy. I don't hate anyone that much.

Keeping that phone line has been a habit, a secret that I've pushed down in order to make it feel as if he's not gone. Because he isn't gone. But it also doesn't bring him back. I talked my dad into a cell phone to make myself feel better when he was out working alone, when his moments of physical fallibility were frequent enough to give me worry but infrequent enough to make him stop. Now, he cannot dial the numbers himself or even often make his voice loud enough to be heard over it. I gave him that phone so that he would have a way to reach all of us, and now we are all so desperate to avoid a phone call because in my family no one ever calls with good news. Never before has $30 made such little sense to me. All my life, I have done what my dad advised, and here I was, yet again, needing my dad -- my not-sick dad -- to just tell me what to do.

Nothing in the world makes me feel less like a grown-up than to actually have to be THE grown-up. I feel like a 5 year-old, playing in my mother's make-up and jewelry.

And these are the thoughts that snaked around my brain while I waited at the AT&T store. While I waited on their psychotically bright orange couch, questioning why I couldn't do such a seemingly simple thing. And for me, waiting is the hardest part. Waiting gives me time to think and feel and fear and doubt. I'm not good at waiting. In fact, I'm almost as terrible at it as I am at lying.

So, when that poor, unsuspecting 20-something asked me how he could help, I didn't know how to explain that I was here to get rid of my dad's last tie to his own independence and dignity. I burst into tears and barely managed an apology, leaving him blank-faced and staring after me as I scuttled out the door, desperate to save my meltdown for the car, away from the orange couch and befuddled looks.

And to top it all off, they still got my 30 bucks this month. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, my old dad just shakes his head.

She is Me, and I am Her.

Today is Veteran's Day. While I am always thankful for the service of our troops and veterans, it's hard to celebrate only them today.

Today is also my mother's birthday, so when I woke up today, she was all I could think about. My mother and her sisters were all born on holidays -- Veteran's Day, Christmas Eve, New Year's Day. I think this might be why my mother was so anti-holiday and anti-birthday; each day seemed to be celebrating others before them. As I saw all the posts (well-deserved though they are), it hurt me for her that yet again, others went before her.

I wrote something for my mother for Mother's Day a few years ago. It's one of my favorite pieces because it's the first time I actually realized the shift in our relationship.  My dad has always called me Wanda Jr., claiming that there is more of her in me than either of us would ever admit. In the past five years, our roles have reversed drastically, and it is only in this reversal I have begun to see myself within her.

My mother has always been brash and abrupt, never letting politeness impede truth. Politeness and manners have always been my armor against confrontation, but as I've gotten older, I've learned to wield a sharp word for those who deserve it. My mother's nickname isn't Freight Train for nothing.

My mother avoids the spotlight, always letting my dad be the star.  She downplays her own talents, camouflaging them as luck or happenstance, and abhors compliments and insincerity.  Wanda Jean is the Queen of First Impressions, knowing within moments the intentions of new friends as well as their retention. There is not a relationship or friendship that I've ever had that my mother didn't accurately predict its success or failure.  And, looking back, I knew too.

She is loyal and determined and fiercely protective. She is private and guarded with her heart, but once it is won, it's won forever. She is competitive and stubborn and wildly funny. She loves curse words and fried chicken and salt on her margaritas. She sticks when she'd rather run. She is often scared but doesn't show it. She is sometimes sad but doesn't say it. And she is strong but doesn't know it.

She is me, and I am her.

For the past 5 years, we've become veterans of our own private war, she and I. Today is a celebration of those men and women who have fought for our freedom and sacrificed for our rights, but in thinking about my mom, I realize that not every battle is fought on foreign soil and not every warrior puts on a uniform or grabs a gun. Some just get in the car and drive toward the sticking point instead of away from it.

Happy Birthday, Freight Train. Thanks for loving me, for teaching me, for fighting for me.

The Other Sister

This is Amanda.

26.2 miles later and still full of pep.

Amanda is the little sister of one of my best life friends, Courtney.

I have known Amanda since she was 17, when she was a cheerleader and homecoming queen and future SMU sorority girl.  If I had only looked at her Popularity Resume, I might have assumed that we'd never be friends.  Luckily, Amanda's personality is bigger than any silly little piece of paper. And so is her heart.

I am Amanda's Other Sister.  

No, she doesn't think of me as Juliette Lewis playing a mentally disabled girl in a romantic comedy...

...but if she did, it would be okay.  Because the reenactments with her, Court, and myself would be outstanding.  This is probably because we'd have had several Roman Cokes before any performances began.  Roman Cokes (rum and Coke) are a complete Amanda-ism.  Amanda-isms are family famous, unintentionally hilarious, verbal miscues, and God bless her, they never go away.  

There are few people I enjoy entertaining more than Amanda.  She delights in my daily battles with teenage stupidity, and she encourages my wicked snark like few others.  And not many people can make me laugh as frequently or intensely as Amanda.  She is unafraid to find the absurd, point out the awkward, or revel in her own mishaps.  She and her husband, Ben, have a knack for encountering the weirdest people and strangest situations, and their stories beg for re-tell after re-tell.

These are my Black friends.  They're very dignified.

Amanda, Ben, and their Black babies.

 If it makes for a good story, Amanda is in.  (This might be how she and I wound up together, in our tangerine bridesmaid dresses, at the world's shadiest karaoke bar after Courtney's wedding.)  

For all of her laughter and hijinks though, she's also fairly adept at saying just the right thing (or leaving me just the right comment), out of nowhere, right when I need to hear it.  Those Hopkins girls coached me right into this blog, and when I would think no one was listening, there they were, encouraging me yet again. They come by it naturally, as so many times, their family has been as close as my own.

Amanda is many things: a faithful Christian, a nutso marathoner, a cheap wine connoisseur, a silly Aunt Manny, a strong-willed daughter, a loving wife, a dedicated Mama, and a super sister.

Even if she's just my Other Sister.

Happy Birthday and olive juice, Manders.