Roughly two months ago I had two seperate conversations, one with Clint and one with Honey. In each I talked with them about my experiences, most especially my experiences with my mother-in-law, and how they so permanently changed me. Changed me for the better. I even blogged about writing my bucket list, a direct result of those experiences. What I didn't include in that blog, but was the basis of these two conversations, was how very much I had come to understand that I am not afraid to die. What I am afraid of is wasting my time doing things that don't matter while I'm here instead. I can't help but laugh at the irony of a week after talking about that very thing I discover the tumor in my neck. Looking back I can see that coming to that understanding before I found it was all part of God's preparation for me for what was to come.
I write pretty freely in my blogs, what is going through my crazy head, and often what is in my heart. Yet, there is always a part of me that holds back, tentative I guess, maybe a little worried of offending, and always, always, always fearful of being misunderstood. Being misunderstood could be the theme song of my life. So I hope you'll forgive the missing filter of this particular blog, but I can't deny the almost need to write of my experiences of late.
Surgery was, of course, a great success. And, as I have come to rely so heavily on, I had Clint and Honey here caring for all of us. Again, there is such beauty in family, and again I am so grateful for the one I have. I was doing well enough Thursday that Honey felt comfortable to head back to Bama, and Clint was back at work. I was sore, but I was doing great. I began running a little fever Saturday night, but felt well enough to insist on Clint taking me to church Sunday morning. Sunday afternoon I sneezed and thought I would die (I had busted apart the muscle that had been sewn back together during surgery). Sunday evening Clint started me on antibiotics. Monday, I was determined that I was just fine and I was not going to stay in bed (I am a little famous for being stubborn). It was Labor Day and I was going to play no matter what, and so naturally Tuesday I tanked and tanked hard. I had redness and swelling all the way up my throat and three inches down from my collarbone. I had excruciating pain in my neck. I was running a nasty fever. I felt so bad I even cried, that in itself being astonishing. I've only felt that sick one other time. I prayed so hard that evening. Since I had found the lump, as I described in my earlier blog, I had felt myself being carried. Through the whole process, even through surgery, I never doubted, I never worried because I knew I was going to be just fine. But that evening, I felt the pricklings of fear for the first and only time. I knew I was sick, I knew I seriously needed God's help, and I prayed hard. Exhausted and feverish I fell asleep praying. Being stubborn, I had refused to let Clint take me to the ER. Apparently he didn't sleep that night. He laid awake staring at my neck and watching my breathing ready to force me to go, saying his own prayers. Wednesday I woke up a tiny bit better. Clint was off from work for the day, but called in and told them to clear his schedule for Thursday and Friday anticipating at the very least I would be admitted for IV antibiotics. But by Thursday morning the rednesss had receded to just an area about the size of an egg and the swelling was all but gone. Enough that when I went to the doctor he felt the antibiotics were working well enough I could stay on them at home. He also let us know that all the cancer was gone. We both cried tears of relief, but I found that my tears of relief only lasted a milisecond before they turned into some serious tears of gratitude. I recognized instantly the miracle that had been worked in my body. Not just the tumor and surgery, but the fight against the infection! Surgery had been a cakewalk, it was the infection that had become so dangerous. Suffice it to say, I should have been in the hospital Tuesday evening. If I had gone they would have taken me back to the O.R. and opened me back up to clean out the infection it was so bad. Then I would have spent a lovely few days in the hospital on IV antibiotics. There is no logical explanation for why I didn't continue to get worse. I am certain that two things saw me through, divine intervention, and Clint not hesitating to put me on antibiotics the minute he saw that I might be getting an infection. If he had waited until Monday morning to start them it would've been too late. However, I also recognize that having Clint here to take care of me was one of the ways God took care of me. And yet, he still wasn't through. I continuted to run a fever through Monday morning, all the while watching my little girl come home from school and without being asked and without telling us what she was doing, quietly gather the laundry and do it, help her brother do his homework, unload the dishwasher and try to keep the kitchen clean. I watched my husband, who has only missed work once when he had his achilles tendon repaired after he ruptured it, take days off work and completely take care of all of us. While they were busy being angels, I was laying in bed having a life-altering experience learning some serious things I needed to know but had been too wrapped up in life to see. It was one of those times in life when God allowed me to go through adversity to teach me things I otherwise may never have understood or taken the time to see until it was too late. Powerful enough that I feel years older on the inside, in a very, very good way. Isn't that what adversity and challenges are all about? Opportunities to learn and grow by leaps and bounds. We can either lose ourselves in despair when we are bowed down under the weight of heartache or tragedy or (in this case) sickness, or we can listen to the quiet teachings we learn from that moment that inevitably (though sometimes hard to believe at that time) give us more strength than we ever had before. That in the end help us become by far better than we were. In essence, grief (in all forms) does one of two things. It makes us hard, or it makes us tender. The choice is entirely up to us.
I may not be able to walk across the house yet without having it sap all the strength I have, but for once in my life I'm okay with that. The time down has been like a deep, cleansing, settling breath. A chance to reset the compass to a better heading. I can't wait for the journey to come! And I recognize the miracle that God has again worked in my life. Seriously, a miracle. I cannot understand why he blesses me so, it unequivocably humbles me, but meager as the words are I am grateful beyond description. And the words still echo...
'When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not thee o'erflow,
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.'
Thank you, in ways that only my heart can feel but can't express, every single one of you that offered prayers for me. I needed them, I felt them, and I know they were heard.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Bell of Hope
September 11, 2001. There isn't one of us old enough to remember that day that can't tell another just exactly where they were, what they were doing, or how they first heard the news of the planes being flown into the World Trade Towers. Just like in New York City, it was a beautiful morning with crystal clear blue skies here in Tennessee. I didn't have the television on that morning to know what was happening. I wouldn't have had it on anyway, I never watch the morning news having washed my hands of news in general just three years before, right before Erika was born. Watching the news of suffering in Kosovo and bringing a brand new baby into this stark-raving mad world were just two things I couldn't reconcile, so I had stopped watching the news altogether. Clint was at work, Erika was running around playing, and Cletus and I were packing up the paint and supplies getting ready to head to Honey and D's house to work, standing in the driveway to be exact, when his cell phone rang. One of his friends had called to ask him if he had heard from another friend who was at the moment unaccounted for on an airplane somewhere. It snowballed from there. I remember talking to Clint on the phone after we got to Honey and D's house and sat with MawMaw and watched the events play out but we couldn't say anything, just sat with phone in hand in silence and watched. I don't even remember hanging up. The third plane into the Pentagon, the collapse of the first tower, the collapse of the second, the crash of Flight 93. And like the rest of the country we couldn't move. Couldn't pull our eyes away from the TV screen. Couldn't wrap our heads around what we were seeing. Unable to think. Barely able to breathe. Stunned. Furious. Disbelieving. Mortified. Outraged. Mourning. Feeling like we had been punched in the gut multiplied by who knows what. The day seemed to last a week. I walked around in a fog for at least that long afterwards. And yet all these descriptions of how it felt just don't seem to do it justice. That's okay. You know exaclty what I'm talking about because if you remember that day at all, you felt it too.
Fast forward: Sunday morning July 18, 2010. New York City. Clint and I woke up to the alarm at 7:00am. We got dressed and were on the subway headed to Ground Zero by 8:00. The prettiest morning of our four day trip. We walked several blocks, turned the corner, and stood by ourselves at the southeast corner of the site. Not another person on the sidewalk on either side of the street. New York City was still sleeping, and we had the place to ourselves. A peaceful stillness hung in the air accompanied by that feeling. The one that is present at any hallowed place. The second thing we noticed were the numerous cranes (eight that we could see, maybe more) sitting idle in the hole that is nearly filled, each one with an American flag hanging from it, fence wrapped in vinyl keeping the view of the the ground itself obstructed. I instinctively smiled at the flags and again felt proud to be an American.
We walked slowly past and crossed the street to where the temporary 9/11 Memorial is only to discover that we were too early. They weren't open yet. And so we crossed back over and entered in the west gate that surrounds the church, having no idea as we entered that this place would hold for us an experience that would reach down and profoundly touch our souls. Still alone (in the middle of downtown New York City!!!) we meandered through the tombstones reading the names and dates and wondering at the people who rested there, noticing chunks of stone missing off the tops from the debri and rubble that blew through the yard as the towers came crashing down. As we drew closer to the church we came upon a little blue sign which told a very brief history of the church and revealed to us just exactly where we were: St. Paul's Chapel. The oldest public building in continuous use and the only remaining colonial-era church in Manhattan. In 1789 George Washington prayed at St. Paul's after his inauguration as the first President of the United States. We continued up the sidewalk and hidden from the view of the street or the lower edges of the cemetery on the west side hung a large bell, sitting off to the left outside the chapel doors. The Bell of Hope.
Inscribed on the upper portion of the Bell: To the Greater Glory of God, And in Recognition of the Enduring Links Between the City of London and the City of New York. Inscribed on the lower portion: Forged in Adversity - 11 September 2001.
A gift presented to the people of New York by the Lord Mayor of London and the Archbishop of Canterbury on September 11, 2002. The Bell of Hope was created by England's renowned Whitechapel Foundry, which also cast the Liberty Bell and London's Big Ben. Inlaid in the pedestal, directly beneath the bell, is a brass footprint of the World Trade Center Towers. It is rung every September 11, and was rung on March 11, 2004, when trains were bombed in Madrid, Spain and on July 7, 2005, after the London subway and bus attacks. The ringing of the bell symbolizes the triumph of hope over tragedy. Like the majority of people in the country and the world we had no idea the bell was even there. I couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to lightly run my fingers across the words "Forged in Adversity".
Emotions already close to the surface just from being on hallowed ground, then discovering this treasure, we noticed the doors to the chapel were open. We tentatively stepped through, afraid of disturbing or trespassing, and discovered a welcome haven, a beautiful sanctuary, a museum piece itself housing displays around the edges of events of September 11th and the days and weeks that followed. Still we were alone except for a priest standing quietly off in the corner. We quietly walked around looking at the pictures of the dirty and exhausted firemen and rescue workers and medical personnel sleeping in the pews, the photos of missing loved ones and ribbons and memorabilia hanging from the iron fence that surround the Chapel, the small cross forged out of metal from the rubble of the towers, each small display telling a story of those haunting days. The small collection of the photos of those missing they have left up making it more than a nightmarish display witnessed on TV nine years prior. The displays also telling the story of how in the middle of the chaos and tragedy there arose from those working there day in and day out a brotherly love, and hope. It made it real. As we made our way to the other side a man came in and began to play the piano, the acoustics of the old church being perfect. And then, a woman came and began to sing. No microphone. Just her voice and the piano echoing perfectly in that chapel. And it struck me to the very core and I could not keep the tears I had been choking back from coming and I wept. There, in that chapel, on that quiet Sunday morning while New York City still slept, across the street from Ground Zero, I stood next to and on sacred ground. It took me the rest of the day to compose myself. I didn't take a single picture inside that chapel that day. It would have been too irreverant. But no picture could have ever captured the experience and the feelings that had been burned inside me. We eventually made it across the street to the temporary 9/11 Memorial. It was nothing after being in St. Paul's.
Today as I have thought about those events nine years ago that burned themselves into my memory, I have also thought of the ringing of the Bell of Hope at St. Paul's Chapel. I have longed to be there to bow my head in silence and reverance and respect for all those that died that day in New York, in D.C., and in rural Pennsylvania. I have, as I do every year, thought of the families left behind, thought of those that worked so feverishly and diligently that day and the days and weeks that followed, thought of those who of their own volition serve our country as soldiers and the families that support them. And I have longed to hear the toll as it sounds for the triumph of hope over tragedy. Forged in adversity. I remember, and I hope.
Fast forward: Sunday morning July 18, 2010. New York City. Clint and I woke up to the alarm at 7:00am. We got dressed and were on the subway headed to Ground Zero by 8:00. The prettiest morning of our four day trip. We walked several blocks, turned the corner, and stood by ourselves at the southeast corner of the site. Not another person on the sidewalk on either side of the street. New York City was still sleeping, and we had the place to ourselves. A peaceful stillness hung in the air accompanied by that feeling. The one that is present at any hallowed place. The second thing we noticed were the numerous cranes (eight that we could see, maybe more) sitting idle in the hole that is nearly filled, each one with an American flag hanging from it, fence wrapped in vinyl keeping the view of the the ground itself obstructed. I instinctively smiled at the flags and again felt proud to be an American.
We walked down the length of the sidewalk and I was immediately drawn to a breathtaking cemetery nestled in the churchyard of an old church surrounded by a black iron fence that sits directly across the street from where the World Trade Center Towers once stood. I haven't felt that drawn to a place in a long, long time and I remember thinking at the time how odd it was that I was drawn more to that cemetery and church than I was to Ground Zero itself. I had such a longing to go in the gate and sit on one of the benches in the churchyard.
We walked slowly past and crossed the street to where the temporary 9/11 Memorial is only to discover that we were too early. They weren't open yet. And so we crossed back over and entered in the west gate that surrounds the church, having no idea as we entered that this place would hold for us an experience that would reach down and profoundly touch our souls. Still alone (in the middle of downtown New York City!!!) we meandered through the tombstones reading the names and dates and wondering at the people who rested there, noticing chunks of stone missing off the tops from the debri and rubble that blew through the yard as the towers came crashing down. As we drew closer to the church we came upon a little blue sign which told a very brief history of the church and revealed to us just exactly where we were: St. Paul's Chapel. The oldest public building in continuous use and the only remaining colonial-era church in Manhattan. In 1789 George Washington prayed at St. Paul's after his inauguration as the first President of the United States. We continued up the sidewalk and hidden from the view of the street or the lower edges of the cemetery on the west side hung a large bell, sitting off to the left outside the chapel doors. The Bell of Hope.
Emotions already close to the surface just from being on hallowed ground, then discovering this treasure, we noticed the doors to the chapel were open. We tentatively stepped through, afraid of disturbing or trespassing, and discovered a welcome haven, a beautiful sanctuary, a museum piece itself housing displays around the edges of events of September 11th and the days and weeks that followed. Still we were alone except for a priest standing quietly off in the corner. We quietly walked around looking at the pictures of the dirty and exhausted firemen and rescue workers and medical personnel sleeping in the pews, the photos of missing loved ones and ribbons and memorabilia hanging from the iron fence that surround the Chapel, the small cross forged out of metal from the rubble of the towers, each small display telling a story of those haunting days. The small collection of the photos of those missing they have left up making it more than a nightmarish display witnessed on TV nine years prior. The displays also telling the story of how in the middle of the chaos and tragedy there arose from those working there day in and day out a brotherly love, and hope. It made it real. As we made our way to the other side a man came in and began to play the piano, the acoustics of the old church being perfect. And then, a woman came and began to sing. No microphone. Just her voice and the piano echoing perfectly in that chapel. And it struck me to the very core and I could not keep the tears I had been choking back from coming and I wept. There, in that chapel, on that quiet Sunday morning while New York City still slept, across the street from Ground Zero, I stood next to and on sacred ground. It took me the rest of the day to compose myself. I didn't take a single picture inside that chapel that day. It would have been too irreverant. But no picture could have ever captured the experience and the feelings that had been burned inside me. We eventually made it across the street to the temporary 9/11 Memorial. It was nothing after being in St. Paul's.
Today as I have thought about those events nine years ago that burned themselves into my memory, I have also thought of the ringing of the Bell of Hope at St. Paul's Chapel. I have longed to be there to bow my head in silence and reverance and respect for all those that died that day in New York, in D.C., and in rural Pennsylvania. I have, as I do every year, thought of the families left behind, thought of those that worked so feverishly and diligently that day and the days and weeks that followed, thought of those who of their own volition serve our country as soldiers and the families that support them. And I have longed to hear the toll as it sounds for the triumph of hope over tragedy. Forged in adversity. I remember, and I hope.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Ridin' the Coaster
Have you ever had one of those moments where you have your hands thrown up in the air, you're laughing hard through a wide-open mouth, you're feeling the thrill of the ride and suddenly realize you're the only one? As a very little girl I remember watching D climb onto "White Lightning", a doozy of a rollercoaster at Carowinds. I remember he was grinning when he went up and had white knuckles when he came down. I remember being so disappointed I was too little to go too. Since then I have never missed an opportunity to ride a rollercoaster. They don't come around as often as I'd like, so I try to take full advantage when they do. Fortunately, my life is often just like a rollercoaster (as is everyone's). Just when I think I'm going left I'm slung hard to the right. Just when I think I'm on top of the world I go plumeting at cheek-flapping speed, oftentimes spiraling, down the other side. Man I love rollercoasters!
I think part of the reason I have always been able to let go and enjoy the ride without fear is the trust I have. I always trusted D to catch me when he'd throw me in the air. I always trusted him to land the motorcycle safely when he'd pop wheelies across the road with me when I was little. I trusted that he'd take care of business when that one boy was fool enough to come knock on my door after I'd just run in the house and said "I don't want to see him!" ("Uh, uh, uh, Sir, is Kelly home?" "Yep." "Can I see her?" "Nope.".....hahaha I love that memory!) To this day, he has never, ever, ever let me down. I always trusted Honey would take care of me no matter what, I have always known her softest hands in the world would be there to soothe me when I don't feel so good. I have always trusted that when no one else will listen to, or laugh with me she'll always be the exception to the rule. I trust that Clint will always make me die laughing when I least expect it, will always be an incredible provider, and I will always find my safe haven, my home, my center of gravity in his hugs. And most of all, I have always trusted that God will take care of me. No matter what. I just don't worry. Three weeks ago when I found the lump in my neck and began the ride through bloodwork, ultrasound, CT, biopsy and diagnosis (thyroid cancer) I was comforted along the way and since with a deep, bottomless well of assurance that no matter what, I'm going to be okay. I just wish everyone else could feel that constant wave of peace and assurance I am being provided with on an hourly and daily basis, and be able to experience this ride without fear as I am. I feel so BLESSED! As Dr. Studtman apologetically described the scar I will be left with on my neck when he rips that sucker OUT, I was able to calmly and sincerely tell him I'm just not worried about it. I get to have a reminder every day of what a gift I have been given. And I get to make up the coolest stories about how I got it! I do believe that what goes around comes around...I have always known that I'm a pain in the neck, I just didn't realize how much of one I've been! Ha!
It has been terribly hard to not be annoyed with "sympathy" looks and somber voices, but I'm just trying to remember some dang good advice I was given last week....Just because I'm okay with this, doesn't mean other people aren't having an "aha" moment themselves. Thanks Cletus. I needed that. One small request? Hurry up with the "Aha" and get back to dying laughing with me please. Now, who'll give me a "WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE"?
I think part of the reason I have always been able to let go and enjoy the ride without fear is the trust I have. I always trusted D to catch me when he'd throw me in the air. I always trusted him to land the motorcycle safely when he'd pop wheelies across the road with me when I was little. I trusted that he'd take care of business when that one boy was fool enough to come knock on my door after I'd just run in the house and said "I don't want to see him!" ("Uh, uh, uh, Sir, is Kelly home?" "Yep." "Can I see her?" "Nope.".....hahaha I love that memory!) To this day, he has never, ever, ever let me down. I always trusted Honey would take care of me no matter what, I have always known her softest hands in the world would be there to soothe me when I don't feel so good. I have always trusted that when no one else will listen to, or laugh with me she'll always be the exception to the rule. I trust that Clint will always make me die laughing when I least expect it, will always be an incredible provider, and I will always find my safe haven, my home, my center of gravity in his hugs. And most of all, I have always trusted that God will take care of me. No matter what. I just don't worry. Three weeks ago when I found the lump in my neck and began the ride through bloodwork, ultrasound, CT, biopsy and diagnosis (thyroid cancer) I was comforted along the way and since with a deep, bottomless well of assurance that no matter what, I'm going to be okay. I just wish everyone else could feel that constant wave of peace and assurance I am being provided with on an hourly and daily basis, and be able to experience this ride without fear as I am. I feel so BLESSED! As Dr. Studtman apologetically described the scar I will be left with on my neck when he rips that sucker OUT, I was able to calmly and sincerely tell him I'm just not worried about it. I get to have a reminder every day of what a gift I have been given. And I get to make up the coolest stories about how I got it! I do believe that what goes around comes around...I have always known that I'm a pain in the neck, I just didn't realize how much of one I've been! Ha!
It has been terribly hard to not be annoyed with "sympathy" looks and somber voices, but I'm just trying to remember some dang good advice I was given last week....Just because I'm okay with this, doesn't mean other people aren't having an "aha" moment themselves. Thanks Cletus. I needed that. One small request? Hurry up with the "Aha" and get back to dying laughing with me please. Now, who'll give me a "WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE"?
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Cat's Meow
Today has been one of those days where events have led me to fall back on my long-time belief that if I'm going to laugh about it later I might as well laugh about it now.
The morning started early with Clint's beeper going off (4:12am), and me never really falling back asleep. Mostly because I was laying in bed trying to plan how in the world I was going to catch our wild cat Harley (thus her name) in order to take her to the Vet for some surgery. As in not a diamond, but spade. She showed up here about one day away from dead and still a kitten late last fall. She was wilder than wild then and she has tamed down to just plain wild since. Aside from her brief stint of "niceness" while she was caring for her new kittens, she has always been markedly averse to any pats on the head or ear scratching or anything closely resembling affection. She's more of a "give me your dang food and leave me the heck alone" kinda girl. More than one expletive has been murmured in our dealings with her. Well, from me, not Clint. She won't come within a mile of him.
Knowing our history I dreaded the hunt down but thought that once I got her in the car she'd settle down like she did on her first visit to get her shots. At 7:40 I put my wallet in the car, the keys in the ignition, and opened the garage door so that when I caught her I could just get in the car and go. At 7:42 I opened the front door and to my great astonishment Harley was sitting right there by the door looking at me. "Wow! What luck!", I naively thought. I picked her up (still amazed at my further good fortune because picking her up just doesn't happen) and managed to make it into the vehicle and close the door thinking I was home free. She fought a little but I had her by the nape of the neck and thought she'd settle down once we got going. At 7:45am we had made it almost to the end of the driveway alright, but right about there is when all hell just plum broke loose. I'm not exactly sure which I noticed first, the simultaneous clawing of my arms and chest and face and legs, or the overwhelming, eye-watering, nostril incinerating smell of cat feces that threatened to knock me out cold. I jerked her up to find a nice large piece of evidence of her love for me, threw the FJ into reverse and slung back up to the house where I honked the horn until Erika came out to see what was the matter. All it took was for her to walk up to the rolled down window...she didn't even have to ask. Poor girl got a crash course in clorox wipes, wal-mart sacks, and cleaning up messes (I figure someday it'll be good experience for her when she has children). All this time I still have a death grip on the nape of Harley's neck not daring to let go....our 8:15 appointment is fast approaching. Before I began driving again I made a monumental mistake and rolled the window back up so there was less temptation for her to jump out. I start back down the driveway, this time with a towel in my lap (like that was going to do any good...the damage had already been done!) I guess I figured it would catch anything else that came flying out of her body on the ride to the clinic. As if all of that wasn't excitement enough, I spent the next 20 minutes driving with one hand, and holding her suspended body in the air by the nape of the neck with the other because every time a paw landed anywhere she started clawing for dear life. To make matters worse I had rolled the dang window up. Which meant the stench of her love for me had no way of escaping. If I let go with one hand to roll the window down I would crash, if I let go with the other I would literally have my eyeballs clawed out. I began to wonder if anyone had ever died from toxic levels of inhaled ammonia. I also began to wonder what it would look like if I really did crash...they'd open the door to a possessed cat and a soiled and bloody driver. Needless to say, I have never in my life been so tempted to drop an animal out on the side of the road. In fact, at one point I even started to slow down and pull off. And then, I don't know if it was the toxic levels coming off the remains of the poop, or the adrenaline, or just my plain warped sense of humor, I began to laugh hysterically because everytime I turned the wheel the cat would swing to one side and as I corrected she'd swing back to the other. So there I was, passing cars while holding a crazed, swinging cat up in the air, tears rolling down my face from the odor and dying laughing while trying to keep my mouth closed so I can't taste the smell all at the same time. 8:10am I arrive at the clinic, soiled clothes, bloody arms, and crazed cat in tow. Sit one seat over from a lady who has the fattest cat I've ever seen in my life curled up in a ball dead asleep on her lap. I still have Harley suspended in air. Lady looks at me with eyes as big as saucers and says "What happened to it?!?" I reply with a perfectly calm and straight face "I have no idea." Fast forward to 8:30am: Return home and scrub the daylights out of the seatbelt where half of her present landed. 9:20am: Leave for Erika's cello lesson 35 minutes away. Go approximately to the end of the driveway before we realize we have to ride with the windows down because it still smells as potent as ever. 11:00am: Leave cello lesson and once again drive 35 minutes home with the windows rolled down (87 degrees and humid as all get out) back home. 11:30am: Pick up poor stranded puppy on the side of the road. Wondered at the irony. 11:35am: Go back out to reclean the seatbelt and perform a more thorough check which lead to the discovery of another present under the driver's seat. Cleaned daylights out of vehicle for second time. 3:00pm, Take Dog to the Vet for recheck and to pick up Harley. 3:30pm Drove home with Biggun in the front, and Harley in the back seat. In a box. With the lid taped shut. Dog was happy. Harley was playing pinball in the box attempting to escape. And once again, I was dying laughing. Moral: Go right ahead. Crap on me. I guarantee I'll have the last laugh.
The morning started early with Clint's beeper going off (4:12am), and me never really falling back asleep. Mostly because I was laying in bed trying to plan how in the world I was going to catch our wild cat Harley (thus her name) in order to take her to the Vet for some surgery. As in not a diamond, but spade. She showed up here about one day away from dead and still a kitten late last fall. She was wilder than wild then and she has tamed down to just plain wild since. Aside from her brief stint of "niceness" while she was caring for her new kittens, she has always been markedly averse to any pats on the head or ear scratching or anything closely resembling affection. She's more of a "give me your dang food and leave me the heck alone" kinda girl. More than one expletive has been murmured in our dealings with her. Well, from me, not Clint. She won't come within a mile of him.
Knowing our history I dreaded the hunt down but thought that once I got her in the car she'd settle down like she did on her first visit to get her shots. At 7:40 I put my wallet in the car, the keys in the ignition, and opened the garage door so that when I caught her I could just get in the car and go. At 7:42 I opened the front door and to my great astonishment Harley was sitting right there by the door looking at me. "Wow! What luck!", I naively thought. I picked her up (still amazed at my further good fortune because picking her up just doesn't happen) and managed to make it into the vehicle and close the door thinking I was home free. She fought a little but I had her by the nape of the neck and thought she'd settle down once we got going. At 7:45am we had made it almost to the end of the driveway alright, but right about there is when all hell just plum broke loose. I'm not exactly sure which I noticed first, the simultaneous clawing of my arms and chest and face and legs, or the overwhelming, eye-watering, nostril incinerating smell of cat feces that threatened to knock me out cold. I jerked her up to find a nice large piece of evidence of her love for me, threw the FJ into reverse and slung back up to the house where I honked the horn until Erika came out to see what was the matter. All it took was for her to walk up to the rolled down window...she didn't even have to ask. Poor girl got a crash course in clorox wipes, wal-mart sacks, and cleaning up messes (I figure someday it'll be good experience for her when she has children). All this time I still have a death grip on the nape of Harley's neck not daring to let go....our 8:15 appointment is fast approaching. Before I began driving again I made a monumental mistake and rolled the window back up so there was less temptation for her to jump out. I start back down the driveway, this time with a towel in my lap (like that was going to do any good...the damage had already been done!) I guess I figured it would catch anything else that came flying out of her body on the ride to the clinic. As if all of that wasn't excitement enough, I spent the next 20 minutes driving with one hand, and holding her suspended body in the air by the nape of the neck with the other because every time a paw landed anywhere she started clawing for dear life. To make matters worse I had rolled the dang window up. Which meant the stench of her love for me had no way of escaping. If I let go with one hand to roll the window down I would crash, if I let go with the other I would literally have my eyeballs clawed out. I began to wonder if anyone had ever died from toxic levels of inhaled ammonia. I also began to wonder what it would look like if I really did crash...they'd open the door to a possessed cat and a soiled and bloody driver. Needless to say, I have never in my life been so tempted to drop an animal out on the side of the road. In fact, at one point I even started to slow down and pull off. And then, I don't know if it was the toxic levels coming off the remains of the poop, or the adrenaline, or just my plain warped sense of humor, I began to laugh hysterically because everytime I turned the wheel the cat would swing to one side and as I corrected she'd swing back to the other. So there I was, passing cars while holding a crazed, swinging cat up in the air, tears rolling down my face from the odor and dying laughing while trying to keep my mouth closed so I can't taste the smell all at the same time. 8:10am I arrive at the clinic, soiled clothes, bloody arms, and crazed cat in tow. Sit one seat over from a lady who has the fattest cat I've ever seen in my life curled up in a ball dead asleep on her lap. I still have Harley suspended in air. Lady looks at me with eyes as big as saucers and says "What happened to it?!?" I reply with a perfectly calm and straight face "I have no idea." Fast forward to 8:30am: Return home and scrub the daylights out of the seatbelt where half of her present landed. 9:20am: Leave for Erika's cello lesson 35 minutes away. Go approximately to the end of the driveway before we realize we have to ride with the windows down because it still smells as potent as ever. 11:00am: Leave cello lesson and once again drive 35 minutes home with the windows rolled down (87 degrees and humid as all get out) back home. 11:30am: Pick up poor stranded puppy on the side of the road. Wondered at the irony. 11:35am: Go back out to reclean the seatbelt and perform a more thorough check which lead to the discovery of another present under the driver's seat. Cleaned daylights out of vehicle for second time. 3:00pm, Take Dog to the Vet for recheck and to pick up Harley. 3:30pm Drove home with Biggun in the front, and Harley in the back seat. In a box. With the lid taped shut. Dog was happy. Harley was playing pinball in the box attempting to escape. And once again, I was dying laughing. Moral: Go right ahead. Crap on me. I guarantee I'll have the last laugh.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Writing "The List"
I got an email about two years ago that left me sitting absolutely stunned in my chair (it was titled "3900 Saturdays"). I remember at the time it echoed exactly how I wanted to be living my life, and the only thing that has changed is that I feel that way more strongly than ever. It talked about how if we live to be 75, the average life span, we will have 3900 Saturdays. (I still have it saved on my computer if anyone wants a copy). Three years from now I will have lived through half of my Saturdays, leaving me with 1950. To tell the truth I feel like every single one of them are a bonus. I received that email four days before the phone call that would take us to Idaho to be with Nana for the last time.
Nana's death and the weeks leading up to it that I spent there with her I very rarely speak of. It remains a very sacred experience to me, and one that unquestionably and irrevocably changed me forever. In the year and a half since, that experience has caused me to gauge and re-gauge over and over again who I have become and where I am headed. It is also what led me about two or three months ago to begin to write "The List". You know, the one that lists all of the things I want to do before I die. Writing and carrying out the first on the list wasn't so bad. The rest has not been so easy.
Not wanting to live another minute with regret the first one on the list was "Apologize". It suprised me how quickly I got through that sub-list, and even more how it seemed to really freak some people out. (Seriously people! I really and truly just wanted to say "sorry". No ulterior motives! Geez!) Having made this my first goal I waited to write the rest of my list until I had accomplished this, so if I missed anyone in the process I now say, "Please, excuse me for being a pompous butt/ inconsiderate oaf/knucklehead/forgetting your birthday (or other special something)/'insert appropriate title here'." However, I do not apologize for giving that boy a fat lip on the playground when he wouldn't stop picking on that other boy, or for throwing that girl across the desk when she wouldn't stop talking so ugly about my brother. I do most sincerely apologize to that wife whose husband I made look like a fool in front of half the mall because of his unbelievable cruelty to her in public, but only because I'm afraid he went home and took it out on you.
As quickly as I finished with the first on my list, I naturally assumed it would be easy to write the rest. What I have discovered as I have slowly compiled my list is that though there are things I really, really want to do, and places I really, really want to visit, I'm having a very difficult time even coming up with more than 13 real things. It made me question my gumption, made me think I was losing my zeal for adventure and for experiencing life. But what I have realized is that the things that really matter to me are things that I can't just do once and check off. They will take the rest of my life to do and experience. Things that I won't be able to check off my list until I'm gone. Like sitting on the porch swing wrapped up in tangled arms and legs and hands with my family laughing/meditating/listening/being with them as often as I can. Like raising kind, faithful, strong, courageous, children who see their unique and incredible potential and aren't afraid to recognize, embrace, and fulfill it. Like volunteering for Hospice. Like always keeping my heart and eyes open to see who might need an encouraging word or gentle touch. In essence I could have just one thing on my list that would encompass it all....REALLY LIVE.
What I came to understand as I wrote my list is that yes, there are still things I want to do/see/accomplish, but by and large I have the happiest life I know. So absolutely overwhelmingly rich. My first half of the journey, though definately not easy, has been so blessed. I think recognizing that is a large part of what will continue to make the rest so sweet. The other variable is knowing that I have a family (including all my "adopted" family) who have always stood in front of me plowing the way, beside me holding me hand, and behind me encouraging me on, always seeming to know exactly when to do which. All of my adventures, both large and small, have been and are grand because of them. (I just hope Honey will remember that when she finds out that my list includes flying in a bi-plane complete with as many "loop-d-loops" as possible, and sky-diving. I give her approximately 2.1 seconds to call me just a fussin' when she reads this. I bet I can talk D into going with me.)
Refusing to drive a vehicle that isn't 4-wheel drive has for a number of years been my last lifeline to the adventure junky that lives inside of me, leaving that door open to go down any untraveled road (the funnest are the dirt/muddy ones) I come across. While I fully relish and actively safeguard the contentment and peace of home, the curiosity to know what is over the next ridge, or state line, or ocean very rarely eludes me. So my list most definately includes a few adventures. Having said all that, three years ago my Aunt Jeannie and I helped my then 83-year-old Granny climb onto the Tilt-a-Whirl and boy did we ever go for a ride! The tears from the laughter were probably splattering every bystander within 40 feet of the ride with every twirl we made. That experience, among a plethera of others, has taught me that the list of things to check off before I go are more moments to experience, often unplanned, that will really be the joyous stitches in time weaving the extraordinary life I want to live.
Life is the adventure, and the adventures and those we share them with are what make a life. So, I guess now the question simply is, I'm checking off my list...anyone up for a ride?
Nana's death and the weeks leading up to it that I spent there with her I very rarely speak of. It remains a very sacred experience to me, and one that unquestionably and irrevocably changed me forever. In the year and a half since, that experience has caused me to gauge and re-gauge over and over again who I have become and where I am headed. It is also what led me about two or three months ago to begin to write "The List". You know, the one that lists all of the things I want to do before I die. Writing and carrying out the first on the list wasn't so bad. The rest has not been so easy.
Not wanting to live another minute with regret the first one on the list was "Apologize". It suprised me how quickly I got through that sub-list, and even more how it seemed to really freak some people out. (Seriously people! I really and truly just wanted to say "sorry". No ulterior motives! Geez!) Having made this my first goal I waited to write the rest of my list until I had accomplished this, so if I missed anyone in the process I now say, "Please, excuse me for being a pompous butt/ inconsiderate oaf/knucklehead/forgetting your birthday (or other special something)/'insert appropriate title here'." However, I do not apologize for giving that boy a fat lip on the playground when he wouldn't stop picking on that other boy, or for throwing that girl across the desk when she wouldn't stop talking so ugly about my brother. I do most sincerely apologize to that wife whose husband I made look like a fool in front of half the mall because of his unbelievable cruelty to her in public, but only because I'm afraid he went home and took it out on you.
As quickly as I finished with the first on my list, I naturally assumed it would be easy to write the rest. What I have discovered as I have slowly compiled my list is that though there are things I really, really want to do, and places I really, really want to visit, I'm having a very difficult time even coming up with more than 13 real things. It made me question my gumption, made me think I was losing my zeal for adventure and for experiencing life. But what I have realized is that the things that really matter to me are things that I can't just do once and check off. They will take the rest of my life to do and experience. Things that I won't be able to check off my list until I'm gone. Like sitting on the porch swing wrapped up in tangled arms and legs and hands with my family laughing/meditating/listening/being with them as often as I can. Like raising kind, faithful, strong, courageous, children who see their unique and incredible potential and aren't afraid to recognize, embrace, and fulfill it. Like volunteering for Hospice. Like always keeping my heart and eyes open to see who might need an encouraging word or gentle touch. In essence I could have just one thing on my list that would encompass it all....REALLY LIVE.
What I came to understand as I wrote my list is that yes, there are still things I want to do/see/accomplish, but by and large I have the happiest life I know. So absolutely overwhelmingly rich. My first half of the journey, though definately not easy, has been so blessed. I think recognizing that is a large part of what will continue to make the rest so sweet. The other variable is knowing that I have a family (including all my "adopted" family) who have always stood in front of me plowing the way, beside me holding me hand, and behind me encouraging me on, always seeming to know exactly when to do which. All of my adventures, both large and small, have been and are grand because of them. (I just hope Honey will remember that when she finds out that my list includes flying in a bi-plane complete with as many "loop-d-loops" as possible, and sky-diving. I give her approximately 2.1 seconds to call me just a fussin' when she reads this. I bet I can talk D into going with me.)
Refusing to drive a vehicle that isn't 4-wheel drive has for a number of years been my last lifeline to the adventure junky that lives inside of me, leaving that door open to go down any untraveled road (the funnest are the dirt/muddy ones) I come across. While I fully relish and actively safeguard the contentment and peace of home, the curiosity to know what is over the next ridge, or state line, or ocean very rarely eludes me. So my list most definately includes a few adventures. Having said all that, three years ago my Aunt Jeannie and I helped my then 83-year-old Granny climb onto the Tilt-a-Whirl and boy did we ever go for a ride! The tears from the laughter were probably splattering every bystander within 40 feet of the ride with every twirl we made. That experience, among a plethera of others, has taught me that the list of things to check off before I go are more moments to experience, often unplanned, that will really be the joyous stitches in time weaving the extraordinary life I want to live.
Life is the adventure, and the adventures and those we share them with are what make a life. So, I guess now the question simply is, I'm checking off my list...anyone up for a ride?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Sailing Through the Sea of Anger
Life really never, and never really stops...even when you run away for a day, or sleep an extra 30 minutes in the morning, or work on a different project for a change of scenery, or try with all your heart to convince yourself that everything is okay. Reality, duty, sunrises and sunsets, they just don't cease.
I have never been an angry person. I have a very long "fuse" (unless you bully someone or lie to me, then I have no fuse at all...hence Clint's favorite story to tell about me involving 2 punk bullies and an incident in McDonalds shortly after we were married). Actually, I can count on one and a half hands the number of times I have been truly angry during the course of my lifetime, and they have always involved bullies and lies. Old Lady Anger just isn't a regular friend of mine that comes over for tea and crumpets every Thursday at 2:00.
So imagine my astonishment and consternation at discovering that part of the biting, harsh reality of the grief process really is "anger". Just feeling so angry all the time. Not directed at God, or any one person, just anger. Oh, my head already knew this, but my soul had never tasted the bitterness of the anger that comes after so much grief and loss. Such a different angry than the few times I have experienced before! I thought I was in the clear, that I had made it through the worst and was on my way, but the compounding factors of losing loved ones, and all the other "turmoil" I have experienced over the last four years have finally caught up and hit me all at once, and hard. I guess you can only live in survival mode for so long. And so I have found myself sailing for the first time through the Sea of Anger. Just like the sunrise and sunset, I have found that there is no escape, no hiding, no shore to take me around it. The only way is through it. It is a journey that, much like the cause of it, I have had no choice but to take. And I admit it, I have really struggled! I do not like feeling mad!
I recognize that this is a journey that we all must make at some point in our lives. I am neither the first nor the last to feel it. My causes have been nothing compared to the grief others have experienced, I would never assume that or wish others to believe it to be so. By talking about it I am not negating the miraculous ways God has soothed my heart and taken such care of me. The truth is that that is precisely why I know that this trip, like all the others before that have been the precipitating factors for it, has been and will be navigated by his gentle, soothing, understanding hand. The stormy sea has been filled with buoys and lighthouses that have guided me from drowning in the depths of despair, have kept me on my course, and now I can finally see the safe harbor on the horizon and know I'll be there soon.
The clouds of sorrow are beginning to lift, the biting cold wind of hurt is abating, and the blisters from the oars of adveristy are starting to heal. My journey through the Sea of Anger during this season of winter in my life is finally drawing to a close, but has left me with more hope, courage, determination, and most of all gratitude than ever before. And an understanding far beyond anything I ever could have dreamed of. (Not to mention how buff I am now from all that rowing!)
I last wrote of the jonquils bloom in the spring and the feelings of warmth and peace they bring and why. Spring this year has been far more than just flowers blooming, the sweetness associated with them, and leaves budding out my window. They are also blooming for the first time in years in my heart. And again I say that I find myself breathing deeper, and longer, and easier. The sweet is sweeter. The brightness of the rising sun is brighter. I look around and see more richness and beauty in my life than ever before. And I know that I am immensely, profoundly, extraordinarly blessed.
I've just got to keep looking for the buoys of angels (both figurative and literal), the lighthouses of hope sent to guide me, and the feel of gentle, soothing, understanding hands that have already walked on water and calmed the angry seas, far more capable than I at navigating my course. I'm almost there...
I have never been an angry person. I have a very long "fuse" (unless you bully someone or lie to me, then I have no fuse at all...hence Clint's favorite story to tell about me involving 2 punk bullies and an incident in McDonalds shortly after we were married). Actually, I can count on one and a half hands the number of times I have been truly angry during the course of my lifetime, and they have always involved bullies and lies. Old Lady Anger just isn't a regular friend of mine that comes over for tea and crumpets every Thursday at 2:00.
So imagine my astonishment and consternation at discovering that part of the biting, harsh reality of the grief process really is "anger". Just feeling so angry all the time. Not directed at God, or any one person, just anger. Oh, my head already knew this, but my soul had never tasted the bitterness of the anger that comes after so much grief and loss. Such a different angry than the few times I have experienced before! I thought I was in the clear, that I had made it through the worst and was on my way, but the compounding factors of losing loved ones, and all the other "turmoil" I have experienced over the last four years have finally caught up and hit me all at once, and hard. I guess you can only live in survival mode for so long. And so I have found myself sailing for the first time through the Sea of Anger. Just like the sunrise and sunset, I have found that there is no escape, no hiding, no shore to take me around it. The only way is through it. It is a journey that, much like the cause of it, I have had no choice but to take. And I admit it, I have really struggled! I do not like feeling mad!
I recognize that this is a journey that we all must make at some point in our lives. I am neither the first nor the last to feel it. My causes have been nothing compared to the grief others have experienced, I would never assume that or wish others to believe it to be so. By talking about it I am not negating the miraculous ways God has soothed my heart and taken such care of me. The truth is that that is precisely why I know that this trip, like all the others before that have been the precipitating factors for it, has been and will be navigated by his gentle, soothing, understanding hand. The stormy sea has been filled with buoys and lighthouses that have guided me from drowning in the depths of despair, have kept me on my course, and now I can finally see the safe harbor on the horizon and know I'll be there soon.
The clouds of sorrow are beginning to lift, the biting cold wind of hurt is abating, and the blisters from the oars of adveristy are starting to heal. My journey through the Sea of Anger during this season of winter in my life is finally drawing to a close, but has left me with more hope, courage, determination, and most of all gratitude than ever before. And an understanding far beyond anything I ever could have dreamed of. (Not to mention how buff I am now from all that rowing!)
I last wrote of the jonquils bloom in the spring and the feelings of warmth and peace they bring and why. Spring this year has been far more than just flowers blooming, the sweetness associated with them, and leaves budding out my window. They are also blooming for the first time in years in my heart. And again I say that I find myself breathing deeper, and longer, and easier. The sweet is sweeter. The brightness of the rising sun is brighter. I look around and see more richness and beauty in my life than ever before. And I know that I am immensely, profoundly, extraordinarly blessed.
I've just got to keep looking for the buoys of angels (both figurative and literal), the lighthouses of hope sent to guide me, and the feel of gentle, soothing, understanding hands that have already walked on water and calmed the angry seas, far more capable than I at navigating my course. I'm almost there...
Monday, March 29, 2010
"Earth Laughs in Flowers" (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
Every spring I look forward with great anticipation to seeing the first daffodils bloom, specifically the jonquils. The first day I see them bloom is the official first day of spring for me. (Most years this is sometime around the end of February...the only good thing about February in my opinion). It marks the beginning of warm sunny days that begin to melt the frosty, shriveling, winter cold that always seems to take up residence in my soul. I find myself breathing deeper, longer, easier.
As much as I enjoy what the blooming flowers usher in, I enjoy what they symbolize to me much more. Jonquils are my favorite flower. Yes, they're pretty, yes, they smell heavenly, but these are not the characteristics that make them my favorite. It is the memories associated with them that remind me of a truth that has been an anchor, an example, an ideal to me for as long as I can remember.
Every year, at least as long as I have been in existence (and probably longer), there has come a knock at the front door on any random spring afternoon. Having lived out in the country for the vast majority of my life growing up, a knock at the door was always unexpected, inevitably invoking a "Who in the world could that be?" And year after year, spring after spring, the door opens and D is standing there with his hand behind his back with a bouquet of the first jonquils of spring that he has stopped and picked for Honey, his sweetheart.
I know that as a little girl I just thought it was nice to have pretty flowers in the house. As I grew older I began to appreciate that he was doing something nice for Honey. And as the years have passed I have grown to appreciate the profound beauty in an act so simple and all that it represents. Is it any wonder that the bloom of the jonquils in the spring evoke feelings of warmth, and happiness, and peace in me? The same warmth, and happiness, and peace that I experience when I think of how much my parents love each other.
Throughout the years there were other quiet tokens of affection that would randomly appear. A letter in the mail (mailed from his office) for Honey that would read, "I love you. Do you love me? Mark Yes or No." And there would be drawn on the paper two little boxes, one for yes, one for no. I remember one year he sent her a giant heart-shaped balloon to school for her on Valentine's Day. It was so big she could put it over her head, and there is even a picture of her in my yearbook with this heart balloon resting on her shoulders. These "little" gifts ultimately represented to me the best gifts in the world. Most often costing nothing, or at most a stamp, they were heartfelt, and watching from the sidelines my heart felt!
It has been said that the greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. And so it has been for me. The love D has shown Honey, and continues to show her, teaches me more than I think he could ever realize. And the love she reciprocates is just as divine. As the years continue to pass, their relationship continues to be filled with so much laughter, and so much love, and the love I feel for them continues to grow even when I think I couldn't possibly love and appreciate them any more than I already do. Rarely a day goes by that I don't include in my prayers my deep, abiding gratitude for the opportunity and blessing to be their daughter.
Do I realize what a rarity they are? Without question. An anchor, an example, an ideal. A profound source of warmth, happiness, and peace.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Mileage
January 2nd of this new year I found myself driving across the barren landscape of Wyoming (again) with two children in the back seats reading, one child looking out the window, Clint snoozing after driving through hours and hours of snow and ice covered roads, and Papa joining him in sweet la la land. The sun was piercingly beautiful against the backdrop of a cloudless deep blue sky and the snow covered Medicine Bow National Forest we were driving through. And as usual I was enjoying just letting my mind wander and wonder. Driving can be so therapeutic. I started thinking about how many miles we had driven and would drive over a span of 14days alone (4390 to be exact), and began to wonder how many thousands of miles my children had traveled since they each had become a part of our family. I chuckled as I thought about how many times Honey has said to me "Their poor little butts have GOT to be wore completely out!" Needless to say, when I tell people my kids are the world's best travelers I am in no way, shape, or form exagerrating. They truly are the best! It is often asked, "How did you get them to do that?". Well the blaring truth is we've never really thought about it, just put them in the car and gone. So I guess it's called the "get in the car and go" method. Ha ha ha.
A lot of our very best memories are from the road trips we've taken together. I'm not just speaking of the destinations, I'm talking about the journeys to get there. With as hectic as life can get, pulling us in so many different directions, spending time together in a car (for us at least) is a way to reconnect without interruption or distraction. We talk and share and bust out in song and joke and make faces and laugh our heads off. We have spans of sweet comfortable silence, off in each of our own worlds, yet close enough to reach out and hold a hand all at the same time. We have quality time together and the all too often overlooked and underated quantity time to go with it. And the five of us are among the rare people on the planet to know what a serious case of the "Weegie Weegies" is...travel far enough and you'll know what I'm talking about. Of course you'll have to have our warped sense of humor to recognize it when it happens.
As amazing as the journeys themselves are, having stood in some of the most beautiful places in the world and sharing it with each other is, well, priceless. A treasure. The joy of experiencing it together is what takes something awe-inspiring and transforms it into something even more. A beautiful waterfall is just a beautiful waterfall until you have a hand wrapped in yours to share it with. To witness the awe and wonder on three little faces, to hear the gasps and oohs and wows and the "that is so cools" is, well, I guess you just have to be there. I wouldn't trade our big adventures together for anything.
I came home from our latest trip with a mission to total the number of miles Erika, Kail, and Jackson have traveled. I narrowed it down to only trips to destinations 200 miles away or more, and even then these are very conservative estimates. I also divided the mileage into driven vs. flown.
After quite a few hours, a fair amount of memory jogging, and a lot of figuring and number crunching later I have the estimates in miles that my three little troopers have gone. Erika: Driven - 83,824 Flown - 24,942 Total - 108,266
Kail: Driven - 46,259 Flown - 15,306 Total - 61,565
Jackson: Driven - 38,429 Flown - 9296 Total - 47,691
To put those miles into perspective, Erika has traveled far enough to go around the earth 4 1/2 times, Kail 2 1/2, and Jackson nearly 2.
Simply put, I cherish all the roads we have traveled together, and can hardly wait to see where the ones left unexplored will lead us to next.
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