We had such a great weekend that getting up for work this morning was near impossible. As I went through the motions of showering and doing my hair and getting the kids ready for school, I was cranky and irritable as I silently counted the days left in the school year until summer vacation begins.
Mondays should be illegal.
I have a student who believes the week doesn't really begin until Wednesday. It is his opinion that Monday and Tuesday don't really count for anything (his attendance definitely reflects his beliefs!) so they can just be ignored.
I am beginning to agree with him!
Yet here I sit, another Monday running its course, wishing for the weekend again.
Last night we took our kids to the beach for the first time of the season. It was sunny and breezy. The ocean water sits at about 65 degrees right now. We had gone to dinner with friends and then planned to let the boys play in the sand for a bit before heading back home. My two little men didn't even hesitate despite the spring weather conditions. They kicked of their flip flops, pulled off their shirts and ran straight into the waves. For the next twenty minutes they splashed and kicked and jumped the waves without a second thought to the chill in the water and the setting evening sun. When it was time to go home, they resisted my requests to leave behind the Atlantic Ocean until we promised them a return adventure the next weekend.
It's official. Summer has begun.
I love the beach. When we were choosing a place to relocate to seven years ago my only stipulation was to be near the beach. There is nothing more relaxing than stretching out on a blanket in the sand listening to the waves as they crash on the shore. Ocean breezes, the sounds of sea gulls flying overhead and children laughing and playing are the perfect soundtrack to a lazy summer day.
I have totally adapted to the beach way of life too. I have more flip flops than shoes, I drive with the windows and sun roof wide open and we spend weekends hanging out with friends, grilling on the BBQ and sitting around the fire pit with the neighbors enjoying a few beverages and snacks.
Last July 4th my husband and I sat out on the back deck with a neighbor enjoying the fireworks show of another neighbor. This was three days before my father passed away and at the heart of my lowest point emotionally and mentally. As we all sat there, drinking and talking and just enjoying the pure relaxation of doing nothing, we vowed that from then on we would have many summer nights of exactly the same thing. We have since carved out a saturday night ritual of game nights and fires and drinks and snacks and laughter and relaxation. Adult time, as we have come to think of it as, is something we look forward to now. Something I now realize that we all need.
Part of my interior remodel of the past year has been to convince myself that it is OK to slow down once in a while and just relax. I am a champion multitasker. If I watch television I am also folding laundry or grading papers or swiffering the wood floors. I am cooking dinner, I am loading the dishwasher, watering the plants and jockeying my kids through their homework. I am physically incapable of doing just one thing at a time. I'm pretty sure that is partly responsible for my sky high stress level and even though I am consciously aware of that I can't seem to help myself. My friend Sherry calls me an over achiever. I never thought of myself that way but maybe she is right.
I have accepted that I am not perfect.
I will never be mother of the year or even teacher of the year.
But that's OK.
There will always be dirty dishes. The laundry will never be caught up.
Life goes on and I can either let it pass on by or I can grab on and ride the waves home.
Harold Camping is a self proclaimed evangelist who believed he had mathematically calculated the end of the world to be May 21, 2011 at 6pm. Since it is now May 23, I think it is safe to say that his mathmetical skills may have been lacking some. Or, perhaps it is out of the power of a human being to determine such an event. Either way, we only have so much time here on Earth and I have decided that I want to enjoy it as much as I can. I want to watch my children grow into the amazing men they will one day be. I want to revel in the joy of three tiny tomatoes on my tomato plant and the blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun. I want to stop and smell all the flowers, not just the roses.
After all, we never know when our lives will end.
Isn't that right Mr. Camping?
Monday, May 23, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Big Hair and Billy Joel- Memories of My High School Prom
Today is prom day. All day long Juniors and Seniors have been dismissing early, heading off to hair appointments and nail appointments. To pick up tuxes and have pictures taken. My classes have been miniscule, the kids that were present were ansty and unfocused. Top all that off with an unplanned fire alarm and the warm weather this was one unproductive day!
As a teacher I really enjoy all the buzz at the end of the year. Not just because I am as ready for summer as my students are but because the excitement surrounding Prom and yearbooks and graduation is infectious. It always brings me back to my own experiences and I begin to reminisce about the "good ole' days."
The first Prom I attended was my freshman year. In my high school Prom was for Juniors and Dinner Dance was for seniors. As a freshman I had many junior friends and so I attended the traditional celebration with a boy I knew and several other friends. It was held in the school gym which had miraculously been turned into something beautiful and magical. My second Prom was my own. Like all girls I poured over magazines and catalogs looking for the perfect dress. Finally, unable to find what I really wanted, I chose beautiful irridescent fabric and and just the right pattern and had my dream dress made. It was perfect- tea length, tiered irridescent skirt and spaghetti strapped bodice. Topped off with perfectly large "eighties" hair I felt like a princess.
My "prince" was a boy I had first met in the fifth grade. Ours was a love-hate relationship for years as we jockyed back and forth between friends and enemies. Over the years between fifth grade and eleventh grade he tormented me and tortured me. During periods of clemency we would try to be friends but it never lasted very long. When his father passed away at the beginning of our junior year we had oscillated back to friends and for some reason the pendulum stayed in that position. Over the months preceeding the Prom our friendship developed into my first real "long term" relationship (If you could count three months as long term...!).
When my date arrived in his father's shiny, white Buick, Billy Joel was in the tape deck and a corsage was in his hand. After all of the obligatory pictures of us and our group of friends we all headed off to indulge in Italian food before a night of dancing and celebration. We did the chicken dance and the YMCA, the Twist and the Electric Slide. Every joined the Locomotion and we danced in groups. There were slow dances and songs that were impossible to dance to. No one spiked the punch and everyone complimented everyone else on how nice they looked.
When the main event came to a close we all headed back to my house for an after prom celebration of food, movies and swimming. It was the first and really my only "Boy-Girl" sleepover. I am quite certain that my mother only agreed to it to ensure that she would know exactly where I was and what I was doing all night long. Either way we all had a great time and the night still remains as one of my favorite high school memories.
When the pendulum swung again a few weeks later, my "long term", three month relationship came to an end. For years we avoided each other, hurt feelings governing our lost relationship. We have long since gone our separate ways, etching out careers and bulding families and even mending our broken friendship through the wonders of social networking. But despite all of that, I only have good memories of what is essentially a rite of passage to becoming an adult.
In this day and age there are so many more things to consider as we send our children out into the world alone. The easy access of drugs, alcohol, tobacco and even sex have raised the stakes considerably in the twenty years since I drove away in a shiny, white Buick. By the time my own boys meet girls they like enough to put on a tux and get a haircut for, there's no telling what will be out there waiting for them. SOme days I joke about putting them in plastic bubbles to protect them from the world but really, I am only half joking.
As I watch the drama of Prom among my students I hear the strains of a Billy Joel ballad in some deep recess of my brain. Plans for limos and fancy dinners have been flying around for weeks. Talk of after- parties and hotel rooms worry me some. I remember the alcohol free night and all the fun we managed to have completely sober and I pray for the safety of each of my students as they head out in gowns and tuxes, dressed like adults but thinking like teenagers. I pray that they make good decisions and return home to their parents at some designated time in one piece and full of the excitement of a night they will always remember. A night always worth remembering.
As a teacher I really enjoy all the buzz at the end of the year. Not just because I am as ready for summer as my students are but because the excitement surrounding Prom and yearbooks and graduation is infectious. It always brings me back to my own experiences and I begin to reminisce about the "good ole' days."
The first Prom I attended was my freshman year. In my high school Prom was for Juniors and Dinner Dance was for seniors. As a freshman I had many junior friends and so I attended the traditional celebration with a boy I knew and several other friends. It was held in the school gym which had miraculously been turned into something beautiful and magical. My second Prom was my own. Like all girls I poured over magazines and catalogs looking for the perfect dress. Finally, unable to find what I really wanted, I chose beautiful irridescent fabric and and just the right pattern and had my dream dress made. It was perfect- tea length, tiered irridescent skirt and spaghetti strapped bodice. Topped off with perfectly large "eighties" hair I felt like a princess.
My "prince" was a boy I had first met in the fifth grade. Ours was a love-hate relationship for years as we jockyed back and forth between friends and enemies. Over the years between fifth grade and eleventh grade he tormented me and tortured me. During periods of clemency we would try to be friends but it never lasted very long. When his father passed away at the beginning of our junior year we had oscillated back to friends and for some reason the pendulum stayed in that position. Over the months preceeding the Prom our friendship developed into my first real "long term" relationship (If you could count three months as long term...!).
When my date arrived in his father's shiny, white Buick, Billy Joel was in the tape deck and a corsage was in his hand. After all of the obligatory pictures of us and our group of friends we all headed off to indulge in Italian food before a night of dancing and celebration. We did the chicken dance and the YMCA, the Twist and the Electric Slide. Every joined the Locomotion and we danced in groups. There were slow dances and songs that were impossible to dance to. No one spiked the punch and everyone complimented everyone else on how nice they looked.
When the main event came to a close we all headed back to my house for an after prom celebration of food, movies and swimming. It was the first and really my only "Boy-Girl" sleepover. I am quite certain that my mother only agreed to it to ensure that she would know exactly where I was and what I was doing all night long. Either way we all had a great time and the night still remains as one of my favorite high school memories.
When the pendulum swung again a few weeks later, my "long term", three month relationship came to an end. For years we avoided each other, hurt feelings governing our lost relationship. We have long since gone our separate ways, etching out careers and bulding families and even mending our broken friendship through the wonders of social networking. But despite all of that, I only have good memories of what is essentially a rite of passage to becoming an adult.
In this day and age there are so many more things to consider as we send our children out into the world alone. The easy access of drugs, alcohol, tobacco and even sex have raised the stakes considerably in the twenty years since I drove away in a shiny, white Buick. By the time my own boys meet girls they like enough to put on a tux and get a haircut for, there's no telling what will be out there waiting for them. SOme days I joke about putting them in plastic bubbles to protect them from the world but really, I am only half joking.
As I watch the drama of Prom among my students I hear the strains of a Billy Joel ballad in some deep recess of my brain. Plans for limos and fancy dinners have been flying around for weeks. Talk of after- parties and hotel rooms worry me some. I remember the alcohol free night and all the fun we managed to have completely sober and I pray for the safety of each of my students as they head out in gowns and tuxes, dressed like adults but thinking like teenagers. I pray that they make good decisions and return home to their parents at some designated time in one piece and full of the excitement of a night they will always remember. A night always worth remembering.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
I Hate Cancer- Have I Mentioned That Lately?
In 1985 I was in Jr. High. I had discovered boys, tight perms and miniskirts. I hated dayglo orange but I loved my jelly flats and I used at least a can of Aqua Net hairspray a week. Rick Springfield's Jessie's Girl was my favorite song and Teen Beat heart throbs hung on my wall. June 13th was a Friday, just days away from the end of the school year and the freedom that summer would provide. I remember wanting to grab my bike and head over to my friend Karen's house. We almost always had sleepovers on fridays, just to escape our parents and our younger siblings. Finally old enough to ride across our small town on my own, my pink and grey ten speed was my most prized possession.
On this particular friday the house was eerily quiet. My little brother, four at the time, should have been running around terrorizing our baby sister, barely two. Instead the whole house was silent. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and called out with no response. Finally I found my mother in her room. I could see that she had been crying but as an awkward teenager, I had no idea what to say.
It was on that beautiful sunny upstate New York day that we learned that my baby brother had something called Leukemia.
Leukemia.
I still hate that word. The only word I hate more is Cancer.
Twenty six years ago the survival rates for Leukemia were so much less than they are now. And of course, my brother had what was once considered the "adult" form. Not common in children and not nearly as easy to cure.
In just a few minutes the once promising days of summer slipped away and became a flurry of doctors, chemotherapy, hair loss, vomiting, and falling blood counts.
The days I planned to spend riding my bike, flirting with boys at the town pool and basically just being young and free were instead spent in the house babysitting my younger sisters, learning to do laundry, keeping up on the housework and preparing meals. If it weren't for the presence of Karen who biked to my house nearly every single day I am not sure I would have been able to keep it together.
Especially when there was more bad news.
The chemotherapy drugs weren't killing the cancer cells quickly enough.
The only option left was bone marrow transplant, or BMT.
A bone marrow transplant? At that age I had no idea what bone marrow even was, let alone the fact that it could be transplanted from one person to another.
BMT's were still somewhat experimental at that time and were only performed at select hospitals. My brother's would be done at Sloan Kettering Memorial Hospital in New York City.
Not only were they experiemental, they were also very, very expensive and insurance companies were often hesitant to take on such costs. Still, it was the only option and my parents were going to take it.
The first step was to find a donor. Back then they only looked a few factors. Blood type, the presence of certain proteins and other biochemical molecules. The best hope was for a related donor, preferably one of his siblings since we all shared the same genetics. The doctors explained the importance of a match and the likelihood that they may not find one.
My two sisters and I gave blood and then went home to wait.
Everyone was absolutely amazed when it turned out that all three of us were perfect matches!
Since I was the oldest, strongest and healthiest it was decided that I was the best choice. It never even occurred to me to say no. I had no idea what the procedure entailed but it didn't matter.
We left for NYC in January 1986.
The Ronald McDonald house is a charitable organization that provides housing for ill children and their families. All five of us shared a room with two beds and a crib. My brother stayed at the hospital.
The first week they killed his bone marrow with high doses of radiation aimed at his frail little body every day for five days. At the end of the week he was in isolation with absolutely no immune system at all and no way of creating one on his own.
When the time came, I joined him in the hospital. The surgery was quick. Using a large syringe, they removed bone marrow from my hip bones and put it into an IV bag. My brother sat in his isolation room playing Nintendo while my bone barrow dripped into his blood stream through a tube.
And then the waiting began.
White blood cells are vital immune system molecules. They fight infection and keep us healthy. After radiation, they are all gone. After a BMT, every one waits to see them begin to appear again.
We waited and waited for those cells to appear.
Nothing happened.
Our faith dwindled.
Mom cried alot, Dad cursed alot. I spent my days with my sisters at the RMH, my parents spent their days at the hospital.
Mom's tears turned to prayers.
And still nothing happened.
The doctor's lost hope, we said our goodbyes.
If you ask him now, my brother tells an awesome story of a visit he had from a man while he slept. They played games and talked and then the man left. I could never tell the story like he does so I won't even try.
All I know is the morning after we said our goodbyes, his white blood cell count multiplied and multiplied some more.
He woke up smiling and happy.
In thoss days the hospital performed BMT's in clusters of four. Survival was about 25% which meant only one of the four made it to go home.
The other three children did not make it.
Almost twenty six years of remission make him one heck of a survival story.
Sometimes when he's feeling fresh, he will call me and say "Hey, sis, thanks for the bone marrow." We laugh but we know its no joke.
I gave him the marrow but he did all the hard work- he put it to good use.
As adults we have gone in different directions. He works miracles in a kitchen creating meals that amaze people. I teach science to teenagers and count my grey hairs at the end of every semester. I am married with children, he still lives the bachelor life. But we are brother and sister, connected not only by DNA but by the very marrow in our bones.
As I travel my self defined road toward my own redemption I have forced myself to examine my life both in the present and in the past. There were times in my youth where I resented the circumstances forced upon us by cancer. But I never once resented my brother. I know sometimes he feels like we blame him for "wrecking all our lives" but I don't. I never could. He beat the odds. Even when the odds were stacked completely against him.
Of course, I hope he knows that if he had gone and died on us I would have held him completely responsible for wrecking our lives.
Since those days I have seen others I care about suffer the ill effects of cancer. There was Dad of course, and most recently a close friend who has valiantly fought off breast cancer. As a scientist I understand cancer on a molecular level. As a human being I will never understand it on an emotional level. I hate the way it consumes body, mind and spirit just at the mention of its name.
How did one silly little mutated cell become so all powerful anyway?
On this particular friday the house was eerily quiet. My little brother, four at the time, should have been running around terrorizing our baby sister, barely two. Instead the whole house was silent. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and called out with no response. Finally I found my mother in her room. I could see that she had been crying but as an awkward teenager, I had no idea what to say.
It was on that beautiful sunny upstate New York day that we learned that my baby brother had something called Leukemia.
Leukemia.
I still hate that word. The only word I hate more is Cancer.
Twenty six years ago the survival rates for Leukemia were so much less than they are now. And of course, my brother had what was once considered the "adult" form. Not common in children and not nearly as easy to cure.
In just a few minutes the once promising days of summer slipped away and became a flurry of doctors, chemotherapy, hair loss, vomiting, and falling blood counts.
The days I planned to spend riding my bike, flirting with boys at the town pool and basically just being young and free were instead spent in the house babysitting my younger sisters, learning to do laundry, keeping up on the housework and preparing meals. If it weren't for the presence of Karen who biked to my house nearly every single day I am not sure I would have been able to keep it together.
Especially when there was more bad news.
The chemotherapy drugs weren't killing the cancer cells quickly enough.
The only option left was bone marrow transplant, or BMT.
A bone marrow transplant? At that age I had no idea what bone marrow even was, let alone the fact that it could be transplanted from one person to another.
BMT's were still somewhat experimental at that time and were only performed at select hospitals. My brother's would be done at Sloan Kettering Memorial Hospital in New York City.
Not only were they experiemental, they were also very, very expensive and insurance companies were often hesitant to take on such costs. Still, it was the only option and my parents were going to take it.
The first step was to find a donor. Back then they only looked a few factors. Blood type, the presence of certain proteins and other biochemical molecules. The best hope was for a related donor, preferably one of his siblings since we all shared the same genetics. The doctors explained the importance of a match and the likelihood that they may not find one.
My two sisters and I gave blood and then went home to wait.
Everyone was absolutely amazed when it turned out that all three of us were perfect matches!
Since I was the oldest, strongest and healthiest it was decided that I was the best choice. It never even occurred to me to say no. I had no idea what the procedure entailed but it didn't matter.
We left for NYC in January 1986.
The Ronald McDonald house is a charitable organization that provides housing for ill children and their families. All five of us shared a room with two beds and a crib. My brother stayed at the hospital.
The first week they killed his bone marrow with high doses of radiation aimed at his frail little body every day for five days. At the end of the week he was in isolation with absolutely no immune system at all and no way of creating one on his own.
When the time came, I joined him in the hospital. The surgery was quick. Using a large syringe, they removed bone marrow from my hip bones and put it into an IV bag. My brother sat in his isolation room playing Nintendo while my bone barrow dripped into his blood stream through a tube.
And then the waiting began.
White blood cells are vital immune system molecules. They fight infection and keep us healthy. After radiation, they are all gone. After a BMT, every one waits to see them begin to appear again.
We waited and waited for those cells to appear.
Nothing happened.
Our faith dwindled.
Mom cried alot, Dad cursed alot. I spent my days with my sisters at the RMH, my parents spent their days at the hospital.
Mom's tears turned to prayers.
And still nothing happened.
The doctor's lost hope, we said our goodbyes.
If you ask him now, my brother tells an awesome story of a visit he had from a man while he slept. They played games and talked and then the man left. I could never tell the story like he does so I won't even try.
All I know is the morning after we said our goodbyes, his white blood cell count multiplied and multiplied some more.
He woke up smiling and happy.
In thoss days the hospital performed BMT's in clusters of four. Survival was about 25% which meant only one of the four made it to go home.
The other three children did not make it.
Almost twenty six years of remission make him one heck of a survival story.
Sometimes when he's feeling fresh, he will call me and say "Hey, sis, thanks for the bone marrow." We laugh but we know its no joke.
I gave him the marrow but he did all the hard work- he put it to good use.
As adults we have gone in different directions. He works miracles in a kitchen creating meals that amaze people. I teach science to teenagers and count my grey hairs at the end of every semester. I am married with children, he still lives the bachelor life. But we are brother and sister, connected not only by DNA but by the very marrow in our bones.
As I travel my self defined road toward my own redemption I have forced myself to examine my life both in the present and in the past. There were times in my youth where I resented the circumstances forced upon us by cancer. But I never once resented my brother. I know sometimes he feels like we blame him for "wrecking all our lives" but I don't. I never could. He beat the odds. Even when the odds were stacked completely against him.
Of course, I hope he knows that if he had gone and died on us I would have held him completely responsible for wrecking our lives.
Since those days I have seen others I care about suffer the ill effects of cancer. There was Dad of course, and most recently a close friend who has valiantly fought off breast cancer. As a scientist I understand cancer on a molecular level. As a human being I will never understand it on an emotional level. I hate the way it consumes body, mind and spirit just at the mention of its name.
How did one silly little mutated cell become so all powerful anyway?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Everyone Goes Home
My husband worked last night. It was the first night of his rotation after a three day weekend. I say weekend with a grain of salt of course, because in police work a "weekend" might be tuesday, wednesday and thursday. As is the norm when he is not home, I had a dificult time falling asleep. As is even more common, I had an even more difficult time staying asleep. So, at 4 am, as I lay in bed listening to the sounds of the world waking up I struggled against the urge to call him or text him just to see if he was OK.
I never call him when he is on duty unless it is a true emergency. I might text, knowing that he will only respond if he can but I rarely actually dial his number. My reason is simple. A ringing, or even a buzzing cell phone can one day mean the difference between life and death. Injury and safety. Imagine a stand off between several cops and an irate, agitated suspect jacked up on crack or dangerously inebriated from alcohol. The sound of his phone buzzing on his duty belt could be the catalyst that sends the irate, agitated, under the influence suspect into a fury and suddenly he becomes a felon and maybe my husband, or one of his friends doesn't make it home the next morning.
And that is always the plan.
Everyone goes home safe.
So I resisted the urge to call him and instead listened to the sound of the woodpecker as it banged its beak against my house, drilling more holes in the already damaged fascia board.
As I waited for sleep to return.
Of course, it never did.
Around five a.m. my little one crawled into bed with me. The wood pecker moved to the wall outside my bedroom and the numbers on the bedside clock changed ever so slowly until finally my alarm sounded and I was forced to face the day.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed?
Whatever.
Going through the motions of preparation, I opted for the hot rollers instead of the straight iron, too tired from my sleepless night to care about perfectly straightened tresses. Ninety minutes later as I drove my youngest son to preschool, I finally pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number. Just the sound of his voice over the line instantly relaxed the tense line of my shoulders.
He was alive. They all were alive and well. Another shift down and only fourteen years to go.
When people find out what my husband does for a living, it's always the same thing.
"Oh my! I don't know how you do it!" (I don't- he does.)
"How do you sleep at night?!" (I don't.)
My own personal favorite? "Aren't you afraid he will die?" (Well, of course I am! Why do you think I never sleep?!)
Some people choose their careers. Others have no choice. Their careers choose them. A good cop was born to be a cop. A good doctor was born to wear scrubs and wield a stethoscope. A teacher meant to teach can't be taught the art of instruction, they have already mastered it.
I am so many things in this world- a teacher, a (wanna-be) writer, a mother, a daugher, a wife. All roles that I work hard at but I have to admit that there are definitely times when I ask myself why I chose to become a cop's wife.
It definitely wasn't in my life's plan when I was ten. Oh, how I thought I had everything figured out then!
Everyone has a story about some cop that gave them a ticket or pulled them over or showed up at their house. I am not foolish enough to think that cops are regarded as heroes or are revered for the job that they do. But I am foolish enough to ask you to consider for a moment something other than traffic tickets and public disturbances. Consider the ten year old that accidentally fired a found gun and killed his five year old brother. Or the parapalegic trapped in a burning apartment building. Consider also the woman who got up to use the bathroom and suffered a massive heart attack and the handicapped child that wandered away from home,only to be found in an alley miles from where he started. Now think about who you would call in any of those circumstances? Your doctor? A lawyer? The police?
Cops give tickets and arrest people. They also respond to deaths, pull parapalegics from fires and find missing children. I can not imagine what it must be like to be the first on scene when a child has been killed or a woman has been attacked. They see things on a daily basis that most of us may never see in a lifetime.
This is their norm. Cynicism and distrust replace carefree and happy.
I once took a class on death investigation where I saw an autopsy photograph of a two year old little boy who had been beaten and abused by a loved one. Blonde curls, brilliant blue eyes innocent even in death, his tiny body wracked with scars and bruises. If I close my eyes right now I can still see that picture as clearly as if the child stood before me. One photographed image from fifteen years ago still haunts me to this very day. I can't imagine hundreds of real life images haunting me moment to moment, day by day, year after year.
Yet still, at the end of the shift they are forced to find a place to hide away all the images, all the evil and all the sadness. Store them away in a lock box deep in the recesses of their minds.
But what if the box ever became full?
There are so many heroes out there- everyday people doing what they are called to do to make life better for the rest of us. The military, EMS, medical personnel and of course those who protect and serve are just ordinary, average, middle class citizens doing what they are called to do. I have a friend who is a trauma care nurse. She sees hundreds of cases a year, head injuries, falls, horrific car crashes and yet she gets up and goes to work each day anxious to help who ever she can.
Would you think it ironic as I do if I told you that many of the cops we know are married to nurses?
I am so priveleged to be a part of such great things.
It is getting late and I am off to try and get a little of the sleep back that I lost last night. It is my hope that everyone on duty tonight, no matter what your calling, ends their shift safe.
Everyone goes home.
Except that damned woodpecker...
I never call him when he is on duty unless it is a true emergency. I might text, knowing that he will only respond if he can but I rarely actually dial his number. My reason is simple. A ringing, or even a buzzing cell phone can one day mean the difference between life and death. Injury and safety. Imagine a stand off between several cops and an irate, agitated suspect jacked up on crack or dangerously inebriated from alcohol. The sound of his phone buzzing on his duty belt could be the catalyst that sends the irate, agitated, under the influence suspect into a fury and suddenly he becomes a felon and maybe my husband, or one of his friends doesn't make it home the next morning.
And that is always the plan.
Everyone goes home safe.
So I resisted the urge to call him and instead listened to the sound of the woodpecker as it banged its beak against my house, drilling more holes in the already damaged fascia board.
As I waited for sleep to return.
Of course, it never did.
Around five a.m. my little one crawled into bed with me. The wood pecker moved to the wall outside my bedroom and the numbers on the bedside clock changed ever so slowly until finally my alarm sounded and I was forced to face the day.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed?
Whatever.
Going through the motions of preparation, I opted for the hot rollers instead of the straight iron, too tired from my sleepless night to care about perfectly straightened tresses. Ninety minutes later as I drove my youngest son to preschool, I finally pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number. Just the sound of his voice over the line instantly relaxed the tense line of my shoulders.
He was alive. They all were alive and well. Another shift down and only fourteen years to go.
When people find out what my husband does for a living, it's always the same thing.
"Oh my! I don't know how you do it!" (I don't- he does.)
"How do you sleep at night?!" (I don't.)
My own personal favorite? "Aren't you afraid he will die?" (Well, of course I am! Why do you think I never sleep?!)
Some people choose their careers. Others have no choice. Their careers choose them. A good cop was born to be a cop. A good doctor was born to wear scrubs and wield a stethoscope. A teacher meant to teach can't be taught the art of instruction, they have already mastered it.
I am so many things in this world- a teacher, a (wanna-be) writer, a mother, a daugher, a wife. All roles that I work hard at but I have to admit that there are definitely times when I ask myself why I chose to become a cop's wife.
It definitely wasn't in my life's plan when I was ten. Oh, how I thought I had everything figured out then!
Everyone has a story about some cop that gave them a ticket or pulled them over or showed up at their house. I am not foolish enough to think that cops are regarded as heroes or are revered for the job that they do. But I am foolish enough to ask you to consider for a moment something other than traffic tickets and public disturbances. Consider the ten year old that accidentally fired a found gun and killed his five year old brother. Or the parapalegic trapped in a burning apartment building. Consider also the woman who got up to use the bathroom and suffered a massive heart attack and the handicapped child that wandered away from home,only to be found in an alley miles from where he started. Now think about who you would call in any of those circumstances? Your doctor? A lawyer? The police?
Cops give tickets and arrest people. They also respond to deaths, pull parapalegics from fires and find missing children. I can not imagine what it must be like to be the first on scene when a child has been killed or a woman has been attacked. They see things on a daily basis that most of us may never see in a lifetime.
This is their norm. Cynicism and distrust replace carefree and happy.
I once took a class on death investigation where I saw an autopsy photograph of a two year old little boy who had been beaten and abused by a loved one. Blonde curls, brilliant blue eyes innocent even in death, his tiny body wracked with scars and bruises. If I close my eyes right now I can still see that picture as clearly as if the child stood before me. One photographed image from fifteen years ago still haunts me to this very day. I can't imagine hundreds of real life images haunting me moment to moment, day by day, year after year.
Yet still, at the end of the shift they are forced to find a place to hide away all the images, all the evil and all the sadness. Store them away in a lock box deep in the recesses of their minds.
But what if the box ever became full?
There are so many heroes out there- everyday people doing what they are called to do to make life better for the rest of us. The military, EMS, medical personnel and of course those who protect and serve are just ordinary, average, middle class citizens doing what they are called to do. I have a friend who is a trauma care nurse. She sees hundreds of cases a year, head injuries, falls, horrific car crashes and yet she gets up and goes to work each day anxious to help who ever she can.
Would you think it ironic as I do if I told you that many of the cops we know are married to nurses?
I am so priveleged to be a part of such great things.
It is getting late and I am off to try and get a little of the sleep back that I lost last night. It is my hope that everyone on duty tonight, no matter what your calling, ends their shift safe.
Everyone goes home.
Except that damned woodpecker...
Monday, May 16, 2011
Cat's in the Cradle
Yesterday was my nephew's first birthday party. A whole year has passed since he was born. During that time he has done all of the usual baby stuff. He walks well, he feeds himself, he has begun to talk. He loves to throw a ball and rough house with his cousins. He is a regular little person now, so very different from that little bundle of joy I held in the hospital. Don't get me wrong, he is still a bundle of joy. He is just a bigger bundle of energy and excitement and constant activity- much like his cousins. Yet, like my own children, he brings joy to my day with just a smile and a hug.
It's amazing to me how quickly children grow and become their own person. My oldest boy has a strange affinity to wearing his crew socks pulled straight up over his shins and no matter how much I beg, he won't push them down. I have already described for you my younger boy's devotion to the bowl cut. The older one loves his video games and his legos and believes that being sent outside to play is somewhat akin to walking the green mile to an execution. His younger brother is a true nature lover. He smells flowers, plays with worms, watches birds and has to be dragged in from the backyard sometimes kicking and screaming. The big brother who can't imagine a day where he might get sent to the principal's office is a polar opposite of the little brother who's favorite phrase is "Hey, Mom, watch this!"
My husband and I often joke about the midnight phone call that is inevitable. "Mr. and Mrs. Cop and Cop's Wife, this is Officer So and So. I have your son, youungest child, here. What would you like me to do with him?"
Police kids usually go in one of two directions- they are either exceptionally well behaved and terrified of the wrath of Dad or they simply assume that they can do whatever they want and Dad will get them out of trouble. I fear that I have given birth to one of each. I figure my nephew will fall somewhere in between the two of them unless of course he is with my younger son. In which case their fear no evil, ask forgiveness later personalities will drive them mercilessly. Together they will wreak havoc on the world!
I have dozen of cousins. My father was one of eight and at last count I had more than two dozen first cousins... forget about second cousins! As a child I was as close with some of my cousins as my boys are with my nephew. I don't remember much about those days, we moved away from the rest of the family when I was ten, but I remember that we were close and I often wonder if that would have carried into adulthood. We try now, with the help of social media to reconnect and establish relationships but it's very difficult with 25 years and 800 miles between us. Still, they are family and I long for that connection and I want it for my children. That is one of the primary reasons we pack up our little Ford Focus and travel the 700 miles to see my husband's family and the almost 800 to see mine, sometimes even cramming both families into a seven day trip. Christmas this year we even managed to pack for Santa Clause in our very tiny little car so that we could spend the holiday with my family- the first without my father and the first with both my nephew and my little niece that lives so far away from us. She and her brother are young yet, young enough to not remember us from visit to visit but still we are forming ties between the boys and their cousins. Ties that will bond them together for life.
Part of my journey to redemption has been to realize the importance of family and friends in my life. To value each individual for who they are, not what they can do for me. Instead, I find myself wondering what I can do for others to improve their lives and in the process have found that my own has improved dramatically. My dad was the sort of man who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it and although some may have viewed that as being a pushover, I see it as a man who understood that things didn't make the man, how he lived his life did. I vowed on the day that he died that I would carry on his legacy to the best of my abilities. I just had to get my head on straight and my life back in order first.
My nephew was born at a time when my own life was in a complete shambles. Caring for him when my sister and his father work has been one of the greatest contributors to the interior remodeling I have undergone. As a newborn, he needed- demanded- my attention. There was no time to focus on money or dilapidated roofs of run down couches. Focusing on him forced me to focus on my own boys and my husband and the relationships I had with them. I will never, ever be crowned mother of the year and I can live with that. But, as my mind became bogged down with worry and fear and my body began to rebel against me, I began to lose track of what was important. The boys, and my husband, were old enough to not need the constant, diversionary attention that my nephew did and as I slipped away into a sea of frustration and depression, I lost sight of them when they should have been the lighthouse in my stormy night.
Now that a year has passed, I can look back at that person that I used to be and feel sad for her. Life in the sunshine is so much better than life in the darkness. The laundry pile will still be there, the dishes will always need to be washed but my children will grow up and become adults. I don't want to miss a moment more of their childhood.
It's amazing to me how quickly children grow and become their own person. My oldest boy has a strange affinity to wearing his crew socks pulled straight up over his shins and no matter how much I beg, he won't push them down. I have already described for you my younger boy's devotion to the bowl cut. The older one loves his video games and his legos and believes that being sent outside to play is somewhat akin to walking the green mile to an execution. His younger brother is a true nature lover. He smells flowers, plays with worms, watches birds and has to be dragged in from the backyard sometimes kicking and screaming. The big brother who can't imagine a day where he might get sent to the principal's office is a polar opposite of the little brother who's favorite phrase is "Hey, Mom, watch this!"
My husband and I often joke about the midnight phone call that is inevitable. "Mr. and Mrs. Cop and Cop's Wife, this is Officer So and So. I have your son, youungest child, here. What would you like me to do with him?"
Police kids usually go in one of two directions- they are either exceptionally well behaved and terrified of the wrath of Dad or they simply assume that they can do whatever they want and Dad will get them out of trouble. I fear that I have given birth to one of each. I figure my nephew will fall somewhere in between the two of them unless of course he is with my younger son. In which case their fear no evil, ask forgiveness later personalities will drive them mercilessly. Together they will wreak havoc on the world!
I have dozen of cousins. My father was one of eight and at last count I had more than two dozen first cousins... forget about second cousins! As a child I was as close with some of my cousins as my boys are with my nephew. I don't remember much about those days, we moved away from the rest of the family when I was ten, but I remember that we were close and I often wonder if that would have carried into adulthood. We try now, with the help of social media to reconnect and establish relationships but it's very difficult with 25 years and 800 miles between us. Still, they are family and I long for that connection and I want it for my children. That is one of the primary reasons we pack up our little Ford Focus and travel the 700 miles to see my husband's family and the almost 800 to see mine, sometimes even cramming both families into a seven day trip. Christmas this year we even managed to pack for Santa Clause in our very tiny little car so that we could spend the holiday with my family- the first without my father and the first with both my nephew and my little niece that lives so far away from us. She and her brother are young yet, young enough to not remember us from visit to visit but still we are forming ties between the boys and their cousins. Ties that will bond them together for life.
Part of my journey to redemption has been to realize the importance of family and friends in my life. To value each individual for who they are, not what they can do for me. Instead, I find myself wondering what I can do for others to improve their lives and in the process have found that my own has improved dramatically. My dad was the sort of man who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it and although some may have viewed that as being a pushover, I see it as a man who understood that things didn't make the man, how he lived his life did. I vowed on the day that he died that I would carry on his legacy to the best of my abilities. I just had to get my head on straight and my life back in order first.
My nephew was born at a time when my own life was in a complete shambles. Caring for him when my sister and his father work has been one of the greatest contributors to the interior remodeling I have undergone. As a newborn, he needed- demanded- my attention. There was no time to focus on money or dilapidated roofs of run down couches. Focusing on him forced me to focus on my own boys and my husband and the relationships I had with them. I will never, ever be crowned mother of the year and I can live with that. But, as my mind became bogged down with worry and fear and my body began to rebel against me, I began to lose track of what was important. The boys, and my husband, were old enough to not need the constant, diversionary attention that my nephew did and as I slipped away into a sea of frustration and depression, I lost sight of them when they should have been the lighthouse in my stormy night.
Now that a year has passed, I can look back at that person that I used to be and feel sad for her. Life in the sunshine is so much better than life in the darkness. The laundry pile will still be there, the dishes will always need to be washed but my children will grow up and become adults. I don't want to miss a moment more of their childhood.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
God Bless America
Yesterday we were privleged enough to attend the retirement ceremony of a good friend and neighbor. After twenty one years of serving his country, our friend retired from the Navy with as much honor as he deserves. The ceremony, held on the final ship on which he served was attended by many of his colleagues as well as friends and family. It was obvious that not only had he been an outstanding sailor, retiring with the rank of Senior Chief, but he was also admired and well liked.
There is no doubt that I was as excited and enomored as my two boys were. The awe inspiring ship was massive in size yet majestic as it sat afloat the ocean waters. A fairly new member of the fleet, her paint was untarnished and her decks gleamed. Built partly in honor of those who were lost during the 9/11 attacks it was almost as though the souls of the dead filled her hallowed halls and left me with such an intense feeling of respect for those that sailed her in their names.
The ceremony itself was an emotional event and as the awards were given, the presentations made and the speeches completed I travelled a roller coaster of laughter and tears. My eyes were moist during the singing of the National Anthem and I felt the tears begging to be set free when he presented his wife with a gift of love and appreciation but I downright broke down during the flag ceremony.
We are an intensely patriotic family. My youngest boy, still in preschool, has learned the entire National Anthem and sings it every where. Old Glory waves proudly from our front porch and small flags decorate our ladscape the way other yards have flowers. A similar ceremony was done at my father's funeral as he was a veteran of Vietnam. A representative colorguard contingency performed TAPS in his honor and then presented my mother with a flag. My oldest child clung to me and cried, the little one had no idea why but he cried too. There was something so powerful in those quiet notes and the sight of the American Flag honoring my father's life that it is really the only part of the funeral that I remember. That and the way everyone had to choke back a laugh when the priest claimed Dad had been a man of few words. Two great men among so many, honored for their commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of freedom.
Yesterday's event was monumental to me. I have a huge respect for our military men and women. It is because of them that we sleep safely in our beds at night with freedom to live and speak and write and feel how we please. To all of the soldiers and sailors out there, I thank you. But I also reserve a very special amount of respect for the spouses of our military. It is the husbands and wives at home that keep the homefires burning, so to speak, that allow our military men and women to do what they do best- protect our freedom and livlihood. So to every military spouse I know and the thousands that I don't - thank you for all that you do in the absence of your loved one to allow them to protect your family and mine.
There is no doubt that I was as excited and enomored as my two boys were. The awe inspiring ship was massive in size yet majestic as it sat afloat the ocean waters. A fairly new member of the fleet, her paint was untarnished and her decks gleamed. Built partly in honor of those who were lost during the 9/11 attacks it was almost as though the souls of the dead filled her hallowed halls and left me with such an intense feeling of respect for those that sailed her in their names.
The ceremony itself was an emotional event and as the awards were given, the presentations made and the speeches completed I travelled a roller coaster of laughter and tears. My eyes were moist during the singing of the National Anthem and I felt the tears begging to be set free when he presented his wife with a gift of love and appreciation but I downright broke down during the flag ceremony.
We are an intensely patriotic family. My youngest boy, still in preschool, has learned the entire National Anthem and sings it every where. Old Glory waves proudly from our front porch and small flags decorate our ladscape the way other yards have flowers. A similar ceremony was done at my father's funeral as he was a veteran of Vietnam. A representative colorguard contingency performed TAPS in his honor and then presented my mother with a flag. My oldest child clung to me and cried, the little one had no idea why but he cried too. There was something so powerful in those quiet notes and the sight of the American Flag honoring my father's life that it is really the only part of the funeral that I remember. That and the way everyone had to choke back a laugh when the priest claimed Dad had been a man of few words. Two great men among so many, honored for their commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of freedom.
Yesterday's event was monumental to me. I have a huge respect for our military men and women. It is because of them that we sleep safely in our beds at night with freedom to live and speak and write and feel how we please. To all of the soldiers and sailors out there, I thank you. But I also reserve a very special amount of respect for the spouses of our military. It is the husbands and wives at home that keep the homefires burning, so to speak, that allow our military men and women to do what they do best- protect our freedom and livlihood. So to every military spouse I know and the thousands that I don't - thank you for all that you do in the absence of your loved one to allow them to protect your family and mine.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
$4.00 Gas- Seriously?
On the way to work this morning I was forced to endure the undeniable misery of stopping at a gas station. As I filled the tiny twelve gallon gas tank in my equally as tiny car, I couldn't help but wonder- as I am sure you all do every single day- how I was actually paying $3.95 for a gallon of gas. After driving up to New England in mid April, I know that there are places with considerably higher prices and that some of you may be thinking "$3.95?! What is she complaining about?! I just paid (enter your gas price here) this morning!" and I am glad that it is you and not me, for sure!
But seriously?
Four dollars for a gallon of gas is crazy no matter what side of the dollar sign you are on.
The last article I read put the cost of a barrel of crude oil at about $80 which, from what I understand is on the cheap side in the world of oil barrels. The article also went on to say that the high prices we are seeing at the pumps are a result more of investor specultation and gas station competition than concern about shortages. So, once again the rich get richer and the rest of us work our butts off just to make ends meet with higher costs and never big enough salaries.
I have no designs on being wealthy. Both my husband and I work as civil servants. We knew that we would be middle class forever in our chosen careers but we have always been OK with that. We both love our jobs, most of the time anyway, and neither of us can imagine doing anything else with our lives. And, honestly, although neither of us make a ton of money we should live a decent life as a cop and a teacher.
At least you would think so.
Neither one of us has had a raise or even a meager cost of living adjustment since the housing bubble burst. That's almost four years.
And that would actually be OK if gas prices weren't $4.00 a gallon and milk was still $1.99 a gallon and the cost of my utilities would stop rising. Like I said, we never planned to be rich. But it would be really nice to be able to fix my old, decrepit roof without selling a kidney!
Now, don't get me wrong, I am VERY happy to be employed. What I am not happy about is having to work in the summer to make up the difference in my salary and our bills when that used to be the time I reserved just for my kids. One of the reasons I left research and entered teaching was so that I could be with my children as much as possible as a working mother.
Who do I thank for this?
The district I work for has done a phenomenal job handling budget cuts. No one has ever been laid off although many former postions have gone unfilled. Alot of districts can not say that. It has been as tough on city budgets and state budgets as it has been on ours.
There is no doubt that the great recession of the twenty first century has been a real kick in the pants to most of us. We have definitely fallen on the social scale from middle class to middle class white trash and I can't even imagine a day when I can just go to the store and buy what I want to without a coupon and a sale flyer but at least we eat every day and have a roof over our heads, as crumbling as it might be.
I am not at all pleased with the change in the finances of the country and I wonder how many zeros there actually are in $3 trillion dollars (the national debt currently) but I am not sure that the recession has been all bad for me.
Surprisingly though, I can actually say that the recession has taught me a few things. I might even venture to say that it has made me a better person.
I am alot better at keeping track of my spending now. I use coupons and gain a crazy sense of accomplishment when I buy $20 of goods for $5. My life has slowed down some, I make time to stop and smell the proverbial roses alot more than I used to and we have learned as a family to make our own, free fun just spending time with each other. We have learned to pool resources with others- my neighbor and I share and help each other out on almost a daily basis now- and from that relationship as well as others I have since cultivated I have accepted the fact that I can not do it all on my own all the time.
And I don't want to any more.
When my father passed away last summer, I took stock of my own life. When I saw how quickly his time on this Earth ended, I knew that I had to really start focusing on what is important. People are important. Relationships are important. Name brand shoes, fancy cars and big houses just aren't. Those things are nice, yes, but in the end, when we are gone and all that remains is our legacy, will any of us be remembered because we had a BMW instead of a Focus or a master suite instead of a plain old bedroom?
This may only be what I tell myself to feel better about my situation but that's OK because I believe myself.
So, I want to take this opportunity to tell my family and my friends how much I value each and every one of you in my life. I would not be who I am if not for your influence and together we will make it through $4.00 gas and anything else the economy tosses at us.
But seriously?
Four dollars for a gallon of gas is crazy no matter what side of the dollar sign you are on.
The last article I read put the cost of a barrel of crude oil at about $80 which, from what I understand is on the cheap side in the world of oil barrels. The article also went on to say that the high prices we are seeing at the pumps are a result more of investor specultation and gas station competition than concern about shortages. So, once again the rich get richer and the rest of us work our butts off just to make ends meet with higher costs and never big enough salaries.
I have no designs on being wealthy. Both my husband and I work as civil servants. We knew that we would be middle class forever in our chosen careers but we have always been OK with that. We both love our jobs, most of the time anyway, and neither of us can imagine doing anything else with our lives. And, honestly, although neither of us make a ton of money we should live a decent life as a cop and a teacher.
At least you would think so.
Neither one of us has had a raise or even a meager cost of living adjustment since the housing bubble burst. That's almost four years.
And that would actually be OK if gas prices weren't $4.00 a gallon and milk was still $1.99 a gallon and the cost of my utilities would stop rising. Like I said, we never planned to be rich. But it would be really nice to be able to fix my old, decrepit roof without selling a kidney!
Now, don't get me wrong, I am VERY happy to be employed. What I am not happy about is having to work in the summer to make up the difference in my salary and our bills when that used to be the time I reserved just for my kids. One of the reasons I left research and entered teaching was so that I could be with my children as much as possible as a working mother.
Who do I thank for this?
The district I work for has done a phenomenal job handling budget cuts. No one has ever been laid off although many former postions have gone unfilled. Alot of districts can not say that. It has been as tough on city budgets and state budgets as it has been on ours.
There is no doubt that the great recession of the twenty first century has been a real kick in the pants to most of us. We have definitely fallen on the social scale from middle class to middle class white trash and I can't even imagine a day when I can just go to the store and buy what I want to without a coupon and a sale flyer but at least we eat every day and have a roof over our heads, as crumbling as it might be.
I am not at all pleased with the change in the finances of the country and I wonder how many zeros there actually are in $3 trillion dollars (the national debt currently) but I am not sure that the recession has been all bad for me.
Surprisingly though, I can actually say that the recession has taught me a few things. I might even venture to say that it has made me a better person.
I am alot better at keeping track of my spending now. I use coupons and gain a crazy sense of accomplishment when I buy $20 of goods for $5. My life has slowed down some, I make time to stop and smell the proverbial roses alot more than I used to and we have learned as a family to make our own, free fun just spending time with each other. We have learned to pool resources with others- my neighbor and I share and help each other out on almost a daily basis now- and from that relationship as well as others I have since cultivated I have accepted the fact that I can not do it all on my own all the time.
And I don't want to any more.
When my father passed away last summer, I took stock of my own life. When I saw how quickly his time on this Earth ended, I knew that I had to really start focusing on what is important. People are important. Relationships are important. Name brand shoes, fancy cars and big houses just aren't. Those things are nice, yes, but in the end, when we are gone and all that remains is our legacy, will any of us be remembered because we had a BMW instead of a Focus or a master suite instead of a plain old bedroom?
This may only be what I tell myself to feel better about my situation but that's OK because I believe myself.
So, I want to take this opportunity to tell my family and my friends how much I value each and every one of you in my life. I would not be who I am if not for your influence and together we will make it through $4.00 gas and anything else the economy tosses at us.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Out of the Mouths of Babes
Yesterday I took my boys to get haircuts. My older son likes a good buzz cut in the warmer months and this time he also requested "spikey" hair. So, when it was his turn, he jumped up in the seat and informed the stylist of what he wanted. She took out her clippers and basically shaved away all of his thick, glorious "winter" hair and left behind a smiling eight year old with gelled spikes and a toothy grin.
As he left the chair and my younger boy took his place, I asked the stylist to clip the sides and trim his longer "bowl cut". As she grabbed her clippers, my son, with fear in his eyes, grabbed his head and yelled, "I don't want a buzz cut! I want a bowl cut!" Apparently even at the age of five he has a definitive opinion on his own looks. This shouldn't have surprised me given his extremely independent nature but I guess it did.
When did my baby boy grow up?
I am not ready for this! He needs to slow down some, give me a chance to adapt.
A couple of weeks ago my oldest son was learning about China in school. When he got off the bus in the afternoon, he was very excited as he asked my husband, "Does Mommy still want to have a little girl?" My husband, gracious and noncomittal responded, "I'm sure she does but she is happy with what she has," or something to that effect. My boy, convinced he had the answer to all of my problems says, "Well she can go to China and get one. They don't want girls there!"
Out of the mouths of babes...
I imagine that his second grade teacher was simply telling the class about the population in China and how the government passed a law limiting births. She probably told them about orphanages and boy babies being preferred because they can work in the family businesses. I am certain that she didn't tell her students that boys are more "valuable" as my son relayed to me. I am also touched that as he sat there in his little school desk processing the information he thought of me and my obviously not so secret desire to have a daughter.
Obviously both of my little boys are growing up.
Before long they will be teenagers, then off to college and one day they will marry and have children of their own.
Perhaps it is time for me to stop wishing for what I don't have and enjoy what is right here with me. I have two little boys that will one day be men. It would be a huge disservice to them and their future wives if I don't do the very best job I can do teaching them to be strong and sensitive, caring and successful. How can I do that if I am constantly longing for something I will most likely never have?
As he left the chair and my younger boy took his place, I asked the stylist to clip the sides and trim his longer "bowl cut". As she grabbed her clippers, my son, with fear in his eyes, grabbed his head and yelled, "I don't want a buzz cut! I want a bowl cut!" Apparently even at the age of five he has a definitive opinion on his own looks. This shouldn't have surprised me given his extremely independent nature but I guess it did.
When did my baby boy grow up?
I am not ready for this! He needs to slow down some, give me a chance to adapt.
A couple of weeks ago my oldest son was learning about China in school. When he got off the bus in the afternoon, he was very excited as he asked my husband, "Does Mommy still want to have a little girl?" My husband, gracious and noncomittal responded, "I'm sure she does but she is happy with what she has," or something to that effect. My boy, convinced he had the answer to all of my problems says, "Well she can go to China and get one. They don't want girls there!"
Out of the mouths of babes...
I imagine that his second grade teacher was simply telling the class about the population in China and how the government passed a law limiting births. She probably told them about orphanages and boy babies being preferred because they can work in the family businesses. I am certain that she didn't tell her students that boys are more "valuable" as my son relayed to me. I am also touched that as he sat there in his little school desk processing the information he thought of me and my obviously not so secret desire to have a daughter.
Obviously both of my little boys are growing up.
Before long they will be teenagers, then off to college and one day they will marry and have children of their own.
Perhaps it is time for me to stop wishing for what I don't have and enjoy what is right here with me. I have two little boys that will one day be men. It would be a huge disservice to them and their future wives if I don't do the very best job I can do teaching them to be strong and sensitive, caring and successful. How can I do that if I am constantly longing for something I will most likely never have?
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
It Must Be Love
The quickest and easiest way to straighten my long, naturally curly hair is to iron it with my clothes iron. Yes, I actually iron my hair on a towel on the kitchen counter. I am not the pioneer of this idea; my younger sister introduced me the concept and it is my understanding that my mother employed the same technique in her younger days as well. On this particular morning I was having difficulty reaching the ends- when it is straight my hair hits somewhere in the middle of my lower back. So I enlisted the help of my husband. Those of you reading this who know him already see the humor in the situation. For the rest of you, my tough, burly, extremely masculine, police officer husband stood behind me in the kitchen delicately ironing the curling ends of my long hair.
Without burning me and better yet, without poking fun at me.
Yes, the romance is still alive in our marriage!
Just a few weeks ago, we celebrated our eleventh year of marriage in a fourteen year relationship. Like all couples we have had our ups and downs- the indeterminate battle with infertility, too many bills, never enough money, honey-do lists that sometimes just get longer and longer, depression and sleep apnia. The difficult schedule that accompanies police work is never conducive to family life and might very well be the cause of all the other difficulties we have encountered.
We have known many other law enforcement couples with rocky marriages that ultimately ended in divorce and honestly by all statistical odds, ours should have followed suit.
So, why have we managed to survive the rigors of an law enforcement marriage?
I could say it's because I am independent, because I am. The kids and live our lives just as we would if we had a husband and a father that worked 9-5 Monday through Friday. If something breaks I do my best to fix it. If the grass needs cutting, I cut it. I could also say that it's because I have a great support system and that wold be true as well. My friends and my family are wonderful and are always there for me when I need them and that would be absolutely true. I could also chalk it up to luck and fate but I am not sure I totally believe in either of those concepts. Is it because we have a love of epic proportions that makes us so desperate to be with each other that we can't imagine living without each other? Proabably not.
The thing that keeps us moving, the glue that holds is together is sheer stubbornness. I am too stubborn to admit I can not do something and he is too stubborn to ever admit defeat. It is the very basis of our relationship. The foundation upon which he and I became "us".
My first meeting with my future husband was arranged by a mutual friend. OK, she was my friend and his ex-girlfriend. Already you have to know that this didn't go so well. I humored them both as we went out dancing and spent the night chatting and getting to know each other. As my friend and I headed home later I told to her absolutely never give him my phone number. Of course, in the spirit of friendship, she didn't listen. He called a couple of days later but I managed to avoid that call and the thirty days of calls that came after that one. Until the fateful day that I forgot to check the caller I.D. As we talked, he finally conviced me to go on a date with him. How could I not? The man was persistant to say the least. By the end of that first date, I knew I had met the man I would one day marry.
It must be love that allows him to iron my hair and ithas to be love that drives him to stay up all day after a twelve hour night shift to attend our son's tae kwon do tournament. And nothing short of love would push him to work forty hours of overtime in one week because we need a new furnace. We are middle class, hardworking people that take exotic vacations at the city park campground and crusie the streets in inexpensive subcompacts. Our kids will never have flat screen televisions in their bedrooms or be presented with a BMW on their sixteenth birthdays but they know love and they have learned respect. Best of all they are both as stubborn and persistant as we are!
Without burning me and better yet, without poking fun at me.
Yes, the romance is still alive in our marriage!
Just a few weeks ago, we celebrated our eleventh year of marriage in a fourteen year relationship. Like all couples we have had our ups and downs- the indeterminate battle with infertility, too many bills, never enough money, honey-do lists that sometimes just get longer and longer, depression and sleep apnia. The difficult schedule that accompanies police work is never conducive to family life and might very well be the cause of all the other difficulties we have encountered.
We have known many other law enforcement couples with rocky marriages that ultimately ended in divorce and honestly by all statistical odds, ours should have followed suit.
So, why have we managed to survive the rigors of an law enforcement marriage?
I could say it's because I am independent, because I am. The kids and live our lives just as we would if we had a husband and a father that worked 9-5 Monday through Friday. If something breaks I do my best to fix it. If the grass needs cutting, I cut it. I could also say that it's because I have a great support system and that wold be true as well. My friends and my family are wonderful and are always there for me when I need them and that would be absolutely true. I could also chalk it up to luck and fate but I am not sure I totally believe in either of those concepts. Is it because we have a love of epic proportions that makes us so desperate to be with each other that we can't imagine living without each other? Proabably not.
The thing that keeps us moving, the glue that holds is together is sheer stubbornness. I am too stubborn to admit I can not do something and he is too stubborn to ever admit defeat. It is the very basis of our relationship. The foundation upon which he and I became "us".
My first meeting with my future husband was arranged by a mutual friend. OK, she was my friend and his ex-girlfriend. Already you have to know that this didn't go so well. I humored them both as we went out dancing and spent the night chatting and getting to know each other. As my friend and I headed home later I told to her absolutely never give him my phone number. Of course, in the spirit of friendship, she didn't listen. He called a couple of days later but I managed to avoid that call and the thirty days of calls that came after that one. Until the fateful day that I forgot to check the caller I.D. As we talked, he finally conviced me to go on a date with him. How could I not? The man was persistant to say the least. By the end of that first date, I knew I had met the man I would one day marry.
It must be love that allows him to iron my hair and ithas to be love that drives him to stay up all day after a twelve hour night shift to attend our son's tae kwon do tournament. And nothing short of love would push him to work forty hours of overtime in one week because we need a new furnace. We are middle class, hardworking people that take exotic vacations at the city park campground and crusie the streets in inexpensive subcompacts. Our kids will never have flat screen televisions in their bedrooms or be presented with a BMW on their sixteenth birthdays but they know love and they have learned respect. Best of all they are both as stubborn and persistant as we are!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Gone But Not Forgotten
It hit me this morning as I drove to work that it was around this time last year that we first found out that my father was sick. Headaches and vision problems had begun to plague him. As his family, we noticed slight personality changes, decision making issues and even a change in his gait and balance. Suspecting a stroke, doctors began a battery of tests from blood work to CT Scans and MRI's. None of us were prepared for the diagnosis of a tumor in the brain. A very large, inoperable tumor.
I was on an end of the school year field trip with my youngest son when I got the call. We were at the zoo, 15 four year olds in bright yellow t-shirts sporting a class picture and the painted handprints of all their classmates laughed and chattered on as we stopped to see lions, giraffes and elephants. My son was excited, he loves animals, and was pulling me from place to place. His favorite were the lions and we had just left them when my cell phone rang. The sad, tear-filled voice of my mother relayed the absolutely unbelievable news.
Even now, as I remember back to that day, it still feels so surreal. My father had survived a bullet wound in Vietnam, a massive heart attack and triple bypass surgery in his thirties and congestive heart failure and a heart transplant at fifty. He pulled through severe pneumonia and kidney failure and beat a whole host of other post transplant complications. I had begun to see him as invincible. A cat with nine lives. I just figured he would prevail over this as well. So, it was incomprehensible to me that there was absolutely nothing medicine could do to save him. Chemotherapy and radiation might have prolonged his life for a few months but the tumor was so large that conventional treatments would have little long term affect.
My father, the man I had always known as a fighter, was done fighting. He chose to have quality in his final days as opposed to quantity. My sisters, my brother and even I wanted him to want to fight but we understood his exhaustion. He was ready to move on to the next world and we had to honor his wishes.
Two weeks after the call, we packed our two boys in the car and made the twelve hour drive to see my dad. On the way we explained that Grampa was very sick. I don't really think that they understood what I was saying, they were just excited to see their grandparents and miss a couple of days of school.
The long weekend was wonderful. Dad was still lively and amiable but the time he spent with us was peppered with naps and long rests as he struggled to hold onto the brave front I knew he was trying hard to maintain. The day before I saw my father alive for the last time, it was also the first time in my adult life I saw him cry. As we sat in my car in the parking lot of Walmart, he leaned over suddenly and hugged me as he cried and told me he didn't want to leave us.
That is the last visual memory I have of my father. The very last memory is of our last conversation. The night before he passed, I called him. We laughed and joked about the morphine he was taking and the appropriateness of the Bob Marley CD he was listening to while taking it. I knew when I hung up the phone I would never talk to him again. I cried like a baby.
The next morning was the last hours of my father's life. Hearing the anguish in my mother's voice as she cried that Daddy was gone was like no other experience in my life. Even today, I can hear her as clearly as though she were standing next to me.
Telling my children that Grampa had died was without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
Nearly a year has passed and the emotions are still as strong as they were the day he left us. Sometimes I find myself reaching for the telephone to call him and ask him how to fix something or get his advice on something and I have to remind myself that he isn't there to call. A random thought, a quick memory or a glance at a snapshot will bring tears without warning.
I have heard it said that the only thing you can count on in life are death and taxes. It is true that from the momenet we are born we begin to die and eventually when our bodies leave the Earth, it is only our legacy that lives on. My father was a great man who left an unbelieveable legacy in this world in his children and his grandchildren. He may be gone from our lives but his not forgotten and he will never be gone from our hearts.
I was on an end of the school year field trip with my youngest son when I got the call. We were at the zoo, 15 four year olds in bright yellow t-shirts sporting a class picture and the painted handprints of all their classmates laughed and chattered on as we stopped to see lions, giraffes and elephants. My son was excited, he loves animals, and was pulling me from place to place. His favorite were the lions and we had just left them when my cell phone rang. The sad, tear-filled voice of my mother relayed the absolutely unbelievable news.
Even now, as I remember back to that day, it still feels so surreal. My father had survived a bullet wound in Vietnam, a massive heart attack and triple bypass surgery in his thirties and congestive heart failure and a heart transplant at fifty. He pulled through severe pneumonia and kidney failure and beat a whole host of other post transplant complications. I had begun to see him as invincible. A cat with nine lives. I just figured he would prevail over this as well. So, it was incomprehensible to me that there was absolutely nothing medicine could do to save him. Chemotherapy and radiation might have prolonged his life for a few months but the tumor was so large that conventional treatments would have little long term affect.
My father, the man I had always known as a fighter, was done fighting. He chose to have quality in his final days as opposed to quantity. My sisters, my brother and even I wanted him to want to fight but we understood his exhaustion. He was ready to move on to the next world and we had to honor his wishes.
Two weeks after the call, we packed our two boys in the car and made the twelve hour drive to see my dad. On the way we explained that Grampa was very sick. I don't really think that they understood what I was saying, they were just excited to see their grandparents and miss a couple of days of school.
The long weekend was wonderful. Dad was still lively and amiable but the time he spent with us was peppered with naps and long rests as he struggled to hold onto the brave front I knew he was trying hard to maintain. The day before I saw my father alive for the last time, it was also the first time in my adult life I saw him cry. As we sat in my car in the parking lot of Walmart, he leaned over suddenly and hugged me as he cried and told me he didn't want to leave us.
That is the last visual memory I have of my father. The very last memory is of our last conversation. The night before he passed, I called him. We laughed and joked about the morphine he was taking and the appropriateness of the Bob Marley CD he was listening to while taking it. I knew when I hung up the phone I would never talk to him again. I cried like a baby.
The next morning was the last hours of my father's life. Hearing the anguish in my mother's voice as she cried that Daddy was gone was like no other experience in my life. Even today, I can hear her as clearly as though she were standing next to me.
Telling my children that Grampa had died was without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
Nearly a year has passed and the emotions are still as strong as they were the day he left us. Sometimes I find myself reaching for the telephone to call him and ask him how to fix something or get his advice on something and I have to remind myself that he isn't there to call. A random thought, a quick memory or a glance at a snapshot will bring tears without warning.
I have heard it said that the only thing you can count on in life are death and taxes. It is true that from the momenet we are born we begin to die and eventually when our bodies leave the Earth, it is only our legacy that lives on. My father was a great man who left an unbelieveable legacy in this world in his children and his grandchildren. He may be gone from our lives but his not forgotten and he will never be gone from our hearts.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
A Tribute to All the Moms
This is a shout out to all of the moms in my life. My own mother of course, the one who gave me life and then taught me how to live it as a caring, productive human being. My sisters who are both wonderful mothers to their own sweet babies. To my girlfriends and sisters-in-law and my mother in law I say thank you to all of you for dedicating your lives to your children. Motherhood is by far the most important job any of us could have accepted yet there is no other career more fulfilling to the heart and soul.
This morning, as I lay in bed pretending to be asleep, I listened to the excited voices of my own two boys as they created a Mother's Day extravaganza. My little one came upstairs three times to tell me to sleep in so they could surprise me. My older son took on the job of party planner, creating a check list and a detailed outline of how this morning's celebration should go. I could hear little feet on the wood floor, smell bacon sizzling in a cast iron pan and only imagine the excitement in their eyes as they brought their plans to fruition.
Finally, the moment arrived when I was summoned from my room. I could hear giggles of excitement and pleasure as I made my way down the stairs and to the dining room. The feast I encountered was absolutely stunning! A plate of strawberries, oranges and apples next to a plate of chocolate chip cookies and mini muffins. Goldfish crackers and club crackers and my personal bottle of apple juice at my place of honor. The breakfast sandwhiches prepared by my husband were almost an after thought with so much deliousness to choose from!
The buffet was amazing but the gifts were awesome. My older son had planted a flower for me in a styrofoam cup. Along with that I was given a masterpeice of art displaying a caterpillar and not one, but two gold dollars from his personal coin collection! My younger son presented me with a card containing a dollar bill (thank you grandparents for teaching my children cards have money in them! I see this as the beginning of a retirement account!:-) ). He also had the sweetest little poem with a heart made from his handprints. I will treasure these gifts of love infinitely.
It was at this moment that I realized what motherhood was truely all about.
Happy Mother's Day all!
This morning, as I lay in bed pretending to be asleep, I listened to the excited voices of my own two boys as they created a Mother's Day extravaganza. My little one came upstairs three times to tell me to sleep in so they could surprise me. My older son took on the job of party planner, creating a check list and a detailed outline of how this morning's celebration should go. I could hear little feet on the wood floor, smell bacon sizzling in a cast iron pan and only imagine the excitement in their eyes as they brought their plans to fruition.
Finally, the moment arrived when I was summoned from my room. I could hear giggles of excitement and pleasure as I made my way down the stairs and to the dining room. The feast I encountered was absolutely stunning! A plate of strawberries, oranges and apples next to a plate of chocolate chip cookies and mini muffins. Goldfish crackers and club crackers and my personal bottle of apple juice at my place of honor. The breakfast sandwhiches prepared by my husband were almost an after thought with so much deliousness to choose from!
The buffet was amazing but the gifts were awesome. My older son had planted a flower for me in a styrofoam cup. Along with that I was given a masterpeice of art displaying a caterpillar and not one, but two gold dollars from his personal coin collection! My younger son presented me with a card containing a dollar bill (thank you grandparents for teaching my children cards have money in them! I see this as the beginning of a retirement account!:-) ). He also had the sweetest little poem with a heart made from his handprints. I will treasure these gifts of love infinitely.
It was at this moment that I realized what motherhood was truely all about.
Happy Mother's Day all!
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Does This Gun Make Me Look Fat?
It was a typical summer day in southern Virginia
The boys were standing by the front door, the little one picking on his older brother as was so often the case. They were used to a life where Mommy prevailed and a day with Daddy was more like a holiday than anything else. This was one of those days.
From out in the garage my husband bellowed, a hint of near panic in his voice, “Honey! Come out here! I need you!”
“I’m busy! I yelled back. “What do you need?” Annoyance hinted at in my own voice.
“Come out here!”
Dropping whatever it was that I was doing, I dramatically stomped my way through the kitchen and to the garage door, huffing and grumbling the whole way. “What is so important now that I had to stop what I was doing?” I demanded, hands on my hips.
My husband stood sideways, shoulders back, hands on his own hips. The very bottom of the holster on his hip peeking out of the bottom of his blue polo shirt. “Honey? Does this gun make me look fat?”
Seriously?
Yes, seriously.
I have known from the very first day that my husband and I met that he was law enforcement. It was in his very genes. Most little boys, at some time in their lives, claim to want to be a policeman when they grow up. Most grow out of it. Some never can. Some men- and women- just are cops. They were born to wear the badge and I am sure many of you know exactly what I am talking about.
At the time we met, my love was a volunteer auxiliary officer in his home town and a college security officer. He dreamed of a career as a police officer and was very clear about his goals from the very start of our relationship. With my own degree in forensic science, I was very comfortable with the world of criminal justice and supported his dreams wholeheartedly.
Five years later when we relocated to Virginia
I would like to talk to that recruiter now and ask him why he didn’t warn me that my husband would one day be in a panic over the girth of a handgun on his hip. I’d like to inquire as to why he didn’t outline for me the need to always check his pockets based on the possibility of finding stray (unfired) bullets in the dirty laundry. I would especially have appreciated a heads up on the likelihood of my husband calling me at work and asking me if it was all right if he went out to pick up hookers later that night, as part of a sting operation of course.
The first year that we were on the job was the hardest. I say “we” because as any police spouse knows, when the one you love serves and protects, you do too. Long, sleepless nights, anxious phone calls to fellow spouses when word of a police involved shooting is heard and fear that each and every time you kiss your spouse goodbye it might be the very last time become a way of life. Trying to juggle the needs of the family with the needs of the job sometimes seems insurmountable.
The boys are older now and we have settled into a routine that very often does not include their father. We go to work, school and daycare, visit family and attend tae kwon do lessons, grocery shop, go bowling and birthday parties as a family of three. The times when my husband can join us are occasions to be celebrated, not only because he is there with us but because his presence means that he made it through another four day rotation alive and well.
Ours is not a life for everyone. But it is the perfect life for me. I am proud of the man I married for who he is as much as for what he does. The little idiosyncrasies of police life that others may swear they could live without are the very things that I enjoy about our family. Text messages sent in “ten codes” may seem cold and impersonal to some but to me they are as romantic as poetry. The gift of the end of a roll of crime scene tape just because he knows I might be able to use it in my forensic science unit with chemistry students might not make sense to my girlfriends but to me it’s the most thoughtful thing ever.
We may not be a conventional family but we are a strong family. A family connected to other families just like ours by the thin blue line of courage and integrity. How many families can say that?
How many wives can say that the best part of their day is an eight a.m. phone call at the end of the night shift with the simple two word phrase “I’m Alive”?
Friday, May 6, 2011
She Works Hard For the "Money"
These past few months I have been a slave to a book that I just know has some deep hidden potential. I keep working and reworking it hoping to pique the interest of someone that finds it worthy of publication. I am going to post the first few chapters as they currently sit on my flash drive and would really like to hear your thoughts. Please be honest!!!
Destiny was something that I just never believed in. The very idea that every facet of my life was already planned long before I ever took a single breath was just way too large to wrap my mind around. Every day we make decisions- choices- that direct the outcome of our lives and there is just no way that those decisions were made by some mysterious being known as fate.
Four Lucy Fight Club
Fight Club
The advent of the Four Lucy Fight Club was an accident, really. Years of anger and frustration had finally boiled up and over and led to both the greatest event and biggest mistake of our lives. The idea of four housewives pulling off what we almost managed to get away with was mindboggling. I knew that even then. And if it weren’t for one major incident and one tiny detail we might have actually gotten away with it.
My husband Andy has always been a real movie aficionado and one of his favorites is an old film called Fight Club. The number one rule of Fight Club was that no one ever talked about Fight Club. But you know that someone had to be talking about it. Someone always talks. It’s inevitable. Human nature makes us want to tell our mother or our close friend or hell, the guy at the coffee shop, absolutely everything and if it’s a real juicy little tid-bit then forget about it, there’s just no holding back then.
That’s how I ended up here, as a long term guest of the state of Virginia
I like to think I would have made different choices if I had thought things through a little more. Now that I am confined to a ten by ten space of cinderblocks and steel I have a lot of time to think about what I should have done, could have done and would have done if things had been different. But they weren’t different. The great recession of the twenty first century had seen to that.
No matter how much I think it over though I keep coming back to the same question. Faced with foreclosure and ultimately maybe even homelessness, was I so wrong in what I did? Something had to be done before I was tucking my two little boys into bed at night in a cardboard refrigerator carton and cooking dinner over a fire in a fifty gallon drum.
Perhaps there might have been a better way of doing things. I won’t deny that what we did was wrong. I will deny however, that our motives were unjust. It was supposed to be a solution to our problems. No one was supposed to get hurt and we were only taking what we believe was rightfully ours.
It was a stand for the thousands of wives and mothers just trying to make ends meet; tired of swimming up stream all the time. We became our own underground Fight Club, four women on a mission to save our small corner of the world. We took the bull by the horns and shoved it up fate’s hind end. It seemed like we were so damned good at it! Every detail, every aspect- planned right down to a tee. Who would have guessed it could all go so very wrong?
I suppose I should take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Susie Timmons, inmate number 2010450, of the Virginia State Correctional Department. I have just begun my tenure here and expect to become quite comfortable wearing orange and showering with other women before long. What choice do I really have? I mean, I lost all my rights to choose when I made the choice to break the law.
There’s no doubt that I deserve to be here. I knew what I was doing wrong. Years of marriage had provided me with more than the average amount of knowledge of crime. My husband Andy is a ten year veteran of the Virginia Beach Police Department. He is one of the finest police officers on the job and I am damned proud of him. And I hate myself for letting him down the way I did.
And then there are my children. There is no amount of incarceration that will excuse me for what I have put them through. I have two sons, A.J. and Sammy. A.J. is the oldest. He is quiet, studious, thoughtful and sweet. Sammy is my baby. The spitting image of his father, he is the sweetest little angel but with a devil’s grin. He has a heart of gold but a temper of fire.
I am… was… a wife, a mother and a well educated career woman. I know right from wrong. I have never even had a parking ticket and I am not a murderer or a thief. At least, I wasn’t a thief
I have come to terms with the events of the past several months and I know that I deserve my internment here at the women’s correctional center but I have to say, in a way I am proud of what we did. We fought back against the system and we put up one hell of a fight. Unfortunately the system fought back and we lost. Big time.
I would be lying if I didn’t tell you how much I really liked the air of mystery surrounding the Four Lucy’s, the name dubbed to us by the local rag sheet. For a few days we were the center of attention. Investigators were stumped, reporters conjured up theories and identities were speculated about everywhere. It gave me a secret sense of belonging and a feeling that I was like a superhero.
Only I wasn’t a superhero. I was the bad guy. We all were. And bad guys have to pay a price. Fifteen to twenty years of a ten by ten cell and very bad institution food barely make the down payment. I have lost the three men who made my life worth living. Andy will never speak to me again. There will never be another birthday party or a visit from the tooth fairy. I will miss my boys’ first dates. I will never see them go to prom or cross the stage at graduation. Chances are I won’t be up for parole until well after they are married and their own children begin to date.
They will never understand that Mommy became a criminal for them. That I committed several felonies with their best interests at heart and that I did what I did to protect them. They will always ask why, forever hate me for it and they will never really get it. Years of therapy to fix what I screwed up will never actually work and I will have to live the rest of my life knowing that I let them down, even though I was trying only to make them proud. That, my friends is my true sentence
The Beginning
Destiny was something that I just never believed in. The very idea that every facet of my life was already planned long before I ever took a single breath was just way too large to wrap my mind around. Every day we make decisions- choices- that direct the outcome of our lives and there is just no way that those decisions were made by some mysterious being known as fate.
That is what I used to think. And then my life changed irrevocably and fate took the wheel. If I think back I can almost pin point the exact moment that the future of the Four Lucy Fight Club was sealed.
It was a day like any other. The boys had gone off to school and I was dressed in my extremely figure flattering polyester Sub Heaven uniform in preparation for another highly stimulating day of sandwich making. Once the dishwasher was loaded with the breakfast ware, I ran a quick mop across the faded linoleum.
A quick glance at the stack of unpaid bills and late notices on the counter was enough to make me sigh heavily. Even with my pathetic sandwich job and Andy’s double shifts we just never seemed to make any headway. Losing my job in advertising two years ago hurt us horribly. The mortgage was at least two months late at any given time and the electric company was threatening to disconnect if we didn’t make a payment within ten days. Hell, the cable company had cut us loose months ago.
It’s not like I haven’t tried to get ahead. The day I got downsized I applied for unemployment. By the next day I had a resume drawn up and the began applying everywhere and anywhere. Twelve months of rejections later the unemployment ran out and I was still without work. Recruiters claimed I was over qualified, under qualified, overeducated and under educated. The career counselor at the employment commission told me to go back to school, get another degree.
Go back to school?
I can’t pay the mortgage or buy my boys clothes and shoes but I can drop ten grand on tuition?
And so I was reduced to slapping mayonnaise on bread every day from ten till two while my boss, a snot nosed twenty two year old reminded me of how lucky I was that he gave me my big break back into the workforce.
I won’t even try to lie. The job was awful. I smelled like meat and onions most of the time and it was definitely deprecating to my morale. But it was money and we needed plenty of that.
“Honey? Honey! Where are you?”
My husband, a police officer with the Virginia Beach Police Department was barely an hour off of his night shift and was now out in the garage preparing for an undercover detail. Andy worked double shifts almost every day, going undercover on the drug beat, serving warrants and pretty much taking whatever extra work he could. It had been like this for well over a year now and I could see the worry and exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. I wish he didn’t have to work so hard and it broke my heart to see him so tired and beat down all the time but his overtime is the only thing that keeps us from living in a refrigerator box and eating spaghetti o’s for three meals a day.
“I have to leave, Andy! What do you want?” I yelled out the open door through the laundry room.
“I need you! Can you come out here?!” I thought I actually detected a note of panic in his voice.
“All right! Hang on! I’ll be right there!” I grabbed my purse so I could leave after tending to my husband’s apparent emergency.
Andy, a little paunchier in the middle than the young rookies he worked with, was standing sideways, sucking in his gut, his shoulders thrown so far back it had to hurt. It was all I could do to hold back a laugh.
“Susie? Be honest. Does this gun make me look fat?”
Dressed in his usual undercover garb of jeans, a tee shirt and an unbuttoned flannel, I could clearly see the outline of the pistol on his hip.
“Andy, honey,” I tried hard not to sound trite, “I don’t think a handgun is gonna make you look fat.”
His shoulders relaxed instantly. “Oh, good. So, can’t you see the gun then?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said the gun is not going to affect your physique. Just pull your flannel over it, no one will notice.”
“Hmpf!” Andy muttered as he adjusted his shirt to cover the weapon.
I could see the irritation in his expression and that just made me want to laugh again. Knowing better, I bit back the urge. Instead I just kissed him on the cheek and left the garage.
My little car started up quickly despite the chill in the air. Great on gas mileage but small on space, the Ford Focus I drove was the only car we owned. Andy commuted in his patrol car and we utilized public transportation as much as possible to cut down on gas money even more.
Backing out the driveway I waved to Joan, the world’s nosiest neighbor and headed toward Sub Heaven. From my rear view mirror I saw Andy drive away in his cruiser in the opposite direction.
I was barely half a mile from work when fate jumped in and took over. The last thing I remember was the force of the SUV slamming into the side of my little car. They tell me now that the truck hit me so hard the mechanism in my seat belt failed and I slammed frontal lobe first into the windshield.
When I next opened my eyes, the room was dim. Quiet blips and bleeps punctuated the otherwise silent space around me. I had one hell of a pounding headache and everything looked fuzzy. I rolled my head slowly to the side and could see that Andy was slouched in a blue plastic chair next to me, head lolling off to one side, drool running in a thin stream down his chin and on to his brown tee shirt.
I distinctly remembered his shirt being red when I left for work.
My arms felt heavy. I tried to lift my left arm but it was too much effort so I let it fall limply on the scratchy, white blanket covering me. The distinct smell of bleach permeated my nostrils, turning my already queasy stomach into tight knots.
Testing my voice, I cleared my throat lightly and whispered, “Andy?” And then again, slightly louder, “Andy!”
Sitting up with a start, Andy swatted at the saliva hanging from his chin.
“What? Oh! Susie! You’re awake!” There was shock in his eyes. Maybe a few tears too.
Smiling was agonizing so I settled for a slight lift of the corner of my lip. The memory of the accident suddenly flashed through my mind. I winced as the throbbing in my head intensified.
“How’s the other guy? He come out of it all right?” I whispered. The humor was lost before the words even left my mouth.
“What? Oh, him? Yeah, he’s fine all right. A blood alcohol of .25, he was so out of it, he didn’t even know he hit you. He’s sitting in jail. Judge wouldn’t release him till you woke up… just in case…”
“In case of what, Andy?” I whispered through parched lips.
I already knew the answer. His eyes were windows to his soul.
He picked up my hand gingerly and rubbed the palm with his large, callused thumb. Years of working his father’s farm had given him the rough hands of a working man, different from those of the young men that joined the force now, fresh out college and without a day’s hard labor in their lives.
“Honey, you hit your head pretty hard. There was a lot of swelling… they… the doctors… they weren’t sure you were ever going to wake up.”
Ever going to wake up? “Andy?” My lips moved but even I could barely hear my voice. “How long have I been … out?”
He cleared his throat, averted his gaze away from mine. “Twenty days.”
My eyes shot wide open. I tried, unsuccessfully, to sit up. The room swam around me and my head throbbed with pain. “TWENTY DAYS!! That’s almost three freakin’ weeks!!! The boys!”
“Relax, Susie, they are fine. Mom came to stay with us for a while to help out.”
“Your job?” A flash of the inside of Sub Heaven ran through my mind. “My job!”
“I have been going to work. Only missed the first couple of days. Don’t worry about Sub Heaven, it was beneath you anyway.”
“That snot nosed son of a bitch fired me, didn’t he?! I’ve been in a coma and they FIRED me? Great! Justin is un- freakin’ believable! Now what will we do? DO you KNOW how long it took me to get that pathetic job?!”
I dropped back against my scratchy hospital pillow and closed my eyes. My damned head was throbbing, the room around me had gone liquid and I felt like vomiting.
Andy struggled for a moment, trying to remain composed. When he spoke, he used his cop voice. The one he used when he meant business.
“Susie. Honey… you have to relax. Getting upset is only going to hurt you. Don’t worry, we will manage. We always do. Please, Susie, relax, ok? For me?”
I replayed the accident over in my mind as tears leaked from the corners of my closed eyes.
Screeching tires.
The sound of bending, twisting metal.
“Oh Andy! The car. How about the car?”
“Don’t worry about the car, Susie. That’s what insurance is for.” He tried to sound lighthearted but his voice wavered and I knew that the car was done for. I was guessing we had lost our insurance coverage as well. Good thing I didn’t have a job anymore, there was no way I could get to it now.
Andy leaned forward in his stiff, uncomfortable hospital chair and picked up my hand again. I wondered how many days he had spent sleeping in that ridiculous chair and then going off to work.
Little beads of sweat broke out on his pale forehead. Andy’s skin was so fair he never tanned, no matter how many hours he sat in the sun. Right now he was as red as after a day at the beach but the flush was caused by something entirely different.
Fear.
Worry.
I wanted to tell him everything was going to work out but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Lying was a sin and I was raised a good Catholic.
“Everything is going to be fine, Susie. Don’t you worry. Just concentrate on getting better so you can come home to us. I have to go to work now.” He leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. “I will let the nurses know you are awake and I will be back in the morning. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I closed my eyes and listened as my husband left the room. When I was sure he was gone, I let the tears flow as the truth hung large and heavy in front of me.
It didn’t matter how convincing Andy tried to be, the fact of the matter was I knew exactly where things stood.
We were so completely screwed.
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