Searching for Gratitude

 

If I have seemed to have been preoccupied with death and dying recently, I think it’s because death and dying have been preoccupied with me.   I have a tendency to be a bit morose on the best of days, so cover me in a shroud of mourning and mortality and watch me devolve into what can best be described as “the dark place.”  Since the first of August, my family has lost my sister, my mother, my uncle and just a week ago, my cousin.   Meanwhile, my Dad has been dealing with ongoing health issues and now my brother is in the hospital for the week of Thanksgiving.  

 

Yes, I’ve been in “the dark place.”    It’s not very pretty here, and I’m not very fun to be around.    I’ve been describing my thought process lately as “Swiss cheese,” with big empty holes where logic or short term memory used to reside.    My mind is muddy, and my self-pity has been keeping me from finding my way out.

 

I would be content enough to wallow in all this for a good long while, I think.    It’s an excuse for lots of things.    I can be anti-social, sullen, sarcastic, bitter…and it’s so easily explained by my loss rather than just being my “go-to” place when I’m not happy with myself.    Like the crutch of “comfort food” (and I went there too…with gleeful and gluttonous abandon), playing the “woe is me” card is the easy way to deal.

 

After the punch in the gut of a loved one’s death, sometimes you need another punch in the gut to wake up.   On Monday afternoon, Shelby called to tell us that one of her fellow music majors had died Sunday night in a house fire.   I had seen the news reports that day and seen the smoldering rubble on television.   The report was that three had survived but one had not.   Turns out that the woman had three children (ages 12, 8 and 5) which she got out of the house, but then she returned to save the family dog and never came back.     Horrible as this is, we learned that her husband had died in late August of heart disease.  

 

So now these kids have lost their father, their mother and all their earthly possessions in the course of 3 months.    The immensity of this just breaks my heart.   I know how hard it has been for me to deal with death in the last few months, but at their age…to watch their mother go back inside that smoking home and not return…the fear and pain must be immeasurable.  

 

For the first time since Mom died I was sincerely overcome by incredible gratitude that I had been able to have her in my life for as long as I did.   I was able to see past the loss of the moment and see how fortunate I was.   She was there for me through so many important moments in my life.    She was able to share her special kindness and love with my children, who are old enough to have those memories and carry her with them for the rest of their lives.   

 

Over the course of my life, I received so many smiles and so many hugs.  

 

I am grateful on this first Thanksgiving without her, that I have so many Thanksgiving memories of her.   Mom was the warm heart of our family, and she gave a piece of herself to each of us.   My self-pity would not honor her.   

 

Last weekend I was cleaning up messages on my phone and was grateful to find two with my mother’s sweet voice speaking to me.   One was wishing me a happy birthday last year and the other was from this summer when she was checking in to see if I was okay.    She always worried over us.   She worried about me travelling and flying so much.    I’m grateful she doesn’t have to worry any more.

 

This has been the hardest year of my life.   Sometimes it seemed like too much, but that’s only because when I look back, my burden had been pretty light for the most part and I hadn’t built up the strength to carry a heavy load.    I should be grateful for that.   I’ve had a great life.    I’ve been blessed with loving parents and siblings, an incredible wife, wonderful children, and good friends.   When I start to stoop from the load I’m carrying, they lift me up.   The faith my parents instilled in me lifts me up as well.    If I just let go, my burden will be light once again.

 

I have so much to be thankful for.   

What I didn't know...

The “Proscenium Arch” is a theatrical term for the framed area of the stage where the primary action takes place.   It is where our focus is drawn.   Actors perform for us within that arch and then go off stage, where they might spend their time refreshing their makeup or checking their scripts.   We don’t really know what they are doing, because we don’t see them…and frankly, when they aren’t in that arch, we quickly lose interest in their existence. 

In truth, we each live our lives like that.  Our vision creates our own personal “proscenium arch” on which the theatre of our life plays.   We see what is in front of us at any given moment, and those things that are going on behind us or far away from us (out of our line of sight) take on a far lesser importance.  

I had the crazy idea once that if I turned around fast enough, I might actually see that there wasn’t really anything behind me.   My theory (which is incredibly self-centered and kind of ridiculous) was that if I wasn’t seeing it, maybe it didn’t really exist.   It’s kind of like that old saying that “if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, would it make a sound?”  

My point in all this theorizing and postulating on what is real and what is not is that there are a lot of things going on in this world that I can never see or experience firsthand.    Still, just because I don’t see it within my personal “proscenium arch” doesn’t mean it isn’t taking place somewhere and might at some point have an impact on me or someone I care about.

Since my world revolves around me, I usually think I understand it pretty well.  I know those who have fallen into my orbit (family and friends) and I think I have them pretty much figured out.    Ask me about one of them and I can sum up who they are in a couple of common, simple words or phrases.   I can do this because this is “my world” and it’s all about what I know.

The problem, as I have become acutely aware, is that I don’t know that much…and what I do know, I don’t understand all that well.

Before she died, I would have described my sister with a few words:  “strong willed,..fun loving...stubborn.”  I would have told people that she “loved her family and friends” and I was “amazed at how resilient she was in the face of her physical challenges.” 

I would have said these things to encapsulate the entirety of her life.   Almost 44 years boiled down to 23 words.   Not even close to a word per year.

I loved my sister, despite some of our differences, and I thought I knew her, but I did not.   I knew what I saw, in that narrow window that I view the world through, but I did not see her off my stage, living and interacting with others. 

It was not until after her death that I began to get a better view of Tracy and who she was.   Through the words of others a picture of my sister emerged that was much more complete than the role that I allowed her to play in my life.  I did not see the impact her compassion and friendship made on others.   I did not see how her determination to live life on her terms was inspiring to so many.

I did not know.

Our life has many Acts, and sometimes characters that perform such an integral part within one Act will play a much less significant role in others.   Without a doubt my parents, my two brothers and my sister were the stars of my life’s first Act.  

Mom was the central character; my moral compass, my teacher, my healer, my therapist.   She defined my childhood with her unconditional love and her acceptance of who I was and who I wasn’t.   She was rarely off the stage, and if she wasn’t front and center, she was busy in the background, doing something to make my life easier and happier.

My life’s second Act began when I met Connie.   When she was on stage, she held my rapt attention, and when she wasn’t, she was rarely off my mind.   The stage was reset when we married and after moving to Tennessee, the sets and scenery changed.  Three new stars took center stage when our daughters were born, and the appearance of beloved characters from the first Act were far less frequent.  

You justify in your mind that talking on the phone once or twice a week or visiting three or four times a year keeps you involved in someone’s life, but that leaves a lot of time unaccounted for.   You don’t intend for those characters to stay offstage for so long, but there are so many things going on in front of you at any given time that it is easy to forget who is waiting in the wings.

We do not recognize that we are co-writers of our own script.  We have considerable control over who comes on stage and who doesn’t.   Since we are generally making things up as we go, most of the time we see what we want to see at that particular moment…and later we might wish that we had written things differently.   

As I look back on the staging of my life, there are many scenes I wish I had written differently.

I did not know that my sister would die on August 1, 2012 and that I would be fortunate enough to be there and say one last goodbye. 

I did not know that only six short weeks later I would receive a 2am phone call from my brother telling me that my mother was gone.   I did not know that I would never get to tell her “Goodbye…I love you,” or give her one last hug.  

I did not know, when I spoke to her in that quick conversation from the airport the Friday before she died, that it would be the last time I would hear her sweet voice.   I did not know that when I was busy on Wednesday evening and thought, “I’ll call tomorrow,” that Thursday would be my first day without my mother.  

There are so many things I did not know…

Mom was offstage for much of the Second Act of my life.   She was often on my mind, and always in my prayers, but I didn’t write her into as many scenes as I should have.  

I must also recognize that Mom was living her own play in which I was a character.   She did not write me out of her script, but set me free to live my own.   She did this because she loved me, and she never stopped.  I loved her too, and I am grateful that I told her that many times.  

Her final Act on this Earth ended much earlier than I wanted.   I thought she would be with me for many more years.  Still, I could not ask for a more wonderful passing for someone that I love so much than to go peacefully in her sleep in her own bed.  A better author than I wrote that part of her script.

There are times when I would like the chance to do a re-write on parts of my own life, but I know that is impossible and probably unwise.    I have to accept the simple fact that there was much I did not know, much I did not do, and much I did not say.   These are things which I hope will inform me as I enter the final Act of my life.   If nothing else, Mom would have wanted me to learn something, to find out those things I “need to know,” and to be a better person.

I have just begun the long mourning and the missing of her physical presence in my life.   To never be able to pick up the phone and hear her voice and her wise counsel again breaks my heart.   To walk up that path to the family home and not see her at the back door, smiling and ready with a hug, is almost unbearable to think about.  But as the wise young pastor, who spoke so eloquently at her funeral said, "she's now waiting at another door."  

I know that to be true...and I'll hug her again one day.

I love you Mom. 

Tracy

It’s been a little over a month since I watched my sister take her last breath, and it still does not seem real.  For the longest time I felt confident that I was ready for her to go; convincing myself that she would be better off without the pain and what I considered to be her poor quality of life thanks to the ravages of Buerger’s Disease.    I never thought it would be easy, but I also never expected it to be so difficult.  

Tracy had gone to the edge and back so many times that I foolishly expected her to do the same again.  I had seen her labored breathing before.  I had seen the waxy, discolored skin.   I had seen her weak and struggling.   Somehow, she always fought through it and came back, smiling and laughing and ready to get what she could out of the life she had been given.   Even when the doctor came out and told us that morning that she wouldn’t make it through the day, there was a little voice in the back of my mind saying, “You don’t know my sister.”

I was four years old when Tracy was born.   With three older brothers, she was both protected fiercely and teased mercilessly at home.   She and I had the same color hair and eyes, setting us apart from our brothers and bonding us somewhat along with our closer age.   Of course, she was still a girl, and I wanted to be like my older brothers.  I didn’t want to play with her dolls and she didn’t want to play with my trucks and toy guns.  

We often played games in the yard, usually epic battles of Kickball, and I’m not sure how her self-esteem fared, but mine took a few hits.   It always seemed that I could not kick a ball that my brother David could not get to and catch in mid-air.   It was a rare thrill to actually get to first base.   As we got older, I’m pretty sure that it didn’t take long before even Tracy was better at the game than me, but it was always fun, and we’d sometimes play until it was too dark to see the ball. 

I find myself remembering our childhood in nostalgic, Rockwellian ideals.   I’m sure it wasn’t perfect, and I know that we had our moments of fighting or frustration, but those moments don’t rise to the surface of my memory.  What I remember is my little sister, wearing her cute little dresses and black patent leather shoes for church on Sunday mornings.  I remember Mom combing her long blond hair and pulling it back a little with flower barrettes.   I remember Christmas mornings and her bright eyes; waiting at the top of the stairs for the okay to run downstairs and see what Santa had brought us.

By the time I entered High School, my interest in anything outside my own selfish preoccupations had begun to separate me somewhat from the day to day issues of my sister’s life.   We lived in the same house, and I am sure that I had some marginal concern for what was going on, but I never sat down and asked her how her day had gone, or what her friends were like, or if there was anything I could do for her.  I’m sure I thought I was a “good” big brother, but looking back, I know that I was not what I should have been.

During this time, my grandmother came to live with us, and I had no idea what effect this might have on anyone else in family.  I was able to escape to my room or to work and school.   I didn’t think about the pressure it put on my mother, and I certainly didn’t think about the stress it must have put upon Tracy.

I have wonderful childhood memories of my grandmother and grandfather, Pauline and Hack.   Mamaw loved Tracy, and being an accomplished seamstress, she made her some beautiful dresses.   They didn’t have a lot of money, but they gave us lots of hugs, and we never ended a visit without Mamaw saying “Give me some Sugar,” and we would happily kiss her on the cheek.

Unfortunately, Mamaw had a stroke in 1977, requiring her to spend five days a week with us while Papaw worked, and after Papaw died in 1979 she came to live with us full time.   The stroke had changed Mamaw, and her worst traits came out.   She treated my Mom like her personal servant and was constantly, often rudely, asking for something.  Also, and probably because she could see that Tracy still needed my mother’s attention, she grew jealous of Tracy and would give her mean looks from across the room or mutter ugly comments. 

I was not happy about the way Mamaw acted toward Mom or Tracy, but my young mind thought there was only one answer to the situation (Mamaw should leave our once happy home).   I didn’t realize that I could have helped Mom more or offered Tracy a safe haven from that torment.   I was blind, stupid and selfish.  

As Tracy moved into High School, she looked for escape where she could find it.   Some of her friendships were not healthy, and she picked up some very bad habits.   She started smoking and later admitted that her experimenting with drugs began in high school.  

Mamaw died in 1985, having lived in our home for nearly half of Tracy’s life.    I often wonder if Tracy’s path would have been different if Mamaw had not come there.   I wonder if it would have been different if I had been a better brother.

I have tried to teach my girls the importance of choices.   I tell them that no matter what mistakes I might make as a parent, or what bad influences others might have, they have to live with their own choices.   Sometimes even the small decisions might have a big impact.   That’s hard for a kid to understand.   It’s not that easy for adults either.

None of us knew that we were carrying the gene for Buerger’s Disease.   We didn’t know that it is triggered by smoking or the brutal damage it could cause.  It wasn’t until after Tracy was diagnosed with it in her mid-twenties that I learned that my Dad’s father had it.   I knew that he had lost a leg, but I thought it had something to do with an accident at work.  I didn’t know it was related to a disease.  I didn’t know that it had killed him.  

Tracy was the only one in my immediate family that smoked.   I’m sure she thought she could quit anytime she wanted.   I’m sure most smokers start out that way.   I have been that way about losing weight.   When I’m ready, I told myself, it will be easy.   

Tracy threw that back at me once when I told her that she needed to stop smoking (this was before the Buerger’s started systematically destroying her body).   She could be brutally honest, sometimes painfully so, and her response to me still cuts to this day, “When you lose your weight, I’ll quit smoking.”    Once more, I failed her.

Tracy was a magnet for men who didn’t deserve her.    She was loyal to a fault and always committed (to her detriment).  She looked past their multiple problems and loved them unconditionally.   None of them earned this through actions or any obvious potential for change.   She saw something in them that no one, especially her family, ever saw.    It always took something drastic, and usually horribly sad, to break the spell they had on her.   

It’s a testament to her spirit, though, that she never dwelled on her broken heart.   She mended quickly and opened herself up to the next heartbreak.   Her faith in others was usually unmerited, but it never faltered.   

After I moved to Tennessee, my contact with Tracy was limited.   We’d see each other a few times a year or talk on the phone when I had the time.   Her life and mine had taken different tracks and I found less and less in common with her.   She loved my kids (and all her nieces and nephews), and once it became obvious that the disease would not allow her to have children of her own, she doted on them.  

As the disease grew more painful, and the doctors were forced to start taking drastic measures of amputation, her use and dependence on drugs grew.   We were all concerned, and we could see the difference in her mind…once sharp and focused, becoming more scattered and foggy.  

Looking back on that time, I hate what the drugs did to our family.   We were all hurt in different ways, and I know that Tracy would never have said nor done some of the things she did if the drugs hadn’t been controlling her.   She loved her family…and I know she loved me and my girls.  

The doctors finally intervened and put her on a regimented drug program to control her pain, and slowly she began to come back to us.   With her mind clearer, she started recognizing that some of her so-called “friends” were only using her, and she worked hard to re-establish relationships with family.   She went to church when she was able and was baptized; turning to God for comfort and doing her best to keep a positive attitude.

The smoking and the progression of the disease continued to take a toll on her body.   By the end she had lost her right foot and most of her left leg.   She had also lost all her fingers and thumbs, down to mere nubs.   The addiction to smoking was only intensified by the Buerger’s, and although she tried every way she could to stop, she smoked until the end of her life.

For most of us, the multiple amputations and pain would have been too much to overcome.  I can’t imagine the will and strength that it took for her to do even the simplest things.   Her independence was important to her, and she lived alone, which still amazes me.   She adapted and learned how to write with better penmanship than most of us.   She used her computer to stay in touch with friends and family.   She could text on her phone better and faster than I ever could. 

Of course, she had help, and my Dad was there for her almost every day for something.   Mom did her laundry and they did her shopping.   Dad took her to doctor’s appointments and on errands, loading her wheelchair in and out of the car at every stop.  Their devotion to their baby girl was amazing and inspiring.

As her condition worsened, my brothers and I were  frustrated that she did not agree to go into an assisted living center or a nursing home.   We were very concerned for our aging parents, and Tracy's health, and we often told them that we thought they needed to pull back and not do so much.   Dad always answered the same, saying, “We would do the same for any one of you,” and I knew it was true.

Dad got sick and had to be rushed to the hospital on the evening of July 3^rd.   I got the call that night and my brother Wayne told me it was “congestive heart failure.”  Dad could barely breathe and had a large amount of fluid on his lungs.   The next day as the family sat in the waiting room outside of the Critical Care Unit, it briefly crossed my mind that it was a rare thing for the four of us kids to be together and Dad would like that.  I didn’t know that it would be the last time.

As his condition began to improve slightly on July 5, Tracy was brought by ambulance and placed in the room next to Dad.  The family took turns going from room to room and nurses joked that this should be renamed the “Warford” wing.  

They both went home after a few more days and Tracy knew that Dad could no longer be there to help her like he had been.   Dad’s recovery would be long, and the doctors put him on a strict diet and told him he could not drive. 

Everyone pitched in to help, and I greatly appreciate that my brothers lived close by since I live so far away.   At the end of July, Wayne called to tell me that Tracy was back in the hospital and it was serious.  A nurse had told him that she didn’t think Tracy would leave the hospital.   I had received many of these calls over the years, and I had become a little jaded.    I had made several emergency trips home after hearing “it doesn’t look good,” and although grateful each time that she recovered, I had begun to think that she was indestructible.   Having just returned from a trip to take my Dad to the doctor, I almost convinced myself to wait a day and see how she was doing then.   Something told me I should go on that night.

The next morning, I picked up mom and met Wayne at the hospital.  My cousin had planned to come in for a visit and Dad stayed home to meet him.   None of us thought August 1 would be any different than any other day.

Tracy was sleeping when we got to her room, her breathing was heavy but she appeared to be resting, which we knew she needed.   We went to the waiting room so we wouldn’t disturb her.    They told me that the afternoon before Tracy had asked my Dad to come and sing to her.   Dad sat on the edge of the bed and sang “Amazing Grace” while she weakly sang along with him.   

It wasn’t long before her doctor came into the waiting room to ask about resuscitation, if it became necessary.   Wayne told her that it was Tracy’s wish not to be revived.   The doctor agreed and explained that the Buerger’s disease had slowed the blood flow to such a degree that her internal organs were dying.  He said that there was nothing more they could do and he could not see her making it through the day.  

I left immediately to get Dad, and he was waiting at the door when I got there.   We were back in twenty minutes and went straight to her room.   Wayne stood outside on the phone and we went in to find Tracy breathing heavily, her whole body shaking with each rattling breath.  Dad went around the bed and sat down beside her, placing his hand on her arm.  I stood by her and leaned in to kiss her forehead, whispering, “Love you, Sis.”

A nurse came up behind me and said, “The doctor asked us to take the monitor off,” and I stepped aside.  She reached to remove the electrodes attached to Tracy’s upper chest.  As her fingers touched the first lead, I noticed that the room had gone quiet, and I saw Tracy’s head move slightly to the side.   The nurse laid her hand softly on her chest and looked at my Mom and Dad.   “I think she’s gone.”

It was that quick.   Dad and I had not been in that room more than two minutes and her life was over.  Tracy was 43 years old.

 I could almost feel myself stop breathing.   I have never been present when someone stopped living.  I’ve seen people die in movies and been to funerals where I’ve viewed a body.  I’ve experienced death from a distance and mourned for lost loved ones.    I thought I understood the process of death and what it would be like, but the reality of it was crushing.  

Mom turned away and sobbed.   Dad sat stunned and continued to hold her arm.   I backed out of the room and looked at Wayne.   Through trembling lips I could only repeat what the nurse had said.   

We went back into the room and were followed by more nurses who checked for a pulse or any sign of life.    Tracy had been in the hospital so many times in the last few years that most of the staff knew her by name and by smile.   She joked and cut up with them, even when she was feeling her worst.   Most of them fought to hold back tears.

I tried to console Mom, but she was feeling pain no physical injury could bring.   She cried for her baby and she cried for the life that Tracy never got to live.   When I finally helped her out of the room, she didn’t look back, nor did she go back again.   She said she wanted to remember her as she was.

I called Connie, because I needed to hear her voice.   I called my brother David, who was trying his best to get back from Nashville before she passed, but instead would have a long, grim drive home.  

While we were out of the room, the nurses removed all the wires and IV’s and cleaned her up.   When I returned a little while later, she was laying much as she had been when I left, head turned to the side, but with a crisp, white sheet pulled up to just below her chin.  

Knowing that Tracy had made arrangements for her body to be donated to the University of Louisville for research into Buerger’s Disease, I understood that this would be the last time I would ever see her.  Sitting there beside her bed, the wall that had stood between us for so long finally collapsed.    I said things that I wished I had said while she was still alive.   I told her how sorry I was that I hadn’t been there like I should have been.   I told her how much I loved her.  

I didn’t need to hear anything back from her.   I just needed to say it…and I believe with all my heart that she heard every word.

 

I Are Stupid Too

Last week was a tough week in our house.   I think we’ve been kind of spoiled with the generally mature behavior of Shelby and Ashlyn as the years have gone by, so when they do something monumentally stupid (which most teenagers tend to do on a fairly regular basis) it comes as quite a shock to their mother and me.   We often remind ourselves, as we did again last week, just how lucky we are that they aren’t out drinking and doing drugs like a lot of kids.   They aren’t at wild parties every weekend or chasing every guy they see.   They don’t dress like they plan to be on a street corner looking for business.   They seem to genuinely care about others.  They are good kids.   Seriously.

But, sometimes…

Shelby is almost twenty-two and will be moving into an apartment very soon, so it’s understandable that she would be stretching her wings of independence to see how far they spread.   She forgets, however, that she still lives in my home and the walls there don’t allow for a lot of stretching and certainly no flying.    Ashlyn, who at 18 wants to be considered an adult when it comes to doing what she wants, but can brilliantly play the “I’m still a little kid” card when it benefits her.   They may be considered "Adults" by some standards , but only if they are graded on a curve.

Although we might have an occasional test of our parental authority from Shelby or Ashlyn (and multiple ones from Taylor), last week they hit us with a series of surprise attacks in a very short period of time.   Staged one after the other with little chance to rest or recover in between, Connie and I were left battle weary and ready to place our finger on the big red button of doom:  the nuclear option of taking car keys and keeping them under house arrest.

Before I explain what happened, let me say that I understand that in comparison to what a lot of parents deal with, their infractions were relatively minor.  I completely get that.   I also don’t care.  We play by the rules set in our house, not in someone else’s.    As parents our rules are tougher than some, more lenient that others.   All that matters are that our rules and expectations are clear.  

Our week of discontent started on Sunday night, when Shelby and Ashlyn changed their initial plans of coming to our house with some friends to watch a movie into going with a friend to his grandmother’s house to watch a movie there.   This, of course, did not make Taylor happy, since she was included (by nature of living there) in the first plans, but excluded from the second.   It doesn’t matter how often it happens (and it happens a lot), I never get used to the emotional drama of teenage girls.

Before they left, Connie and I clearly told Shelby and Ashlyn that they needed to leave for home at 10:30pm.   Our reasons were sound:

·         Shelby had to work the next day

·         they were in someone else’s home and should not stay late

·         that gave them plenty of time to watch a movie

·         because we said so

They had not been gone 30 minutes when Ashlyn called to say that they were going to get pizza with their friend and his grandmother, so they might need some extra time to watch the movie.   It was a reasonable request, and being reasonable people, we agreed.  After some negotiating, we added an hour to the time they needed to leave.   Don’t say we aren’t fair minded.

We told them to text when they were leaving.

At midnight we texted Ashlyn, since we had not heard from them.    She responded quickly, saying that the movie was almost over and they would leave as soon as it ended.   I asked “how long?” and she replied “fifteen minutes.”

Forty-five minutes later we texted them back and asked where they were.   The response was, “we’re talking and getting ready to leave.”   Apparently not.

For once, it was Connie who got up to wait for them and give them the glare of shame as they walked through the door.   It’s usually me that plays bad cop, but I think she was afraid I would say something I would regret since I’d been in a grumpy mood for a few days anyway.   Unfortunately for the girls, and something none of us really knew, Connie’s “bad cop” mode apparently goes into overdrive once it gets past 2am, so when the girls finally walked in at 2:15, she was not her typical happy self.

Leaving the parenting in her capable hands, I was sleeping peacefully in my cozy bed, but she told me the next morning that she gave them a pretty strong lecture on responsibility and doing what you say you’re going to do.   There were feeble attempts at explanation from them and threats of future consequences from her.   In all, not a lot was accomplished, but everyone went to bed appropriately disgruntled.

Monday night I arrived home from work to learn Shelby and Ashlyn had been invited to spend that night at the home of a young lady from church, along with a  couple of other girls.   Not a big deal except that...again, Taylor was not invited.   The drama is never ending.   I don’t blame Taylor for being upset, and I don’t blame Ashlyn and Shelby for wanting to hang out with friends without their little sister tagging along.    It’s a vicious Catch-22.   If one is happy the other can’t be.   Either way, Connie and I are left in the middle and that means that almost always, we aren’t happy.

Since this was a sleepover, we didn’t have to worry about them overstaying their welcome or driving home late at night.   Connie and I slept well with the knowledge that they were safe.  

A little after 5am, Connie got a text.    “Are you seeing the stars?”    It was Ashlyn, who can get as excited about a cute kitten or a prancing deer or a particularly brilliant cluster of stars as anyone in the world.    Rather than running outside to look at the wonders of the pre-dawn sky, Connie and I both were in awe of the fact that they were obviously still awake. 

As we left for work that morning, we texted them to remind Shelby that she had to be at a staff meeting at 10am.   We also felt it was necessary to remind her that she should come home, shower and look somewhat appropriate for work.    Why we did this, I do not know.   It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed up all night long and then had to function for work or school the next day.   If I stay up much past midnight now, I’m a fuzzy brained drooler most of the next day.   I need a mass consumption of coffee to function as it is.   

Shelby was fine and made it home in time to clean up and dress nice for work.   I shouldn’t have doubted, but sometimes as a parent you see patterns of behavior where there isn’t one.  

But sometimes, there is…

That afternoon I was at work when Shelby called to say that she was going to drive 30 miles over to Maryville to see her soon-to-be roommate Lindsey so they could discuss all the stuff soon-to-be roommates need to discuss.    I told her that there were severe thunderstorms rolling in and the radio was predicting high winds.   She said that Lindsey told her it was clear in Maryville, which in Shelby’s mind meant no harm could possibly come to her.   Rather than argue, I simply said, “you’re going to do what you want, so I won’t waste time trying to talk you out of it.   Be careful…love you.”    I would like to say that I was practicing reverse psychology, but it was really just resignation to the knowledge that I could not win the battle.

I hung up the phone and for the next five minutes I thought about her driving to Maryville and back that night.   As I’ve said before, I am the worst case of all worst case scenario thinkers.  I generally stop just before the involvement of  marauding zombies or rampaging dinosaurs, but pretty much every other conceivable bad thing that could happen crosses my mind when it comes to the safety of my kids.   I picked up the phone and called her back.

“Hello?”  

“Hey Shelby,” I said.   “Where are you now?”

“I’m coming through Oak Ridge on the way to Lindsey’s.”

“Okay…I’ve changed my mind.   You can’t go to Maryville.   Turn around and go home.”

She thought I was joking.   “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“But we had planned to meet today for almost a week.”

“You should have thought of that before you stayed up all night last night and most of the night before.”   

I let that sink in and then gave her my justification.   “You are tired, and you will likely be driving in a storm in heavy traffic.   I have no idea what time you will come home tonight, and after the last two nights I don’t expect you’ll choose to come home early.   Finally, you are driving a car in my name and under my insurance.   If you are tired and have an accident you could not only hurt of kill someone, which would be horrible and something you’d have to  live with if you survive, but you’d also destroy us financially, since I would have a share of the responsibility.”

It was one of my more well organized and logical rants and one which she obviously had no reasonable response to.   There was silence for a moment and then a very frustrated “Fine, I’m going home.”

The line went dead and I immediately began to dread what I would face when I got home.   Would I get the silent treatment from Shelby?    A lecture from Connie that I had gone too far?    I expected the worse, but instead got “absolutely normal” Shelby; calm and excited to show me some crafts she was doing for display in her new apartment.   Any resentment she felt toward me she hid well…or else she knew that she would soon be escaping the warden’s prison and there was no point stirring things up now.  

Later, I finally asked her if she was upset and she said she had been disappointed but understood why I had done it.    This was the mature Shelby I was used to dealing with.

Tuesday night, Ashlyn went to dinner with a lady from our previous church who has been a dear friend and Christian mentor to Ashlyn for several years.    Due to scheduling issues, they had not been able to meet for quite a while, so Ashlyn was excited to get together and catch-up on all that had been going on in their lives.    I have always been grateful to this woman for taking the time to meet with Ashlyn and listen to her problems and encourage her.   She’s young enough to be fun and cool to Ashlyn, but she’s also a wife and mother of two, so she’s a great mature role model as well.

The plan was to meet across town at 6pm and as she was leaving Ashlyn said, “Can we all watch White Collar at 9pm?”   White Collar is one of the rare shows that we can all watch together.   I watch it because of the witty scripts and characterizations.   The four ladies of the house watch it to get lost in the eyes and smile of actor Matt Bomer.   

When 9pm came and Ashlyn was not home, my first spark of worry arose, but it was minimal.   I knew they had a lot to talk about and that the restaurant didn’t close until 9, so I let it go.   Twenty minutes later I made the first call to her cell-phone and got only voicemail, and this continued for the dozen or so calls I made across the next forty-five minutes. 

I asked Shelby if she had heard from her and unbeknownst to me she began texting Ashlyn’s friends to see if they knew anything of her whereabouts.   At 10pm Connie and I were trying to find the cell number of Ashlyn’s mentor, which we somehow didn’t have.   I hated to call her home, because she had two small kids who might be asleep, but we were very close to doing that.  Finally Shelby came upstairs saying that Ashlyn had called and was on the way home. 

Connie reminded me not to be mad when she came in, but I wasn’t.  I was mainly just relieved.   She came in smiling her Ashlyn smile and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know my phone was on silent.”    I wanted to say that if she wasn’t in school, church or a movie, there was no reason for it to be on silent, but I didn’t.   She apologized again for being late, and said that they talked until the restaurant closed and then sat in the parking lot talking some more.   She had no idea that we were all so worried.   Kids never do.

We gave her a brief reminder to just keep us informed about what was going on, and she tried to deflect our concern by saying she was perfectly safe.   What kids don’t get is that while they may be perfectly safe where ever they are, if we don’t know that, then we are envisioning them stopping for gas and getting carjacked, or running off the road into a tree-lined ditch, or any number of horrible things that happen randomly.

I told her something I had told Shelby that afternoon when we talked about her driving to Maryville.    “No one ever plans to have an accident, but you CAN plan for ways that might keep accidents from happening.”    (You might have to read that a few times for it to make sense, but trust me, there’s a slight bit of genius in that logic).

Wednesday night was uneventful, and I was grateful.    I was getting too old for this.

Thursday morning Taylor and I drove to Kentucky to spend time with my parents and left Connie with the two troublemakers.    I thought that after the issues of the last few days that it would be fairly calm and uneventful for my sweet wife.   That night I called her just before 10pm to check in and say goodnight and I could tell from the noise in the background that something was going on.

“The girls and some friends are going to the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises,” Connie told me.   This did not cause me to worry.   I don’t begrudge them being young and doing fun things.   The theater is less than 10 minutes from our house, so it wasn’t a big deal.  There would be lots of people since it was opening night, so I knew they would be safe.    I was actually a little jealous that they were getting to go and I wasn’t.

The next morning Connie called me a little before eight and asked if I had been watching the news.   I told her that we had not turned on the television that morning and she told me about the shooting in Aurora, Colorado.   My heart shook at the thought of my girls sitting in a dark theater at the exact same time, watching the exact same movie.  

I asked if they were okay this morning and she said they were still asleep and didn’t know about what happened, but something in her voice let me know there was something else wrong too.   After some prodding, she finally told me that she had told them when they left to come home immediately after the film.   That should have been some time just after 3am, since it was a nearly three hour movie.   She had told them to text her when they left the theater so she would know they were on the way.   She woke up at 4:30 and realized that she had not received a text.  She got up and found the light in the living room still on.   Hoping that they had just forgotten to text or turn out the lights, she looked outside and the car was still not in the drive.  

Kids cannot comprehend the sudden panic that takes over a parent when their child is not where they are supposed to be when they are supposed to be there.   It’s a full body experience that can wake you completely from a groggy slumber until every nerve in your body is screaming. 

I never understood or even considered this feeling when I was growing up, and when I was in college and still living at home, I was just as thoughtless and unaware of my parent’s feelings.   I think back now to the nights that I was out late and did not call (even though we didn’t have cell phones back then, it’s not a great excuse for worrying the people who love you most in the world).  

While in college I began working on the tech crews with the local community theater.  I loved the creative, open-minded atmosphere, and the people were amazingly fun and sweet.  After almost every performance there was a cast and crew party and there were a few nights I didn’t come in until dawn.  

Did I do anything wrong at these parties?  No (whether you believe me or not), I did not.    I have always been a bit strange about not bowing to peer pressure, so despite what might have been going on around me, I was either too clueless or simply didn’t care to be involved.   I didn’t drink or do drugs.   I mainly sat around and talked and enjoyed the energy of the people.     I never did anything at those parties that I look back on now and say I am ashamed of…except…now I wonder if my parents ever lost sleep or had that terrible parental fear that I get now.   If I did that to them, then I am deeply and sincerely sorry.   

Connie called and got Ashlyn on the phone, who explained that they were hungry after the movie and were now at IHop with a lot of other moviegoers, waiting on food.    She apologized and said that she had reminded Shelby that they were supposed to go home immediately, but was overruled by the power of pancakes.   Connie was not happy.

The shootings put things back in perspective somewhat, but we were still not happy with the choices the girls were making.    Like I said, they weren’t necessarily doing anything wrong except not honoring what they had told us they would do, which in hindsight is not a very big deal, but also a VERY big deal.   

We have told the girls many times through the years, and I’ll bet others have heard a variation of it as well, “it’s easy to lose trust and very difficult to gain it back.”    

I talked to Shelby over the weekend and asked what she had been thinking throughout the week.   She said she didn’t know and that she felt like she wasn’t doing anything right anymore.   She said that sometimes it felt like twenty-some years of being responsible was too much and she was pushing back.    I told her that I understood and that sometimes we get in a pattern of making bad choices and that it’s almost like our mind gets temporarily rewired that way.   I’ve been at points in my life where I thought every decision I was making was wrong.   The only way out is to recognize it and start asking for help.   Prayer is always the first place to go.

I told her to err on the side of too much information when it comes to her Mom and me.   If we know where they are and that they are safe, we’re much less likely to be upset.   Not knowing is such a horrible feeling to a parent.  

If you think I am too hard on my kids, you may be right, but it’s only because I love them so much and want to protect them.   I know that they will do stupid things, because all kids do stupid things and because I did an amazing amount of stupid things (and still do more than my fair share).    I don’t want them to repeat my mistakes.   I was lucky to survive some of them.

When I was just out of high school and stretching my wings a bit too, my friend Rodney and I went to Louisville one afternoon to see a movie.    As we pulled into the parking space at the theater in Rodney’s old yellow Ford, we slammed particularly hard into the concrete parking barrier.   I looked at Rodney and he said, “My foot went all the way to the floor, man.   The brakes are gone.”

Now, any logical people would have called someone, maybe a wrecker or AAA or their parents, but not us.   We went inside and watched our movie and came back out and got in that same yellow Ford.   I’m not sure how we didn’t catch a light on Bardstown Road.    I don’t know how we got onto Watterson Expressway or exited onto Interstate 64.   It made sense at the time that we could do it, just as drunk drivers are positive that they can drive safely or people who text think they can do that while paying attention to the road.   I can’t speak for Rodney, but I admit to being a little nervous, yet I didn’t offer up a single suggestion that it was a terrible idea or that we should not be doing it.

Amazingly, we made it the thirty miles back to our exit and even somehow maneuvered that big curve on the ramp taking us back into town.   It was less than a half mile from Rodney’s house that a car pulled out in front of us and with no brakes he had no choice but the swerve wildly and take us off the road and head first straight down a steep embankment.   We came to sudden stop that was so jarring I can still feel it in my teeth some nights.  

We were watched over that day because we not only survived without a scratch, but more fortunately, we did not kill anyone else.     Even if I was to combine all the stupid things my girls have done so far, it wouldn’t come close to how stupid that one incident was.     I understand “stupid” all too well.

I hope my kids make smarter choices than I did.   I hope they understand that sometimes even the littlest decisions can have a huge, life-altering impact.   Unfortunately, there are no time machines to correct our mistakes.   All we can do is hope and pray that we live through them so we can ask forgiveness and learn not to do them again.