Orlando Vacation pt 1

We just returned from our third family trip to Orlando and I am sure it will take me a while to recover.   It certainly was not a bad experience, but I definitely returned home far more exhausted than when I left.   I don’t know what the original purpose of a “vacation” was supposed to be, but I don’t think it left you ready to return to work so you could get some rest.

It was 656 miles from our door in Oak Ridge to the hotel in Orlando.   Our plan was to leave at 4am, and since everyone was excited about the adventure ahead of us, we were actually packed and in the car, pulling out of the driveway at 3:59!     Somehow, the girls slept for 90% of the 12 hour trip; only waking for a Cracker Barrel breakfast stop and a few rest area pee breaks.   It was a quiet drive but tiring. 

That evening we went to the Florida Mall because there aren’t enough places to shop in Tennessee and we needed to walk a few miles under fluorescent lights for no reason.  

Sunday morning we were parking in Disney’s Magic Kingdom parking lot (which I’m pretty sure is bigger than our town) by 8:30am so we could get in the park when it opened at nine.   The line at the ticket booth should have been a clue for what the day would be like.   Then the line to get on the monorail should have confirmed it.     My hopes for minimal crowds because it was fall and the “off-season” were being slowly crushed in the shoulder to shoulder sardine can search for Disney magic. 

Shelby had a plan for attacking the park, and I was more than happy to give up control.   It’s kind of exhausting to be in control of everyone’s happiness.   Planning a trip and trying to satisfy everyone is like wrapping your arms around two dozen helium balloons and trying to keep any from flying away.    I told her to lead and I’d gleefully follow.   We hurried to the back of the park to experience “Splash Mountain.”    Since lines for it get longer through the day, it was wise to get there early.   

Let me pause here to give a brief explanation:   I love theme parks.   I love the logistics.  I love the design and structure of rides.   However, in general, I do not ride them.   I have battled severe motion sickness for my entire life, so even the use of Dramamine doesn’t always ensure my ability to ride anything that spins, drops, loops or shakes.   It’s a risk I’ve learned not to take, because I don’t want my illness to affect everyone else’s good time.   I enjoy the park through their experience.     I am also the designated “bag” holder, which is a very important role…(seriously).

Fortunately, I’m a major “people watcher,” and there is always a consistent and entertaining flow of people to watch at a theme park (Dollywood wins the prize in this field, but any theme park has its virtues). 

When they got off of Splash Mountain, all laughing and wet and happy, I gave them their bags and we quickly followed Shelby to the next target on her agenda.    I don’t actually remember the next hour because they were a blur of running from one end of the park to the other, finding attractions that were showing up on her Iphone App as having shorter lines.   I did ride the Haunted Mansion, because even little kids and people with weak stomachs can handle that one.  That and Pirates of the Caribbean are the only two rides I planned to ride that day.   They are my speed.

 By 10:30am Shelby realized that the crowds were so thick that any real planning was pointless.   Everything was busy.    The good rides had lines of at least an hour and usually 90 minutes.   Even the lines to lesser attractions were lengthy. 

I know this is hard to believe, but I became a bit surly.   I’m not a crowd person, and I don’t like lines.    Magic Kingdom is the oldest of the Orlando theme parks and it shows in the way traffic flow is designed.   I am sure it was inconceivable for Walt Disney and his architects at the time to imagine the incredible number of attendee’s flowing through their gates and walking their narrow paths in 2014.    They didn’t foresee double-wide strollers and oblivious people on their smart phones rudely stopping in a high traffic area to do a selfie.   

It is a beautiful place…a magical place…it actually brought a tear to my lovely wife’s eye as she walked in.    It is immaculately clean and staffed with consistently friendly, considerate employees.    Without a doubt, it is one of the best managed places I have ever been.  

But by 3:30 that afternoon, I kinda hated it.

Originally I thought the park was closing by 6pm…7pm at the latest.    But no…Disney does everything better than anyone else…so their day lasts until 1am!    While this is certainly a bargain for a family that has just paid out over $500 for five one day tickets, all I could think of as the hot afternoon drug on was how tired I was getting…and how bad my feet were hurting from that hard concrete…and how long those stupid lines were.   

Rather than walking around aimlessly from long line we didn’t want to wait in to another long line we didn’t want wait in, we decided to start going to attractions that were not as attractive anymore.   Despite the girls having said that morning that they didn’t want to do “Hall of Presidents” (because it was “boring”), they did not put up a fight when we said we could be out of the heat and in air conditioning for about 30 minutes.   I think I fell asleep for a few minutes during the Presidential roll call and robot head nod.  I’m pretty sure we all did.

After that we tried to do the Pirates of the Caribbean ride (one of the few rides I can do), but it had shivered its timbers somehow and was not available.   In desperation, we did “Country Bears.”    For nostalgia purposes, I hope they never get rid of Country Bears.  It is one of the original Magic Kingdom attractions.    Everyone should see it once out of sheer respect.   This was the third time in my lifetime.   It made me want to go hunting.

Despite their ages, the girls still get excited about seeing the Disney Princesses and characters.   They each have their favorites.   Shelby loves Belle.   Taylor loves Ariel.   Ashlyn loves Peter Pan.    We couldn’t hook up with Belle, but they did get their picture with Gaston (and in the tradition of good girls liking bad boys, they decided he was good looking enough to overlook his dark heart).   We also saw Ariel and Peter Pan, along with Donald Duck, Goofy and some others.    I loved watching their excitement as they stood next to a person pretending to be an animated character.   THAT is the real magic of Disney.   

As darkness fell across the park and cooler air replaced the oppressive heat, I found myself bearing the crowds slightly better.  The lines relaxed a little and the girls did Space Mountain while Connie and I waited on a welcoming bench. 

We tried one last time to ride Pirates of the Caribbean but it was still broken.   While the girls waited in another line Connie and I rode the steamboat around Tom Sawyer Island.   Away from the crowds and most of the noise, with the dark water beneath us and the lights of the park all around, it was my favorite part of the day.

Around 10 o’clock the crowd gathered for the Disney celebration light show and then the fireworks.   Like everything else they do, Disney excels at spectacle and despite my exhaustion and frustration; I looked up at the castle and the sky like a little kid.   Awed and amazed at the magic of imagery and music.   It was a great end to the day.

Yes, the end…because Bless their hearts…the girls said we didn’t have to stay until closing.   I think they were tired too, but maybe they just took pity on their old Dad.    Disney had given us a good long day.    Worth the money despite many rides unridden and many princesses unseen.     That night, after collapsing into bed and falling asleep instantly, I was haunted by dreams of strollers blocking me at every turn.   There was no escape. 

Facing the Stranger

This week I had my first job interview in over twenty-four years.    

It’s a strange thing for someone who’s fairly self-deprecating and relatively sarcastic to have to talk about themselves and give people the impression that they are somewhat mature, responsible and will somehow be an asset to the organization.   I can be that person, of course, but I don’t like to talk about it.  

I have to stop and think a lot before I speak.   My mind doesn’t coordinate as well with my mouth as it does with my typing fingers when communicating (and not always that well with my fingers either).   I have said stupid things way too often, and been burned by my rush to say what I think is on my mind.   I’m sure this comes across as indecisive at times, or rambling,  but I’d rather delay my answer a few moments than say something I shouldn’t say.

When I am asked the standard interview question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” my initial thought response is, “I didn’t see “fortune teller” on the job description.  Should I go buy some Tarot cards?”  

Fortunately, my first level filter kills that idea.    My second thought response to where I want to be in five years is usually, “Gainfully employed.”  While this is a much more accurate gauge of my true feelings, it’s still not what I know they want to hear.   

Finally, I sputter out what I think will sound professional and attain the right level of enthusiasm, “In five years I would like to be recognized as a productive and valuable member of your organization.”  

In the end, what is said and done during the interview process means very little when it comes to the actual job.    I’ve seen lots of people who have spectacular resumes and give great interviews but fail miserably at performing the duties they were hired for.   I don’t want to be one of those people.  I’d rather lower their expectations and then surprise them.

Appropriately, I guess, the old song by David Bowie has been bouncing around in my head all week…

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

I’m sure this means different things to different people, but when I “turn and face the stranger” I see the person that I  probably should be if I were more open to change.  

(Of course, I really would like to be a “richer man,” so me and Ziggy Stardust differ on that little nugget.   Besides, he was already rich, so it was easy for him to say that!)

Change is a constant in life, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.   I’m a prehistoric creature of habit.   Routine is my sanity.  

With so much “out of control” in my life, I cling to what is “normal.”   By that, I mean what is “normal” for me.    My “normal” would be strange to anyone else, and vice-versa.   In a world of bombings, global warming, car crashes, plane crashes, animal attacks, random gun violence, and Fox News…I find the comfort of my “normal” reassuring. 

People are always saying, “Get out of your comfort zone!”   They say it like all “comfort zones” are a bad thing.   I disagree.   It all depends on where that zone is located.    If your “comfort zone” is located in a bottle of Jack Daniels, then yeah, it is probably time to pack up and move out.   If your “comfort zone” is located in an unhealthy relationship, a miserable job, or a complete life of gluttonous sloth, then you should definitely, move on.

But there is a positive side to being in a “comfort zone” too.   If your “comfort zone” makes you happy, then you should stay there.   If leaving your “comfort zone” creates a high level of risk to yourself, your loved ones or others, then you might need to reconsider.    There is no shame in staying in a productive, healthy “comfort zone.” 

(I apologize for that meandering tangent.  I no longer feel like talking about “comfort zones.”)

Less than twenty-four hours after my interview, I was offered my new position.   In essence it is very similar to what I’ve been doing for the last 13 years, but with some added responsibilities and opportunities.   It means that I get to stay with the company that I’ve been with for most of my adult life.   It means I get the warm and fuzzy feeling of the familiar (no longer using the “C-zone” word) while also being offered some new challenges.   It’s a good thing.   I hope.

If nothing else, this returns me to a sense of stability, which I haven’t felt for a while.   That story is a page for another day, much like many of the other things that have happened to me and around me in the last couple of years.   Some things I’ll write about and some things I won’t.    Some secrets belong to the stranger and me.

The Far Better Half

One of the most difficult things for me as a father has been to balance what I want for my daughters with what makes them happy.   My primary goal so far has been to keep them safe.   I’m sure they think that if I had my way, they would all be living in a bunker deep in the ground, or in the tallest tower of a far away castle.   In truth, this would be appropriate because they are my Princesses, despite the fact that I am in no way a King.

One of our goals as parents has always been to give our girls a strong self esteem.   We didn’t want them to go looking for their self-worth in a man, because a lot of men prey on young women who crave even the slightest bit of attention.   These men can easily take advantage of that lack of self worth and eventually they take complete control.    This was not a life we wanted for our daughters.

As I look back on my life as a father, I realize that I have done a few things right, but many things wrong.   I was probably too over-protective (although, in my defense, they have been largely injury free!).  I did not set a good example regarding diet and exercise.  I was sarcastic when I should have been sincere.    I was jokey when I should have been honest.

It’s amazing, miraculous even, that they have turned out as wonderful as they have.   They are good kids.   Better people than me.  Better people than most (yeah, I am not very objective on this subject). 

I owe much of this to the Grace of God, who gifted me with them in the first place and then didn’t let me mess them up too much.    They also have a great support system in their extended family, who love and support them unconditionally.    Finally, they have their mother, the best choice I ever made both for them and myself.  

I see Connie in all the good things about my daughters, which fortunately outweigh the faults they got from me.  They are careful, but not paranoid.  They are sarcastic, but caring.   They can joke and play, but know when to be serious.   They like pizza AND salad!

A good marriage, and a successful family, is based on teamwork.    While I find myself usually out in left field, Connie is our most valuable player, and also our Coach, team doctor and our cheering section.   Without her, we wouldn’t know how to play.

I hope my daughters understand that why I love their mother so much is that she doesn’t need me.   That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me, but that she doesn’t need my constant approval to make her happy.   She is her own person, and she has her own interests.  She doesn’t think she’s as awesome as I know she is, but she has a healthy self-esteem.   She stands up for herself when she needs to and she will sacrifice for others without giving all of herself away.  

She is comfortable in a crowd, and can light up a room, but her favorite place is sitting quietly in a field in the mountains.   She has an adventurous heart, tempered by logic not to do something insanely dangerous.   She hikes for the journey, not the destination.

I hope my girls remember that she is never too tired for them.  No matter how late it is or how little sleep she has had, she listens intently to whatever story they think is important enough to share.   As my “Dad Hearing” ability to tune out chatter becomes stronger with age, she hears everything they say and remembers.   She understands more than most of us that nothing is unimportant when it comes to your child.

In case I’ve made her pedestal a bit too high, let me say that she’s not completely perfect.   She doesn’t believe me when I tell her how beautiful she is.    She doesn’t understand that I think she’s one the smartest, most capable people I have ever met (and at my age, I’ve met a lot of people…and a lot of them have been VERY smart and VERY capable).    She doesn’t grasp how proud I am to be her husband and anytime I don’t show it is due to my issues and not hers.

So, as my daughters get older and are reaching crossroads in their lives, I hope they pray for guidance and listen carefully for the answers they should hear and not what they want to hear.   I hope they think about the example set by their Mother.   I hope they appreciate her as much as they should.  

It seems so little to say, but here it is,   "Connie...my wife, my love, the amazing mother of my children...Thank You…"

If it had been me...

It could have been that when I was 17 years old, I was walking home from my job at the library.   It was a cool evening and I was enjoying the darkening skies and the look of the glowing lights in the windows of the storefronts and my neighbor’s homes.   It was my favorite time of the evening, and knowing that a delicious Mom-cooked dinner awaited me added a little extra hitch to my step. 

Amid the thoughts that bounced around a 17 year old boy’s head (girls, school, girls, work, girls, etc.) I suddenly awoke to the sound of footsteps approaching behind me.   This was not unusual at this time of day, as others were getting off work, or walking their dogs, or just taking an evening stroll.   I didn’t glance back, and at the next corner, I turned to head east on Main.

In one of the angled windows of the Lerman’s department store, I caught a quick glance of a man walking about 15 steps behind me.   In the dimming light, he was cloaked in shadows, and I couldn’t make out his face. 

At the corner of 5^th and Main, I turned and headed toward home.   To my surprise, the footsteps followed and seemed to be picking up speed.   I began to walk faster myself, not really nervous, but curious.   I found it strange that someone would be making the same turns I was, but I would certainly lose them as I cut across the parking lot behind First Christian Church.

About halfway across the parking lot, I realized that whoever was behind me, was still right there, and as my concern began to rise, it felt like he was closing the gap between us rather quickly. 

I decided to make a detour, away from home and back up 4^th street to Main.   I still thought he might just be heading home in the same direction that I had been.    If so, he could go his own way and I’d breathe easier.    Besides, Mom was home with my little sister alone.   Dad was out of town and my brothers were working night shifts.   I didn’t want to rush there for safety and bring danger to my home.

Main Street was quiet and when I turned the corner I began to run.   About halfway down the block, I could see that the man had indeed followed me, and was now running to keep pace.   I turned and cut through a yard, hoping to lose him in the bushes.   I came out the other side into a parking lot that sat mostly empty, except for a few cars.   I thought for a moment that I should hide in one of the cars, and I tried a few doors, but they were locked.  

The man ran into the parking lot and I turned to look him in the face.   His eyes were wide with what appeared to be rage, but maybe just crazy.   I couldn’t tell.   I realized quickly that I was a little bit bigger than he was.   I was not much of a fighter, but I didn’t like my options.   The police station was many blocks away.   There were no big stores nearby to go to.   Nearby there were only houses, and I didn’t know these people.    

It was dumb, but I decided to confront him.  Seventeen year old logic isn’t always logical.  We jump bikes over quickly constructed wooden ramps.   We climb to the top of trees and stand on swaying limbs.   We don’t give a lot of thought to consequences.

 He wasn’t carrying a weapon, so I thought if nothing else, I could kick him between the legs and drop him to his knees.   It might give me enough time to get away.

I turned to him and said, “What are you doing?   Why are you following me?”

He said something that sounded like, “… are you up to,” but the pounding of fear in my ears made it hard to hear.   It was far and away the most frightened I had ever been in my life.  He took another step toward me, and I decided to attack with my right foot.

I took two quick steps and started to kick, but he jumped forward too quickly, and my foot hit his knee.   He groaned in pain and fell against me, knocking us both backward onto the ground.   As we were falling, I turned my body enough that I was able to roll him over and get on top.   I only wanted to stop him from following me, but in my panic I began to pound on him with both fists.   A flood of adrenaline washed over me and raged at the fear he had brought into my peaceful life.   I raged at the terror I should never have experienced.    I raged and screamed, “I’ll kill you…” but my hands were already aching and my onslaught was slowing.   I just wanted to get up and run home.

His hands slapped and punched at me, but he couldn’t get any momentum from his position.   Suddenly I saw his hand reach into his jacket and come out with something dark and shiny in the glow of the street lamps.    I reached to grab it and for a second felt the cold chill of metal before blast of light exploded from its barrel and hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer.  

I flew backwards and hit the ground hard.  The lack of pain surprised me.  I felt warm, as if warm oil was being poured over me, spreading across my chest and covering me like a blanket.    It wasn’t comforting at all.

I thought of Mom, standing by the stove and finishing dinner.   I thought of Dad, on the road and hours from home.   I thought of God, and asked him what I had done to deserve this.  

I opened my eyes, and as my vision cleared I could see a tiny star glowing above me.  My mind drifted back to my childhood, which in my fear and sudden smallness, I realized I was still in.   Star Light, Star Bright…First star I see tonight.    I wish I may, I wish…

It could have been me...but for pigment of skin.





 

Searching for Gratitude

 

If I seem 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.