I gotta keep the calm before the storm
I don’t want less, I don’t want more
Must bar the windows and the doors
To keep me safe, to keep me warm
Yeah, my life is what I’m fighting for
Can’t part the sea, can’t reach the shore
And my voice becomes the driving force
I won’t let this pull me overboard – “Head Above Water” – Avril Lavigne

In 32 minutes, you can watch one full episode of The Office. You can vacuum and dust the house. You can do a workout, or you can take a nap. In 32 minutes, you can Facetime with your family or run an errand. And in 32 minutes, you can have a mini stroke. I know this because just two days ago, I had my first one, and not even 48 hours later, I had my second.

I left for work at 6:30. That morning was like any other.  I took a shower, got dressed (it was football week at work so I made sure to wear my Jayhawks pullover), drank a glass of water, and told Brandon I was leaving early to get a few things done at work before seeing clients. I began the nine-minute drive to work. A few blocks from our house, my eyes began to feel heavy.  I put the windows down in hopes the crisp morning air would help this unexpected wave of drowsiness.  I started to feel lightheaded and a bit dizzy.  I thought maybe I needed some breakfast, so naturally my car navigated to the nearest McDonald’s.  When I saw the drive thru line, all I could think was that I didn’t have time to wait. I didn’t have time because my body was failing me. Then, as if almost on cue, my vision started to blur, and my head got fuzzy. As I called Brandon, I realized my left leg and my left arm felt extremely heavy. I remember thinking how my right side was working just fine and that I was lucky since I use that side to drive. I remember that – but I don’t remember the rest.  Brandon says I slurred my speech and sounded drunk.  He said I couldn’t walk in the front door without stumbling.  I laid down at 7:02 and slept for three hours.  When I woke up, it was almost like it never happened. Almost. I was extremely tired.  My left leg still wouldn’t cooperate fully, and my head was in a fog. My doctor said I should have gone to the ER but even then, a TIA (transient ischemic attack) is hard to see on any scans unless you get medical intervention immediately. She said to rest and come in later this week for some tests.

The second one began in the afternoon and came on a lot faster than the first.  I felt heavy and tired.  I sat on the floor by the front door until Brandon came home (just minutes later). Speaking was slow and arduous. I couldn’t see straight.  All I knew was that we needed to get to the ER to “prove” I was having another attack. 

As Brandon raced to the ER, I could feel my face numbing a bit. I spoke but it was so hard to form words. When we got to the ER they asked me my name and birthday and I couldn’t tell them.  Although I clearly said it in my brain, I couldn’t speak the words. I couldn’t find my license or insurance card because my hands and my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. A thousand thoughts went through my mind.

I wondered what I had last said to Brandon. Would it be the last thing I’d say for a while? Was it meaningful and kind? Who did I talk to last before him? Had I said goodbye to Molly?  The anxiety set in quickly. Why had this happened again? What happens to my speech therapy practice if I myself need speech therapy? And why is this considered a mini stroke when it feels so big to me?

After about an hour, I began to feel better and my symptoms began to dissipate. After a nonremarkable CT scan, echocardiogram, and MRI, I was given “an optimistic outlook” and told to follow up with my doctor.

We are home now.  I’ve done the research. I know that I’m at risk for a much bigger stroke in the future.  I can’t imagine the impact a bigger stroke would have, given my “mini” strokes seemed so colossal.

I’m not writing this for attention or for pity or for prayers.  I’m writing it so women my age can recognize the signs and be prepared.  I’m only 49.  I still have so much to do. We still have so much to do. So please – look for the signs. I was fine and then I wasn’t. It all came on suddenly – vision changes, weakness on one side, disorientation, slurred speech, word-finding difficulties, and extreme fatigue. My blood pressure, which has been managed with medication for years, skyrocketed. The TIAs came and went. Although undetected by machines and technology, they certainly left a mark behind. This week was hard. It was full of anxiety and stress and the unknown. I’m nervous about what comes next. How long do I have before another one? Can I prevent it? Can I get back to work and still be the same person I was before? Will it get easier?

I don’t know. I do know that I will need to make some changes. I’ll eat better and exercise more. I’ll carry aspirin with me and I’ll balance medications. I’ll listen when my body tells me to slow down. I’ll speak every word like it could be my last and make sure to live every day as my best.

Because I know how 32 short minutes can forever change my life – and the lives of everyone around me.

“I don’t wanna miss one thing. We can turn the whole world down and listen to the in-between. We are, we are the sound.” – Be Right Now – Ed Sheeran

It’s been over a year since you’ve heard from me; unless of course, you check in on Facebook or Instagram or some other social media platform.  But then again, those are just snapshots, right? Brief moments of in-betweens meant to bring a smile to our faces or a memory to our minds.

Well, here it goes, here we are – a year later, and life is good.  Some things have changed, others have frozen in time. Some things are better, and some are better left behind.

It’s been a busy year for all of us. I opened a private practice last March.  It has grown from an idea in passing to an office, with employees, insurance contracts, and a wonderful client base.  I can’t even begin to explain the feeling I get when I walk into the office and know that this is something I created and built, something I love to do and share, and something that I hope makes a difference in even just one family’s life.   Of course, it has been a learning curve, with long hours and a lot of trial by error; but it’s still not a job to me…it’s a privilege.

Brandon got a promotion this year. The job keeps him busy. He travels more, works more, but continues to give more everyday.  With family and friends, a new Peloton, a Chiefs Superbowl win, and the hum of his grandfather’s truck – that’s really all he needs.  (unless, of course, a membership to Ballyneal or a trip to Scotland should present themselves)

Ben is still in the National Guard, with only one weekend away each month, but a lifetime of memories from his previous deployment. The thought of another deployment in the future looms over all of us. He has a good job, a steady girlfriend, and a roof over his head (although that roof is ours, too). He has two cars, one that sits in our driveway with no transmission and a flat tire, and another car that barely runs.  His extra “X” chromosome, although silent, is still very much present and visible in all of our lives. 

Grace is finishing her sophomore year in college. She has definitely made the most of college life, living in dorms and apartments, going to basketball and football games, and hanging out at the local dives.  In her spare time, she works in an assisted living place, volunteers for victims of sexual abuse, and studies.  She has a few more piercings and tattoos, a famous cat, a fabulous girlfriend, and a promising future in social work.  Grace takes care of all of us, so much so that she sometimes forgets to take care of herself.

Molly is in her final year in middle school, and as much as I would like to tell you that my previous blog post fixed things, we will both be happy to close out the “middle” chapter of her life. She gave up competitive cheer and is now immersed in volleyball.  She will be fourteen this week, and with fourteen comes at least fourteen different emotions in the same minute. When all else fails, we watch an episode of Outer Banks or hit the local mall for some retail therapy.

Today and everyday, I awaken to the same old headlines, the ones that once shocked us all but now seem to have become commonplace in our heads.  The murders, the missing, the shootings, the theft, the chaos, the fighting, and the hate. I think of the sadness that is closer to home – our friends with cancer and with health issues, those with financial burdens and with mental illness. I think of our loved ones lost.   There is so much of it, here, there, and everywhere. Our little lives seem so insignificant sometimes. Our “wins”, our good times, they are sometimes drowned out by the cacophony of things around us. 

Summer will be here before we know it.  The snow will melt, the skies will clear, and there will be new beginnings on the horizon. Yet, the noise around us will continue. If we could just turn it all down, only for a second, we can listen to the in-betweens.

Have you ever felt like nobody was there?
Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere?
Have you ever felt like you could disappear?
Like you could fall, and no one would hear?
Well, let that lonely feeling wash away
Maybe there’s a reason to believe you’ll be okay
– “You Will Be Found” – Cast of Dear Evan Hansen

Tonight, my daughter cried herself to sleep – the kind of tears that flow relentlessly, even when your eyes are closed; the kind of tears that come so fast that you have to remind your lungs to breathe; the kind of tears that cause others to cry just by association- those tears. We’ve all been there.  We’ve all felt this way.  But watching your child go through it is absolutely unbearable.

And for what?

I remember middle school.  I remember our other children going through middle school.  The days are long, the pressure is intolerable, and even the slightest turn in the road can cause everything to derail. I remember Grace’s first day at her new school, when she walked the halls and looked for her old friends, knowing they were several states away.  I remember how she was assigned a peer to help her navigate her new school,  and how that peer, with her colorful hair, multiple piercings, and profanity-laden vocabulary, left her alone for the majority of the day.  I remember Ben being invited by “the boys” to play soccer after school, only to be left standing alone on the pitch with the lights out. I remember his first day of class, having to call his mother in front of his peers because he had forgotten a book. I remember my own experience- getting gum thrown into my hair on the bus, having the boys at the mall tell me my nose was too big, and having to dodge the neighborhood bully who had “thought” I had said something about her.   I remember returning from winter vacation to find my lockermate had left her sandwich there for two weeks. I remember “the jackets”, a group of popular kids who somehow always made me feel like the smallest person in the room. Oh…I remember, even when I wish I could forget. 

All I want to do is hold her and tell her it will be okay, but she doesn’t want that.  She wants us to fix things.  I want to email her teachers, reach out to her friends’ parents, and schedule meetings.  I want to call her therapist at 11pm at night because surely a professional will help more than a tired, worried mother.  I want to hold her like I did when she was little  – but she won’t let me. She hides under her blankets, which are soaked with tears and pain.  As much as I want to fix things, everything I try fails, one after the other.   I try humor, kitten cuddles, music and rationalizing.  I try essential oils. I try praise and promises. I try enlisting the help of our other daughter, who can certainly share her own experiences.  I try listening.  I try, and try – but I fall short.

She wishes school would go online again.
Her assignments are too long and too hard. She doesn’t understand. She can’t keep up.
Her teachers don’t help, or won’t help. She’s afraid to ask them for help.
She only has a few friends. 
She sits alone at lunch. 
Alone.

I look around her room.  She has worked to have it just right – wall color, shaggy rug, vines on the wall, LED lights, stars, and bedspread – just like out of a magazine.  I think about her clothes – the latest trends from Lululemon, Nike, and Athleta. I see her makeup and her hair. 

I know she feels she needs these things.  Does she need them to impress others? Does she need them to fit in? How can I tell her that she doesn’t need anything except herself? She is enough.  She will always be enough.  

It’s so easy for me to jump to conclusions, to ask questions, and to point fingers.  With all that is going on in the world, how can they allow a 12-year old girl to sit alone at lunch? Why is there not enough room at her best friend’s lunch table?  Why don’t they see her struggle? Why haven’t they listened when I’ve shared our concerns before?  

According to one of her teachers, “This is all I see from the outside. Clearly the inside is working very hard to hide the stress and emotions.” At school.  Yes, at school.  But at home we know otherwise.

And why is it so easy to recall the bad things and sometimes impossible to remember the good?

I watch her finally succumb to sleep and I pray that her worries leave her mind, at least for the night. I pray that she dreams of the good things, the happy things, and I pray that she remembers them when she awakens. But I know in the morning, the first sentence out of her mouth will be “I don’t want to go to school” and the last sentence before she goes to bed will be the same.  I know that she will remember all of this, even when I wish she could forget.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light.
From now on our troubles will be out of sight.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on your troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us to gather near to us once more.
Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now. – “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”

Years ago, our family piled in the car, surrounded by red and green presents, luggage, and silly car games, and we headed up to Pennsylvania for the holidays. Back in the day, we did not have Google Maps or Waze. We relied solely on our AAA TripTik, which mapped out our way with a yellow or pink highlighter.  The trip was tedious and tiring.  I remember following the map with my finger, tracing each line  page by page, one inch taking at least an hour since the speed limit was only 55. I remember my sister becoming  car sick at the first twist or turn in the road, my dad ready to pull over at any minute, and my mom hurrying to her side with the brown paper bag.  I’m pretty sure seat belts were optional back then, because I’m fairly certain that my father built us a makeshift bunk bed in the back of the car so we could sleep and not be in each other’s space.  I always ended up on the same level as my sister, fights would ensue, and my parents’ Golden Oldies music would become even louder. 

When we were only an hour away, we’d point out all of the familiar sites – the billboard with the mannequin in a real clawfoot tub,  the tunnels on the turnpike, and the run-away truck ramps in the mountains. We’d pull in the driveway and my grandparents would be standing on the front porch, or rocking in their chairs.   We would waste no time. Dad would bring in the luggage and the rest of us would sit on the flowery sofa and catch up on the past several months. 

We’d drive five minutes – just a few blocks over, to visit my other grandparents.  They had a single candle in each window, and a beautiful tree that was visible from the street.  My grandfather would offer us a “cokey” (Coca-Cola), my grandmother would show us what had changed in the house, and then we’d all sit down to play a game of Rummy-Q.  My father always won.   We’d have Christmas there, with all of the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, and then we’d go back to Welles Street.  

The porch was decorated with lights, as was nearly every other house on the street. Inflatable Santas and reindeer fought to withstand the blustery wind and snow. Greenery hung from light poles and wreaths adorned front doors. The town, which always appeared to be stuck in time,  mirrored something out of a Norman Rockwell magazine, at least it did to me.  My grandparents’ house was white with red shutters. It was only a driveway away from the next door neighbor on each side. Each house stood tall and thin, like dominoes in a line.

We didn’t have cell phones or iPads – just quality time together. The television only had a few channels, but enough for us to catch the Macy’s Parade, or a Pennsylvania polka.  We filled the time with conversation and laughter, and we filled our stomachs with Welsh cookies, hors d’oeuvres, and Tastykakes.  We sat around the fireplace, singing carols while my grandmother played the organ.  We had hymnals to follow along when verses became unfamiliar. Sometimes we’d try to sing a duet, either my grandmother and me, or my mother and me. We’d always end up in hysterics. If the weather wasn’t too cold, we’d have hot chocolate on the front porch and listen to carols being sung up and down the street. We would always try to harmonize.

My grandparents had a stuffed cat under the glass coffee table, curled up in a round ball with its eyes closed.  I remember them telling us they bought it because of how life-like it looked, yet the rest of us always guessed that it was in fact, a dead cat, stuffed by a local taxidermist. When my grandparents passed away, I’m not really sure what happened to that cat. I don’t think they ever knew that it could have been someone else’s cat. Either way, it spent several Christmases with us, sleeping away under a table filled with wrapping paper and ribbon.

We spent hours playing with my grandmother’s jewelry, dressing up for Christmas eve.  My grandmother had a small perfume bottle shaped like a Christmas boot,  the scent of which I still remember today.   It had a red shiny ball as a cap and it was made of green glass.  It was an Avon special, I believe, and the scent was called Charisma.  Although it was a Christmas thing, she kept it in her jewelry drawer all year round and every time anyone wore one of her necklaces,  they’d smell like that Christmas boot.  I would do anything to have saved it, even if empty, because that special scent still lingers in my mind.

We opened family gifts on Christmas Eve, while we anxiously awaited Santa’s arrival in the early hours of the next day.  My sister and I would vow not to fall asleep in hopes of catching a glimpse of the man in red.  Although we never actually saw him, he did leave behind some ripped velvet from his suit, covered in soot, and with foot prints to match.  I remember my mother trying to get the soot out of the carpet the next day. 

My sister and I would tear through our presents, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the latest Cabbage Patch doll or Nintendo game.  Back then, we always made thoughtful homemade gifts.  I wrote poems and put them in a book.  My sister made crafty decorations.  These were the best gifts, the ones that would come back out of the box each year and bring smiles and stories. 

Those were some of the last memories I have of Christmas on Welles Street. Winters turned to spring. The paint on the shutters chipped and faded.  A town that once seemed so big started to feel a little small.  As children grew into adults, the porch eventually became unused and the fire in the fireplace burned out.  A new family moved in, and our family moved on.  Despite all of this, memories that were made there left footprints forever on all of our hearts – maybe even in the shape of a small, glass, Christmas boot.

I did it all.
I owned every second that this world could give
I saw so many places, the things that I did
Yeah, with every broken bone, I swear I lived. – “I lived” – One Republic

When you were younger, just a few years old, we asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. Without any hesitation, without any fear of judgement or rejection,  you replied,  “I want to be a pink bunny”.  Although we laughed about it for years and retold the story to anyone who would listen, we knew that you were serious, and that once you put your mind to it, you could do anything.  While the “pink bunny” changed over the years, at first to magic fairy, and then to the voice behind Disney’s princesses, one thing remained the same. You were always very confident in your choices and we knew you could do anything – and do it with grace, compassion, and courage.

Today, you have graduated high school. You will go to college in the fall.  I know you are worried about your future plans, but let me tell you this. Whether you decide it’s physical therapy,  nursing, or genetic counseling; whether you decide it’s music or a middle school teacher,  know this: Whatever you choose to do, wherever you choose to go, it will always be your choice. There are no restrictions, no limitations…no boundaries.  What you decide today can certainly become something different tomorrow. 

You have done so much in your 18 years.  You have climbed mountains, literally and figuratively.  You have made lasting friendships and valued your family time.  You sing songs not only for the melody, but for the words and the impact they have on people.  You lead, but follow when you must.   You sacrifice your free days to spend time with your sister. You defend your brother, even when you don’t agree with his actions.  You never fight, unless you’re fighting for something you believe in.  You never argue, unless you are arguing for the good of all.  You try new things but appreciate the familiar ones.  You worry about others, but not about what others think of you.  You love to travel, but you always like to come back home.  

As a mother, I like to think that I have the answers for you and your siblings. I like to think that my knowledge and experience somehow mean something when we have conversations.  I like to think that when you listen, that you hear half of what I’ve tried to teach.  I will admit that sometimes I am wrong, or sometimes I just don’t have the words.  Sometimes I don’t have all of the answers.

But I do know this.  You don’t have to have all the answers right now.  You don’t have to have your future mapped out at this time.  As  long as you continue to choose goodness, as long as you take in each moment as if it is your last, as long as you truly live – you can be whoever you want to be in this world. And that will be enough, even if it is a pink bunny. 

He’s the boy next door
He might have carried your bags at the grocery store
Now he’s somebody’s son in a hole with a gun
In some foreign land
Trying to hold on to his American Dreams, nineteen  “Nineteen” – Waycross

You have been gone now for almost eight months and we’re not really sure when you’ll be able to come home. Although we are able to talk to you from time to time, we really can’t talk about “you” so we fill our conversations with “us”. We talk about our daily events, weather, and weekend plans – basically anything to avoid the subjects that remind us that you’re in another world. We share the minute details of our lives in an effort to let you know that your life is still here, that we are here – awaiting your return.

We don’t know what you’ve been through, what you’ve seen and done, and who you’ll be when you come home. We cannot fathom the images you see when you close your eyes at night or the horrors you see when you wake up.  We can only  find comfort in the fact that although you are thousands of miles away, we all look at the same sky, the same stars, and on some days, even the same sun. 

I can only imagine the things you see every day, since you can’t share them with me. In fact,  I try not to conceptualize them because if I do, I, too, won’t be able to sleep at night.  I know that it will be difficult for you when you return – that there will be memories you will keep with you and memories you will want to leave behind. I know you don’t yet have a plan for what comes after all of this and I know that scares you. It scares me, too.  I know your experience will change how you view the world and maybe even how you see yourself; and that, in turn, will help you decide where to go from here.

When you left, people said it would be hard. They said we would experience a gamut of emotions, that having a soldier deployed would make us proud, scared, lonely, excited, and maybe even a little angry at times.  They said that even though we’d initially be bombarded with questions and concerns and love and compassion, that these things would surely dissipate and the silence would become deafening…and it has.

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, the hole in my heart does not get any smaller.  I am reminded of it in every picture that is missing your face, during every holiday that has come and gone since your departure, and in every new memory made that should have included you.  Every day, I wonder where you are, how you are feeling, and if you are safe. I wonder if you feel the same way too. 

For now, we fly our flag, we tie a yellow ribbon around our tree, and we wear red on Fridays.  We remain Army Strong.  We do not let the silence win, and we do not let the nightmares in.  Despite my own selfish feelings and my woes and worries, I know you are where you are meant to be and that no matter what happens thousands of miles away, you will always find your way back home.

Follow, follow the sun
And which way the wind blows when this day is done
Breathe, breathe in the air
Set your intentions
Dream with care
Tomorrow is a new day for everyone – “Follow the Sun” – Xavier Rudd

Be honest. How many of you thought the transition from 2020 to 2021 would miraculously provide a sense of relief and rescue for all of us…that at the stroke of midnight, the world around us would suddenly make sense? In the words of Cher Horowitz….”as if”.

This year was unlike any other. 

I could write about how it was full of sacrifices, loss, and longing, or how it felt as if the challenges of the year consumed us and cast shadows on all of us.  I could write about how we, ourselves, had to change – how we had to learn to wear masks in public, to think twice before brushing up against someone or extending a hand, or how we had to learn to accept our new realities rather than constantly complaining about the “could have beens” and “should have beens”. I could write about our children and how they’ve adapted much better than I ever could to a virtual world of education and socializing.  Or I could write about all of the pain – the people we’ve lost; the experiences and events that have been canceled, put on hold, or altered; or I could write about time and how there’s too much of it in a day sometimes, or not enough of it in a moment. I could do all of that, or I could focus on the blessings.

We can’t change it. We can’t take back yesterday or rewind it like an old VHS tape. We can only look back at the memories that mattered, and make new ones.

I think back to New Year’s Eve, 2019.  I remember where I was, what I was doing, and with whom I spent the evening.  Ben was home for holiday leave and had only a few days left before his return to Basic Training.  We all went to our friend’s house on Lake Minnetonka to ring in the new year. We watched the ball drop in New York City.  We had so much food, so much joy, and so much hope for the new year. 

This year, even in a world that looks much different than in years past, I still feel comfort in familiar blessings.  I watched my children on Christmas morning and saw the same excitement in their eyes that I saw when they were younger.  We FaceTimed with family and even though we were miles apart, we felt close to each other.  I read texts from our son and appreciated the same sense of humor he had when he was at home.  I heard  the girls’ laughter as they raced down the snowy hill on the same sleds we used several years ago, now weather-worn and as thin as cardboard.

Every year, we make resolutions. Last year, like every other year, I vowed to lose some weight and get in shape. I figured if Ben had to do it, I could do it too.  I was going to be more spontaneous, say “yes” more than “no”, maybe drink a little less wine and a little more water, and decrease my binge-watching and phone use. I was going to listen more intently and love more deeply.  Perhaps I met some of those goals.  Maybe I didn’t.  But in the grand scheme of things, does it even matter? Given the great dumpster fire of 2020 and all of the sacrifices and changes we had to make – wouldn’t it be safe to say that any resolutions we made or make could be discarded? 

I think about the other day, how we played in the backyard in the freshly fallen snow, how the girls’ laughter echoed through the preserve, and how the clouds of 2020 suddenly parted, long enough for the sun to peek through and reflect upon the snow. I could feel the warmth, even with the bitter temperatures.

We don’t need resolutions this year. We don’t need to tell ourselves what we should and could do better. We don’t need to give up vices that clearly got us through the tough times.

We just need to remember that even if today isn’t what we had hoped for, tomorrow is a new day for everyone.

What I’m thankful for ain’t on no list
For it only in my heart exists
For time has helped me understand
The things I can’t hold in my hand – 
“What I’m Thankful For” Garth Brooks

Yesterday marked the second year in a row that Ben has not been with us for Thanksgiving, the first time we have been unable to be near family and friends for this holiday, and one of the very few times in my life that I have felt like a piece of me is missing.  When I think about it, (when anyone thinks about it), this year has been filled with so much loss.  During times that should be filled with love, light, family, and friendship, we have felt challenged and cheated and empty. We’ve been through the gamut of feelings, from rage to regret to sadness to stillness, and yet nothing fills this hole in our hearts. As the pandemic closes in around us, we can’t help but feel trapped in turmoil.

I miss my job or the one I used to know. I miss friends and family. I’ve said it before – I miss handshakes and hugs. I miss leaving the house on a whim to drop by a friend’s, or going to a coffee shop to read or relax. I miss the kids being in school.  I miss weddings, proms, homecomings, competitions, games, graduations, and other events.

We all feel like we are missing something, so we look for things to fill the void. We go through endless supplies of coffee and wine, we listen to songs on repeat, and watch Netflix and nonsense. We partake in virtual happy hours and therapy sessions, or are those interchangeable?  We start new hobbies and leave them unfinished. We celebrate the holidays the best we can.

Yesterday, we received a text from Ben. It simply said “Happy Thanksgiving – two years in a row that I’m not there, but I’ll be back soon. I love you guys and hope you have an amazing day”. He then went on to tell us that he is no longer on night duty and that the darkness is over. How can he be thousands of miles away and know exactly what we needed to hear?

Make that missing piece a memory.  Fill that void with glimpses of yesterday and the promise of tomorrow.  What did Thanksgiving look like before 2020? What will it look like next year?

In our house, we used to get up early to watch the Macy’s Parade in our pajamas. We’d wait for Santa to make his appearance and then we’d head to the movies before our turkey dinner. We’d have a little bit of turkey, but mostly chicken, because Dad was the only one in our house that liked turkey. We’d decorate for Christmas and play cheesy holiday music.

At Brandon’s, we’d head to the farm and play in the annual turkey bowl.  I’d watch the kids leap from hay bale to hay bale and do anything I could not to get hit by the football. We’d play intermittent games of Annie Annie Over and stand in awe in front of twenty different kinds of desserts.  In every house, we’d try new recipes while cherishing the ones passed on by generations before us.

Now we make new memories.

This year, we got up and went for a “socially distant” walk with our neighbors. Brandon smoked a turkey. Grace made an amazing apple pie. We delivered a small surprise to friends, and we met virtually with our family.  Brandon worked on his grandpa’s truck.  I started a puzzle. We played games and watched a crazy show called H2O with the girls. We wore matching pajamas.  And, as in years past, we shared what we are thankful for, even in a world where some days we have to look a little harder to find gratitude.

I am still thankful.  I am thankful for health, for family and friends, for traditions, for memories, and for more time on this earth.  I am thankful that the sun is shining today despite all of the darkness in the world. Although I want you here for Thanksgiving or for Christmas, or even just for the weekend,  I am thankful that we played it safe.  If we hadn’t, and something happened to one of us, we couldn’t make new memories.  Those days, those weekends, those events – they can all be postponed…if it means more time with all of you.

The brain is a funny thing, isn’t it? It has a way of putting up walls, compartmentalizing itself when needed, and completely shutting down when we are trying to hold it all together.  When we don’t take time for ourselves to unplug, unwind, and disconnect, our brain eventually does it for us. Fight or flight, right? At least that’s what I think happens to save us from our reality.

I spent last night in the emergency room. I had one of my migraines and it had not responded to my typical migraine regime. I had tried everything, from light to dark, heat to cold, medication to meditation, hydrating and hot showers, to eventually just tears.  Nothing would put my mind at ease, nothing diminished the pain. I would never have gone to the emergency room, not for a migraine, but something happened that made me go. I passed out, hit my head on the bathroom vanity, and fell to the floor. It all happened in an instant, in an everlasting minute, but in that short moment, I knew – I need to take a break. 

In that minute, while my brain was on the attack, the world continued to spin.  I saw flashes of light, clips from binge-watched television shows, social media updates, and unread emails.  I heard everything – birds, water droplets, cats purring, kids crying, dishes clanking – the cacophony and the chaos. I felt fear and anger, uncertainty and worry, and both hopelessness and hope.  I could smell autumn, a mixture of fallen leaves and pumpkin spice, and a faint hint of rain. I had visions of Grace singing and Molly cheering, and I saw pictures in my mind of Brandon in his 1966 Ford F-250.  I heard Ben’s voice, even though he is thousands of miles away, and I could almost see through his eyes what it’s like to be worlds away from all of us – from everything.  All that, in a minute.

While I sat in the ER alone, in a dark room with machines pumping a much needed cocktail into my veins, I was reminded again of how different our lives are now. In this moment, what I needed most was my family and friends, some hugs and reassurance, and a sense of normalcy.  Behind my mask, I struggled to maintain a sense of calm when every nerve in my body was telling me otherwise. As the toradol cocktail began to work, my thoughts were silenced.  The lights eventually came on and I was on my feet, but not so ready to run this race again. I glanced at my phone, filled with messages and emails, questions and conversations, and a variety of social media platforms that would go untouched for quite some time.  I turned it off.  I took a breath.  And I unplugged. 

Life has been difficult lately. We’ve all been challenged in ways we never could have imagined.  We are constantly facing the unknown in a world that it is no longer familiar to us. The amount of stress that kind of uncertainty causes our minds and bodies is almost unbearable.  It’s only natural for our brains to eventually shut things down, to disconnect, and to tell us that we’ve had enough. It’s the only way to keep us from falling apart completely.  I am reminded of a friend’s words “Take time to breathe, if only just for a minute”.  That sixty seconds can save us all.