The slow death of accountability

B has been talking about wanting his "own pet" for awhile now.

Apparently the two dogs, five cats, four horses, one pony, cows, calves, six goldfish in a stock tank and ten (plus) chickens that roam our land don't quite cut it.

They're not his.  L has a horse.  But, apparently, we all share joint ownership of the others, and he wants something of his own.

In light of this desire, the other day he started talking about how he'd like to have a fish.  I wasn't sure how I felt about this revelation, having flashbacks that took me to the repressed memories of flushing a couple of unfortunate beta fish on two separate occasions.

Obviously, fish and I have a shaky track record. 

And this was B.  Flushing fish would most likely NOT be taken in stride. 

However, after being offered a couple of fish, a tank, food, filters, cleaner, etc.- at a price you couldn't beat - from a friend, Steven and I decided that maybe B should have something of his "own". 

His excitement built as we rode into town to get the fish.

"I'm going to take SUCH good care of the fish!"

I tried to instill a sense of what fish ownership was like, drawing much on my own personal experience.  I kept emphasizing the fact that unlike dogs, cats, etc, fish had a much more precarious life span.  Without warning, almost, you can find them floating.... 

Still, he insisted, he was "going to take such good care of them!"

When arriving to pick up our new family members, I couldn't help by marvel at how dirty the tank and water seemed to be.  Of course, my only comparisons were the pristine conditions that I saw in the ads for aquariums online.   It might have just been my OCD kicking in, but it seemed that the conditions the fish were living in were hazy and foggy, at best.  My friend commented that they had been needing to clean the tank but hadn't.  I knew that I would have to figure out how to fix this situation at once.

The car ride home seemed to last forever. 

Being the one always needing to be armed with information, I had researched just enough on Google to know that changing the fish's water and changes in water temperature were hard on the fish.  Not wanting to stress the fish, and with the tank being a little low on water as it was, we just covered the top of the tank, sat it in a plastic trash bag and tensed up at every corner and bump.  The seat and Steven's legs were wet upon arrival at our house, but the fish?

The fish were fine.

After B talked to the fish and got acquainted it was time for the kids to go to bed.  After a few minutes, L came in and said that a loud noise had been heard coming from the tank.  Once I, myself, had heard it and knew that nothing was close to the tank or would have touched the tank and marveled at what the noise could possibly be.

I went into the bedroom, leaned against B's bed and in the darkness of the room, lit only by the light of the fish tank, I waited to see what was the cause of the noise.

This time, the noise never came.

I left the bedroom and went to the living room, where I promptly Googled anything and everything under the sun about fish ownership and care.  I made mental notes about what to do when I cleaned the tank and after all my research was even more anxious about the fish and the trauma they had surely received in transport to our house.

I went into B's bedroom and checked them.

Both still alive.

I returned to the living room and read some more.  I became increasingly alarmed that I had stirred up some settled residue on the bottom and in turn had made the ammonia levels in the water rise, paired with the decreased water due to splashing, and I was convinced that water conditions were now to a point that would be fatal to the fish.

I went and checked the fish again.

Both still alive.

I continued laying out my plan for the cleaning of the tank.  I drew tap water, housed it in old milk jugs that had been rinsed out (but not washed with soap- per Google) treated it with the supplied drops and carried it into B's room and without turning on the light, set it in the floor so as to allow it to have the whole night to reach the appropriate temperature.

You can never be too careful.

I read some more and went to bed, knowing that I wouldn't sleep for fear of the fish dying in the water we had inadvertently contaminated.

***************
The next morning I woke as soon as Steven stirred. Knowing that the kids were still asleep, I instructed him to go make sure the fish were still alive.

All before 5 a.m.

Both still alive.

***************

B wandered into my dark bedroom at 6 a.m. and laid by me in bed.

"Can I turn on my light and check on my fish?"

I told him he needed to wait for L to wake up since they had slept together and she was still asleep. However, as soon as she made her appearance they both bounded into the bedroom to see the fish.

**************

After dropping the kids off at school I visited Dollar General to pick up some more fish supplies.

Although, with our purchase, we had received a net, two containers of food, algae tablets, clear water solution, and tap water regulator, my research on Google let me know that I was in need of much more.  Thanks to Google, I knew better than to use anything that had been ran through the dishwasher in fear of it having some residual soap on it (which is harmful to fish). I bought a bucket to house the fish and 1/3 if the original water (which keeps the fish from being shocked by the new water and helps keep existing ecosystems intact), and a 4 cup measuring scoop to transfer the water into the bucket.

I returned home and viewed the task at hand.  Although afraid of doing it wrong, I forged ahead.  It HAD to be cleaned.

I measured out and transferred what was as close to 1/3 of the water as possible.  (Google had told me not to do less.) I carefully caught the fish and put them in the bucket.

I went to the kitchen and began using only water and vinegar to clean the tank.  I scrubbed and rinsed, rinsed and scrubbed and took parts outside to let any remaining (untraceable) vinegar evaporate.

You can never be too careful.

I found what was the filter.  Although I will be the first to admit that I don't know anything about fish tanks or filters, I was pretty sure that I had found the reason that there seemed to be very little water passing through the pump.

Per my research on Google, and not wanting to disturb the valued ecosystem, I merely rinsed the filter with the dirty (that's right) dirty fish water.  Only after the fish had a couple of days to adjust to the majority of the water being changed could I actually change the filter (per Google).

Baby steps.  You can never be too careful.

After considerable washing and rinsing and time given for evaporation, I returned the clean tank to B's room.  I set his tank down and went to the bucket excited (and anxious) to show the fish their nice clean home.

Something looked different.

Very different.

Where there had previously been two fish, now there was only one!

I blinked a couple of times and looked again.

Only one.

In a panic I start looking around only to find, a couple of feet away from the bucket, the largest newest addition to our family lying on the floor.

Not moving.

In one fluid and quick movement I transferred the fish into the water in the bucket.

Although I was sure that it would "come around", the fish was a goner.

And we hadn't even owned it 14 hours.

Google didn't tell me to put a lid on the bucket.  Nor do I remember Google mentioning anything about goldfish being able to launch themselves over a six inch wall in only about 4 inches of water.  I immediately knew what the sound had been last night....the fish was trying to escape its own tank upon arrival at our house. 

I wonder if it had heard what had happened to my beta fish?

It was at this time that the record player in my head replayed L's words that she spoke to me before we left for school that very morning.  "Be careful, Momma.  Watch the fish."  I had rubbed her head and said, almost condescendingly, "I've raised you and your brother to the age of 6 and 8.  I think I can handle a couple of fish."

As these words echoed in my head, I grabbed my keys and did what any self-respecting, gold-fish killing mother would do.

I went to Wal-Mart to get not one, but TWO more fish.  (At the rate I was going, the other one would be dead by the time I got back home.)  And, no, I didn't stop there.  I picked up a pirate ship and a fake plant for good measure.

I returned home, gave time for the water temperature to adjust and added our two new family members to their tank.   Now, all I had left was to wait and break the news to B, and pray that nothing else died before he got home.

*************

As the bus brakes squeaked in the driveway, I knew that my time had arrived.  I kept in mind that, really, surely, he couldn't take it that bad since we had owned the fish a total of 14 hours prior to its death.  Out of that 14 hours - 10 hours B had spent sleeping and 2.5 hours B was at school, leaving only one and a half hours for him and the fish to have bonded.

As he came through the door I gently said, "B....one of your fish died today   ....butIgotyoutwomore."

The last part I couldn't get out soon enough, wishing, almost, that the first part would be forgotten in its wake.

No such luck.

This was, after all, B.

He started crying and I hugged him and told him what had happened, apologizing profusely.  "B?  Do you forgive me?"

He nodded, squeezed my neck, and pulled back and looked into my eyes and said, "You should have been more careful."

I nodded.  He was right.   I confessed what had been running through my head all day.  "B, I had NO idea that a small fish could launch itself up over a six inch bucket wall.  I mean, who knew?"

To which he quietly responded..."I did.  You should've asked me.  He was a jumper....  He was (gulp) my fav-o-rite."

Nice.  I killed my son's favorite pet.  And he knew it so well to know that it could jump 6 inches.

Sure, he'd only had it (technically) 1.5 hours, but it was his FAV-O-RITE. And they'd (apparently) bonded.

I said, "I am so sorry, B.  So sorry.  Do you want to go see the others?"

He nodded, and then looked at me and said, "It will be hard because I don't know them like I knew the other one."

(Yeah.  The "other one".  The "fav-o-rite one".  It didn't have a name. Yet.)

I nodded and said I understood.

 

So, B was introduced to his two new pets.  He marveled that they seemed to get along nicely with the other lone survivor.

He went ahead and named them all, probably afraid that his mother would kill them before they, too, had been given proper names. And so, we warmly welcomed Nemo, Dorothy and Gil to our family and I was glad to see that his excitement had returned as he watched the three fish swim around.

As he sat there watching the fish, I started to leave his room.  Before I reached the door he  looked back over his shoulder and said, "You know, you should have just set the bucket by you while you were cleaning the tank."

Yes, B.  I should have.

Unfortunately, Google didn't tell me to. 

It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday

As Steven walked through the door that night he was met by L who expectantly said, "How's my horse, Daddy?"

He looked at her with an expression I don't often see.  Defeat.

"L, he's not good.  I don't think he will make it."

In silence she just looked at him in disbelief.  This isn't how it was supposed to have turned out.  This wasn't how the story was supposed to have ended.

With blank eyes she looked at him and the corners of her mouth turned up.  Although her lips were smiling, the smile had most definitely NOT made it to her eyes.

"L, why are you smiling?" Steven asked.

Her head stiffly turned and looked at me, the same expression on her face.  This expression, however, was not new to me.  I had seen it often when looking at my own husband when on the verge of breaking himself, almost as if he was willing himself to not break down.  The smile, however, is hollow. 

I was amazed that Steven didn't recognize an expression that he, himself, had worn.

"Don't you see?  She's just like you.  She's trying not to cry."

I picked L up and sat her on the counter top and pulled her to me like I had many times before.  As I sat there holding her, her legs wrapped around my body and her arms wrapped around my neck, her weight supported by the counter, she laid her head on my shoulder.    Steven leaned over, rubbed her back, and said, "It's OK to cry."

Although it was a statement, L almost seemed to take it as permission, and the walls that she had hid safely behind fell down.

The tears were first and when enough relief wasn't granted by them, the sobs shook her whole body.

B, knowing that L was the "strong one" and that this rawness was rare, came and stood by her side, almost as a temporary protector.

His eyes filled with tears and he blinked them away, determined, this time, to be the strong one.

When her crying became too much, he walked towards the window, looked out, regained his composure, and once again, took up his post at her side.  I took her to bed and laid beside her stroking her hair and rubbing her back.  B came in and crawled into bed on my other side.  Although no sound was heard, my arm, the one resting beneath B's head, became damp with the tears that he shed for his sister.

When L finally quieted I thought she had succumbed to sleep.  However, it was then that a sob that she had buried deep within her escaped.  B was silent no more.  "Momma?", "I think we need to say a BIG prayer."

Prayers for miracles had been made by these two children for days and I didn't want them to doubt God's power to perform one, but at the same time, I wanted them to know that some things just are...and it doesn't mean that God isn't.  I met his request with the statement, "Maybe we can just ask God to do what He believes is right.  Even if that means ending Weston's suffering.  Do you want to pray aloud and together, or silently to ourselves?"

"To ourselves...."  he replied and then there was silence.

********************

The next morning L woke and started getting ready for school.  As I combed her hair she spoke for the first time about her horse.

"Letting him go is going to be really hard."

I agreed and hugged her.  I told her that she had some extra time before school if she wanted to go and spend some time with Weston, knowing that it might be her last chance.

She nodded and went outside.  I finished getting B ready and went outside to be with her.  Steven was home that day and had been out doing chores when he saw her walk towards her horse.  He silently walked to her and placed his hand on her back.  As I drew closer to them I couldn't help but marvel at their distinct similarities.  Without a word each knew what the other was thinking...and feeling.

I closed the gap and stood by their sides.  L silently peered into the pen, knowing that Weston had become to unstable to join.  Steven's gaze met mine as a tear rolled down L's cheek.  His beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears threatening to spill over.  It was now his mouth that formed a smile and a nervous laugh escaped before he turned on his heel and walked away before L could bear witness to his weakness.

****************

I didn't know how I could tell her the news.  Steven had decided that I needed to be the one to do it, rationalizing that she would "do better seeing her mama cry, than she would seeing me cry".  "I wasn't attached to the horse", he explained, as if an explanation was necessary, "I just can't bear to see her hurt."

*****************

I pulled up to the school and hadn't made it to the first stop sign before she asked.  "I'm sorry, L. I am so sorry".  I reached back and grabbed her hand.  As I searched for her eyes in the rear view mirror I saw an expression worn of that of a defiant teenager.  Her brow was furrowed and her mouth said, somewhat hatefully, "WHAT?!".

It was then that B realized what had transpired.  In desperation and with his tears freely flowing he said, "L's horse died!"  "Oh no!.....Poor L!".  He began crying without even trying to hide it. 

She sat, stiff backed, looking out the car window, with only an occasional tear running down her cheek.

We made it over half-way home when B, while still crying, said, "Is it too late for our miracle?"



After we pulled in the drive, L opened her car door and walked straight to the house.  She passed her daddy without a word.

"L?" I gently said.  "Do you want to go see where he is buried?  To put the marker on the grave?"

She shook her head 'no', and continued in the house, kicking off her shoes without slowing down her pace.

She looked so stiff to me that I couldn't keep to myself anymore.

I came up behind her, turned her around to face me, and picked up my 8 year old girl and carried her to the rocking chair where I rocked her like a baby.

And she let me.

Only a few stray tears trickled down and after about 5 minutes she turned to me and said, "Last night was my night.  I'm OK.  Last night was my time."

Steven came in a bent down and kissed her on her forehead and said, "I'm sorry about your horse."

In turn, he was met with, "Nice hair, Daddy!" as she pointed to a piece of hair that stuck straight up on his head, and again, "Nice!".

She repositioned herself where she was sitting up and started talking about the day, what she wanted for supper, and anything other than what Steven and I were thinking about and had been worrying about all day.

She had once again, pushed it aside, and was willing herself to move on.

As my phone kept chirping as it was receiving notifications from facebook, L noticed her name in some of the comments.

I explained that earlier that day I had shared what had happened to Weston and that all of these comments were people wishing her well and praying for her.

She swallowed hard.

I then went to the computer and showed her the number of comments there were. 

Again, that pesky lump in her throat made swallowing visibly difficult.

Then, so wise beyond her years, she said, "I want to thank them."

And so, she wrote on my status:

"This is (L). THANK YOU SO MUCH.I loved the comments.IT WAS REALLY HARD.
The comments made my day better!"

I couldn't believe that she had, in her heartache, wanted to thank others for their kindness.  She amazes and inspires me daily.

*******************

That night, in her infinite wisdom, she hugged my neck and said, "You know......letting Weston go was much harder than him being gone.  He's not suffering now."

I am amazed at L's compassion, and her wisdom, and I can't wait to see who this 8 year old girl turns out to be.

I am warmed by B's compassion, concern and care for his sister and I can't wait to see who this 6 year old boy turns out to be.

And I can't help but wonder how I got so incredibly lucky?

(This is L and the newest member of our family, Sweetie.  They were both pretty tight just minutes after meeting each other at Sweetie's former home.  I think Sweetie might have been looking for someone just like her and L was looking for someone just like Sweetie.)

I wish she would just go ahead and cry

My daughter, L, is one of the strongest people I know.  She has a positive spirit and a fearless attitude.  I've written about her, and my admiration of her personality and strength, many times.  And trust me, I am not writing this as a parent with their chest filled with pride saying, "Yep, that's my girl!", as if I had some hand in her being this person that she is.  However, I am, in fact, writing this as a mother that is filled with awe at a girl that is so much more than I could ever teach her to be and has all of these amazing qualities despite me.  She is so much stronger than I ever could be.

But even those that seem so very tough, sometimes aren't.

Friday evening Steven noticed that L's horse Weston was standing by the fence behind the house.  He didn't think much about it until Saturday morning when Weston was still there.  In the same space.  Walking in circles.

As Steven went out to assess the situation he noticed that Weston's eye didn't look right and had some drainage.

Worse, however, was the fact that Weston went berserk when Steven would even try to approach him, resulting in him running through the chicken house wire and cutting his front tendon on his back leg.

Steven knew that this was NOT normal for our daughter's horse and had a friend assist him in getting her horse into the pen.

It wasn't an easy task and when the vet arrived he all but confirmed what we already knew.

This was bad.

Very bad.

In fact, by his judgement, Weston has an infection that has spread to his brain.  The outlook isn't good.

However, the never-say-die spirit that my daughter has, was handed down to her from her father and in that same spirit he decided to do what he could.  And all that he can.

So, an antibiotic shot was given, along with instructions for one shot a day for 5 days as well as two pills a day for  5 days.  The vet looked at me and shook his head and said, "there really isn't anything that can be done".

I know that he thought the meds were in vain, but my husband, who I am certain was haunted by the thought of his daughter losing her biggest love, HAD to try.

And so, since Saturday we have been giving meds to a horse that isn't showing any signs of recovery.  Steven feels compelled to do all he can and hope for the best.

HOPE.

Sunday morning L drew a picture of Weston in the pen with her pony, Peanut, looking on.  Above the clouds was the word "HOPE".

And although I am a big fan of hope, I am also a realist.  I don't want to set her up for disappointment and I feel as if I need to be honest.

As I relayed the grim outlook to her after the vet left on Saturday, she looked at me and said, "could he die?"  I nodded my head, "yes".  Her eyes got misty and her lip trembled only slightly before she bit the corner, shook it off and said with firm resolve, "If this medicine doesn't work, I will just call another vet."

It was as if it was the end of the story and the discussion was closed.

She had decided that Weston would live.

I wish it were that easy. 

I wish that she would  just go ahead and cry and let me hold her and kiss her head and let her know that I am sharing in her heartbreak. 

But she wants to be tough.

And it makes the pictures, and the questions all that much harder.

I wish she would just go ahead and cry.

The praying and the asking God to work a miracle and B nodding in agreement that God does do miracles "especially on Sundays" is wearing away at my weak resolve, and it isn't even my horse.  I DO believe in miracles, but....

I wish she would just go ahead and cry.

I don't know how to tell this girl that refuses to give up that she just might have to.   And I don't know how to respond when she says, "I would give any thing I have away for Weston to be better".  Truthfully, I am not sure I even could respond over the aching lump in my throat.

I wish she would just go ahead and cry.

But since she won't, I will cry for her.

A Vicious Cycle

I have started this post and have deleted my words over and over.

I am struggling to find them and that is new for me.  I never seem to be at a loss for words.   I might actually be accused of using too many.  Of saying too much. 

Tonight, however, I am at a loss for words and at a loss for action.

Lately I seem to struggle in everything I do.  Daily routines and rituals are becoming harder.  Everything seems to be a chore.  The world, and everyone in it, is plotting against me.

Yeah.  It's THAT bad.

Generally I would tell you that I love my life and that the daily grind is one of my favorite parts.  The day in- day out routines are what I do best.

Lately I am not even doing those well.  I have been short-tempered and easily aggravated.  I can feel the tension seeping into my back over basic things like getting the kids ready for school or (the worst) getting the kids ready for bed. 


Right or wrong, sometimes it seems like those trivial parenting moments are the ones that all of a sudden come crashing down on top of you in a feeling that leaves you fighting for air and questioning whether or not you are getting ANY of this "parenting thing" right. 

I find myself feeling a little perturbed that no one gave me a parenting manual and everyone else seems to  have theirs memorized.  Wasn't the hardest part of parenting supposed to be getting through those initial sleepless nights or making it through the teen years?  I underestimated the energy that is required in sorting through the complex make-up of the personalities of children.  I  also underestimated the energy that is drained from you while molding and shaping children, like pieces of clay, trying to form something that is both useful and beautiful and appreciated by others.


This 8 year old daughter of mine?  I expect far too much from her.  She is passionate and caring.  Witty and mature.  She is self assured and confident. She is an optimist.  She has a sense of humor that keeps me laughing. More often than not she is selfless.  She is incredibly empathetic and seems to always know what is needed from her in the form of words and actions.  She is like her daddy.

Still.  She is 8 years old.  And she is my daughter.  Although she is all those wonderful things, I shouldn't always expect her to be all those wonderful things.  I should accept her being less.  I mean, after all, aren't I?

This 6 year old son of mine?  He is incredibly bright.  He is extremely sensitive.  He is easily distracted and easily disturbed.  He is a worrier.  He is a pessimist.  He is many times selfish with his wants and time.  He is hard on himself.  He expects to be let down and disappointed.  He expects to disappoint.  He is like his mommy.

Still.  He is 6 years old.  And he is my son.  Although he is all of those things, I shouldn't always expect him to be all of those things.  I should expect him to be more.  I mean, after all - at times -aren't I?

This parenting gig is so tricky.  I feel as if I fail my kids daily.  I don't have all the answers.  There are times that I see the error of my ways and don't know how to fix it or if I even can.  I wonder how deeply my ignorance has effected and shaped my kids.  I often depend on Steven to balance the scale, but that isn't always possible when so much of  the day to day life falls on me and my time.

I think that I always believed that as long as my children knew how fiercely and completely I loved them, that the rest would fall into place.  I continue to hope that holds true. 

In the meantime,  I am sure that I will mess them up daily.  In fact, I know that I do.  It isn't intentional but isn't that our job as parents?  We work and work to right the wrongs committed by our parents during our own childhood, desperate not to repeat their mistakes, only to find that we have committed new and different mistakes in the raising of our own children. 

These are the days of my life

When I was saddled with the job of (once again) being in charge of a Halloween party at my children’s school, I thought of her.



She was a good friend in elementary and even then we played school. She, of course, was the teacher.

I thought I wanted to be a teacher.

However, I purposefully didn't sign up to chair ANY school parties this year. I even went so far as to inform their teachers that I am MUCH better at following, than I am at leading.


In reality, I am worried about 3rd graders thinking that I am lame.

Yes. Lame.

(A new word that has arrived at my house thanks to the kids at school.)


Anyway, I thought that maybe the kids would like to play Halloween Bingo.


(As I typed it, I DID think to myself, "What are you? 70?")

Anyway. I need help. From someone. Anyone. You? Her?


My friend has a third grader, was a teacher, and has probably been orchestrating parties in her head since school started back after summer break.


You? Well, that's anyones guess.


For some reason, I figure the kids won't remember my stints of chairing their parties in grades K-2, but 3rd grade scares me.


I was talking about Days of our Lives with my teacher in 3rd grade. This is a sophisticated age.



(Maybe I SHOULD talk about Days with the kids or have Days of our Lives trivia?)


Anyway…..

Help!


Please?


Pretty please?

A peek into B's mind

B, who had been outside since before 8 yesterday morning, was suffering from some pretty serious fatigue. When putting him to bed he fell to pieces because we wouldn't let him sleep in his sleeping bag in our room- which we sometimes do on the weekends. I told him that he needed to sleep in a good bed and get a good nights sleep for school tomorrow. While sobbing he informed me that he was so upset that he would most likely have "bad handwriting on his spelling test".

I don't know where he gets all this drama or his logic....


My money is on Steven.

**********
 

Sunday, on our way to Farm Fest, Steven and I were talking about the fact that we were most likely going to butcher our chickens. They are old and have all but stopped laying eggs. The kids accepted the news better than I thought they would, knowing we would buy more chicks in the spring.

 

However, I told Steven that I would like to keep our rooster. We actually hatched him and I think he is really pretty...plus, I stated, as I pled my case, "he is a nice rooster".

 

B was listening from the back seat and said, "No he isn't!". We explained that THIS rooster was different than the one that attacked him almost a year ago.

 

"I know!", he said, "This one doesn't attack people but it's mean! He always 'piles up on' the poor chickens!".

 

All Steven and I could do was laugh and agree. He DOES always seem to 'pile up' on them......

I believe.....

(Originally written May 17, 2007.  Post has been updated to add more information as it was learned.)

My grandpa is 88 years old. He is in remarkable health. Up until a few years ago he still mowed yards for people/businesses in town. While mowing he broke vertebre in his back and had to stop mowing to rehabilitate.

My grandma, who had been in the nursing home for almost ten years, passed away in October of 2005. Although she was ten years younger than my grandpa, her life had been filled with pain.

My grandma and grandpa secretly got married in 1950. They ran off to Arkansas and when they came back to Missouri my grandma went back home to her parents, and grandpa back to his home, and both picked up business as usual. It was only when my great-uncle, my grandma's brother, who still lived at home, fell ill and my grandma's family needed help on the farm that my grandma told them that it would be "OK, she and Quentin were married and he would come and help them out".

Thus began their 55 year marriage. My grandpa will still tell you that in those 55 years they never had a fight, but it was hardly what you would consider wedded bliss.

Although I am sure that my knowledge is even somewhat limited, what I know is enough. My grandma was in and out of a mental hospital while my mom was growing up. Recently my mom has explained that grandma experienced constant itching all over her body and that,  combined with the constant trips to an allergy doctor located a state away, in Oklahoma, in hopes of finding an explanation, at times, drove her close to the edge, and caused her eventual admittance(s).  Dora, a close friend of the family, helped to raise my mom and her 2 brothers and a younger sister. My grandpa even then stayed close to my grandma's side.

She had what everyone believed to be a nervous condition. On more than one occasion she pleaded with the doctors to find out what was wrong with her. But they thought they already knew..... she was just crazy.

Dora told me personally the night of my grandma's visitation that she remembered as vividly as if it were yesterday, my grandma standing in her kitchen with her hands on her head saying "There is something growing in my head and I KNOW it."

The day she pleaded her case to a small-town country doctor was the day that the tables finally turned in my grandma's direction. Somebody finally believed her. He pulled some strings, made some calls, and sent her to St. Louis to have more tests done. This was a rarity in this day and time. Technology was limited, as were finances.

It was confirmed what my grandma had known all along. She had a brain tumor. Surgery would have to be done. I am sure that at the time it was anyone's guess as to how it would turn out. It was, after all, 1976. Things weren't as streamlined as they are today.

My mom, very pregnant with me, along with my father and the rest of the family went to St. Louis to wait for her to come out of surgery.

Although it wasn't talked about much I am sure that my grandma was in the highest spirits as she came out of surgery - regardless of the outlook.

That is just how she was.

My grandpa still says that in the 55 years that he spent with her, "she never complained about anything." These days THAT is the rarity. I know that I, myself, belly ache over the simplest of things, yet my grandma, misdiagnosed, put in a mental hospital and ultimately enduring brain surgery, never complained. In fact, the only things that I remember as a child that gave clues to the magnitude of her plight were the wigs that she still owned, the fact that she couldn't bend her head back to look up without blacking out, and that no matter how sad the situation, Grandma couldn't cry. She apparently was no longer able to.

No wonder they never fought. Who could fight with a woman such as that?

Especially when you were as much in love as they were.

Fast forward 18 years. Grandma started being less sure on her feet. At 67 years of age, she was still relatively young. She knew something wasn't right.

Tests revealed, once again, what she already knew. The brain tumor had returned and was growing. Even with time and technology on her side, the odds of the surgery being successful were slim to none.

She decided to embrace the time that she had left and enjoy as much of it as she could. She gradually began falling more, getting up in the middle of the night and stumbling with grandpa waking to find her where she had fallen.

The worry of it all was getting to him, physically making him sick.

She began to forget more and more.....and she became nearly impossible for grandpa to take care of. My grandma had said all along, "There are places that will take care of me when you can't, and I will not move in with my children and hinder their lives. Do not worry about it."

And she meant it.

She wasn't playing a pity card.

Grandpa's doctor finally told him straight up, "If you don't do something, you will end up in a hospital yourself, or worse. Then you wouldn't be able to be there for Pauline."

My mom told me once that the hardest thing she ever did was to break the news to grandma, along side her sister and grandpa, that grandpa was no longer able to care for her anymore and that she would be moving to the nursing home. Upon hearing these words, mom said that she patted their heads as they cried at her feet, and that she knew that if grandma were able, she would have cried too.

For a couple of years grandpa would get grandma and they would go places together, he'd take her out to eat, and some weekends she would come home and stay with him.

Over time, she worsened and didn't want to, as well as wasn't able to, leave the nursing home.

My grandpa went to see her almost every day. Many days he went more than once. He helped to feed her, give her drinks, and most of all, encouragement.

Since her passing in October of 2005, grandpa has been at a loss. He seems to have more free time in the day than he would like.....of course, missing the trips to the nursing home.

Some days he is up and going strong making it hard to believe that he is 88. Other days you can see a lifetime of emotion sneaking up on him......making him, and his steps, a little slower.

A couple of months ago he told my mom something I knew he thought that she wouldn't believe.

He told her that while sleeping one night he woke up and rolled over in bed. There before him was my grandma, in a chair that sits by their bed, watching him sleep. He said he couldn't believe it and when he blinked his eyes she was gone......"I wish I had never blinked.", he told my mom.

"I was awake as I am now and she was there......I wasn't dreaming".

I believe him.

I believe him as I believed my Grandma S.

We are never alone. God, and all of those who went before us, are with us always.

Lyrics to: I Believe- Diamond Rio

Every now and then, soft as breath upon my skin,

I feel you come back again.

And it’s like you haven’t been
gone a moment from my side,

Like the tears were never cried,

Like the hands of time were pulling you and me.

And with all my heart I’m sure, we’re closer than we ever were,

I don’t have to hear or see, I’ve got all the proof I need.

There are more than angels watching over me.

I believe, Oh, I believe.

Now when you die your life goes on,

It doesn’t end here when you’re gone.

Every soul is filled with light,

it never ends and if I’m right,

Our love can even reach across eternity.

I believe, Oh I believe.

Forever you’re a part of me,

forever in the heart of me,

I will hold you even longer if I can.

Oh the people, who don’t see the most,

say that I believe in ghosts.

If that makes me crazy, then I am......

Cause, I believe.

Oh I believe.

There are more than angels watching over me.

I believe, Oh I believe.

Every now and then soft as breath upon my skin,

I feel you come back again

And I believe.